by L. M. Carr
“John Doe number one. Caucasian male. Mid-thirties. Severe head trauma. Single vehicle rollover. Ejected from vehicle. Found unresponsive upon arrival. BP is seventy over forty. Intubation started.”
Sam, one of the EMTs, barks out the status of the patient as the gurney is lowered and wheeled through the door. I hurry to his side and begin an analysis as Odessa and Anita attend to the second patient, John Doe number two, who is being brought in by another ambulance.
In that split second, all my personal feelings are set aside. I don’t think of this man as a man. I don’t think of the wife and children who might be worried about him. I don’t think about how horrible he must feel if he can feel anything at all. All I can think about is what I need to do to save his life. I’m a nurse; it’s what I’ve been trained to do.
There’s a flurry of controlled chaos in the usually quiet Emergency Department of St. Luke’s Hospital. Rooms are emptied, wheelchairs rolled into the hallway so our team has space to work. I lift the bar and use it to rush the gurney into the first available room. As I press the brake, securing the bed, my hand slips and grazes the man’s fingers. I glance down at the blood stains covering his left hand.
A single thought about how strong his hands are races to the forefront of my mind before my eyes follow the trail of his torn clothes and fall to his head completely covered in bloody gauze. I can only see a sliver of his eyes as he blinks slowly. When I feel movement against my hand once again, I look down and notice that he’s trying to reach for my fingers. Compassion wins as I take his hand in mine, squeezing it gently, reassuring him that he’s in good hands and we’ll do everything in our power to take care of him.
Dr. Stephens, the E.D. surgeon, makes another quick analysis of the situation and looks over at the heart monitor when the beeping decreases in frequency.
“Parker! What are you doing? Let’s go!”
I realize in that moment I’m stroking the man’s hand gently while everyone is rushing around me, each fulfilling their specific role in an attempt to save his life.
“We’ve got internal bleeding. We need to get him to the OR, stat.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Paula asks, glancing at me quickly with a pointed look. “You okay?”
I shake my head then nod, snapping myself out of a daze. “Yeah. I,” I stammer, “I don’t know what happened.”
When John Doe number one is wheeled out of the room and into surgery, Odessa orders me to help with John Doe number two who has sustained equally serious injuries.
“What’s the status?” I ask, stepping in closer to understand the situation.
“Single vehicle. Severe head trauma. Looks like he may have been wearing a restraint, but the force upon impact must’ve ripped it off. Look,” Dr. Lopez says and shakes his head as he points the man’s bruised chest. “They had to have been going at least a hundred to do this amount of damage.”
My eyes crawl upward until I reach the dirty, bloodied gauze covering his face. There is a clear indication of trauma and brain swelling based on the sheer size of this man’s head.
Minutes tick by as Dr. Lopez and our team work to save his life and stabilize him. Like John Doe number one, his blood pressure drops then his heart stills. After attempts to use the defibrillator and all other measures fail, Dr. Lopez forced his chest open with a deep incision. I hold my breath and cringe at the sound of the oscillating saw as it cuts through the breastbone.
“Karrie, come here.”
I look into the eyes of the doctor whom I respect and admire. A cold shiver runs through me because I don’t like what I see reflecting back at me.
“Give me your hand,” he orders.
I do as I am told.
“Just squeeze gently. Keep squeezing. Don’t stop until I tell you.”
My hand is carefully guided into the open chest cavity of this stranger.
“Do you feel it?” Dr. Lopez’s hand covers mine and demonstrates the concise pattern. Squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze.
Dr. Lopez leans over and begins to search blindly yet skillfully throughout this man’s broken torso, attempting to locate the source of internal bleeding.
Never in my life have I been the sole source between life and death. My small hand, with its gentle compressions, preserves this man’s life.
As I keep his heart beating, my mouth goes dry. I haven’t got even enough moisture to lick my lips. My eyes stay focused on the task until I hear a single long beep spew from the machine.
“Found it!”
