The Mistaken by Nancy S Thompson Page A

sorry.”
    She pressed her lips together and relieved me of the
contaminated equipment, depositing the packages into an empty bin.
She returned, touched me at the elbow, and pointed back toward the
front door.
    “Sir, you need to take a seat out in the waiting
room.”
    “No, I can’t. I’m looking for my wife, Jillian
Karras. She was in a car accident. The police told me she was
brought here by helicopter. I need to find her, please,
please.”
    She pressed her lips together and looked me up and
down. “All right. Come with me.”
    The nurse directed me to a small office by the
triage desk and motioned for me to take a seat. She asked for the
spelling of Jill’s name and checked the computer for an entry while
I drummed my fingers against my thighs. The nurse mumbled to
herself as she read the display then finally looked back up.
    “Yes, Mr. Karras, your wife is being treated in
trauma three. I’ll go find out how she’s doing. Please wait
here.”
    As soon as she was through the door, I jumped from
my seat and followed after her. She stepped into a trauma room
filled with doctors, nurses, and technicians, all dressed in
various shades of blue and green. I peered in from outside the
large glass doors where I shifted from foot to foot, stretched up
on my tiptoes, searching through the maze of bodies.
    Several pieces of equipment were wheeled toward the
center, and wires were hooked up to the patient still blocked from
my view. Urgent alarms of various pitch and pace began to wail all
at once. Fingers sheathed in latex gloves snapped impatiently as
orders were called out. Three members of the crew quickly cleared a
path.
    And there she was—Jillian—lying on a narrow padded
table in the center of the room, covered in blood. My heartbeat
surged, and a hissing blast exploded in my ears. I couldn’t catch
my breath, and spots danced across my vision as the world tilted. I
reached for the wall, trying to suck air into my lungs. The doors
swung wide and crashed into my back. I straightened up and forced
myself to focus back into the room.
    It was in total chaos with questions and orders
being hurled about simultaneously. The staff dashed about, each
performing a critical task. A young doctor delicately weaved a
narrow tube down into Jill’s throat, while an older one fingered a
hole he’d cut into her side. He shifted his feet around as blood
poured out from the wound. Then he shoved a thick tube through the
incision, allowing the blood to collect in a large, clear plastic
bag hanging from a hook on the side of the table.
    Multiple drugs were injected into an IV line
attached to Jill’s arm. The young doctor who had intubated Jill
moved over her chest. He placed one hand on top of the other in the
center and pushed in rapid succession as he counted out loud. A
nurse worked the respirator at Jill’s mouth, pumping air into her
lungs at a pace steady with the doctor’s count. After a minute or
two, a new alarm sounded.
    “Crash cart,” an older doctor ordered.
    As soon the nurse pushed the rig within reach, the
doctor grabbed the paddles.
    “Okay, charge to one hundred,” he commanded as he
laid them against Jill’s chest. He waited for the machine to reach
full charge then called out, “Clear!”
    Jillian’s upper body tensed, lurched off the table,
then settled back down. Panic shot through me like tendrils of
electricity slicing through my limbs.
    “Nothing. Let’s try again, two hundred this time,”
the doctor ordered. He waited and watched then shouted,
“Clear!”
    Again she jumped. Again no response. My heart
rattled at a clipped speed, pitching wildly against my sternum. I
felt like I was going to be sick.
    “One more time. Charge to three-sixty.
Okay...clear!” Again, nothing. “How long has she been down?” he
asked a nurse.
    The nurse looked up at the clock on the wall and
replied, “Fifty-three minutes.”
    The young doctor returned to chest compressions,
again and again, over and over.
    I