I pull my eyes away and look at the surgeon who now has both hands inside.
I don’t know if I quiver because of the long, constant and eerie sound or because Dr. Lopez yells in my ear, “Don’t stop the compressions. Get him back.”
Focus, Karrie, focus.
“Please don’t die. Please don’t die. C’mon John Doe number two. There’s a girl out there who needs you to live. Please don’t die.” My lips move silently as I whisper, pleading with God, willing the man to live.
I need him to live.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Slow but constant sounds resonate throughout the room as we all breathe a sigh of relief.
Dr. Lopez gives the order for immediate surgery, calls are made, the patient prepped quickly. He’s in critical condition so time is of the essence.
Once again, I’m left in the room as the second trauma team comes in and wheels the patient away. The unmistakable smell of blood and antiseptic permeates the small space.
I blink away the tears welling up in my eyes. Emotions have no place here. With robotic movements, I make my way over to the sink and rip the gloves from my hands, washing them thoroughly until the water runs from red to clear. When the last remnants of blood are gone, I curl my fingers and cup my palm to scoop lukewarm water into my parched mouth. I splash water onto my face and pat my skin dry with a stiff paper towel.
I lean against the counter with my palms pressed into the edge and stare at the mess on the floor as a maintenance worker comes in, rolling a mop bucket in front of him.
“Pretty bad, huh?” Felix asks, shoving the mop into the water before ringing it damp.
I nod solemnly, unable to find any words. I became a nurse to help people, to save lives, to care for the injured, to comfort them. I’ve seen the cloak of Death skulk in, entering a room to claim its victim. I’ve seen the merciful hand of God come down and breathe life into an otherwise lifeless form, sparing it, giving it new purpose. I’ve seen it all. But this…this was different. I was the angel of God keeping this man alive.
I was the one to breathe new life. I was the one who brought him back from the dead.
I was the fine line between life and death.
A flurry of activity mingled with Odessa’s voice beckons me into the hallway, searching for the source of her concern. I come face to face with her just as I hear Dr. Stephens declare the time of death of the first victim to arrive. Her normally dark skin is now ten shades lighter. Her hands fly up and grab my shoulders, effectively holding me back. Searching her wide, shocked eyes, I find my voice.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” I screech as my hands cover hers. The slight swaying of her body suggests she needs to be supported. Gone for a moment is the tough as nails, blunt doctor’s assistant I call my friend replaced by a vulnerable woman.
Odessa’s hands cup my face, her thumbs moving across my cheeks slowly. My heart begins to pound in my chest at the sight of her. I plead for her to tell me what’s wrong.
“Karrie. Oh, Karrie my love.” Fat tears fill her brown eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry? I’m confused by her words. “Sorry for what?”
With her hands on my face, she guides me until my back hits the wall.
“Odessa, please. What’s wrong?” Again I beg her to reveal the reason for her current state.
Worry and fear seep through her dark eyes. “John Doe number one.”
Still not having a clear understanding I respond, “Okay? What about him?”
>
“It’s Alex.” Her lip quivers as she speaks my husband’s name.
“What? What about him?” My veins turn to ice, pumping frozen liquid through my stiff body.
Odessa shakes her head quickly for several seconds as she fights the emotion threatening to erupt.
“He’s dead.” She bursts into tears.
I freeze. Her words desperately try to register in my brain but fail miserably.
“I don’t understand,” I mumble.
Odessa wraps her arms around my body tightly and pulls me close. “Honey, John Doe number one. It’s Alex. Your Alex.”
My husband. John Doe number one. A million thoughts compete with one another as I struggle to comprehend her words.
My Alex. My husband is John Doe number one. John Doe number one is dead. My Alex is dead. My heart plummets as my knees buckle. Supported only by Odessa’s arms, I muster the strength as I inhale sharply. My back stiffens and I pull out of her hold, my feet moving effortlessly and quickly to the room where Alex is. I know she’s wrong. It’s not Alex. He isn’t due home until later in the morning. It’s not him. It can’t be him.
“Karrie, don’t! Don’t go in there!” Her voice fades into nothing as I force the door open and stop, coming face to face with the deceased man.
The room is still, every machine now quiet, only the lingering stench of death remains.
“You shouldn’t be in here.” A faceless person whispers, the compassion in her voice clear.
I sweep my eyes from the top of this man’s head to his bare feet. His naked body left broken on the table, a clear indication of the futile attempts to save his life. Death declared victorious. The sparing hand of God was nowhere in sight.
“I’m so sorry.” A gentle hand rubs against my shoulder. “I’ll give you a minute.”
I smile. I don’t know why I smile as I pull my eyes away from my husband to look at her, but I do.
I turn back to look at the man lying still and lifeless.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be him.
Stepping closer, I raise my hands and allow them to hover over his covered face. I scan the familiar body, the tight planes of his abdomen, the strong biceps, the long muscular legs. He could be anyone, anyone at all, but he’s not.
I carefully lift his heavy right arm and look, praying fervently not to see what I know will be there.
At the sight of the etched vicious snake wrapped around the American flag, my stomach flips and rolls. I lean over and dry heave, but nothing comes out.
I am empty.
Completely empty.
I clamber across his body and press my cheek onto his forearm, wishing, needing to draw strength. An uncontrollable fit of sobs and hot tears flood my face as I curse at God. I demand that He return Alex to me. I grovel and beg mercifully that He take someone else instead.
God does not listen.
I hear nothing.
I feel nothing.
I see nothing.
After what feels like an eternity, I sense someone else has entered the room, invading my private time with my dead husband. The strength to lift my head is nowhere to be found. This person walks closer and stops behind me.
“Karrie, my love,” Odessa breathes quietly. She leans forward and angles her chest against my back, cradling me in her arms, whispering softly what I already know.
“He’s gone.”
I know this.
“We did everything we could to save him.” Her thumb glides back and forth over my hand.
I know this, too.
“I’m so sorry.”
This I also know.
Yet knowing that these medical professionals worked tirelessly to save my husband does not diminish the indescribable ache piercing my heart, searing it straight down the middle with a hot, fiery blade from hell.
“Alex, come back to me,” I cry softly, burying my head, resting my forehead against the ink on his skin. “Please come back to me.”
Odessa’s hold on my shoulder tightens and she draws me upward, away from the man I married five years earlier. The man who swept me off my feet in a whirlwind romance. The man who pledged his love and fidelity until death do us part.
Death has parted us.
“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.” My friend guides me toward the door, my feet become cinder blocks, too heavy to even drag. “I’ve got you.” With her left arm around my back and the other tossed around her neck, Odessa carries me away from my husband.
The last of my tears have fallen. The ache in my chest has vanished. The tremor in my body has ceased.
I collapse onto the soft leather chair in Dr. Stephens’ office.
Completely numb.
Completely hopeless.
Completely alone.
Completely incomplete.
Staring out the window as the morning sun breaks through the purple sky, making promises of the day to come, I try to feel something. Anything at all, but I feel nothing.
My husband, Alexander Parker, is dead.
“KARE BEAR,” MY mother calls, wrapping her arm around my slumped shoulder. “You should try to eat something.” She hands me a package of salted square crackers. “Or drink something. Alex would’ve insisted.”
I blink slowly, letting her words register.
Insisted. Past tense.
I lift my eyes to meet her gaze, silently asking if this is all real. Did my husband really die? The endless amount of sympathy combined with such pity shines through her eyes as she nods once and then brushes the hair away from my face.
“He did. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
A constant stream of people flock to the room where I’ve been sitting for the past two hours. Each comes and goes, offering quiet, awkward words of condolence. I nod and thank them, returning the gentle hugs.
“Sweetheart, let’s get you home and cleaned up.”
My gaze travels from a speck on the linoleum floor and follows the sound of my mother’s voice as she places her hand under my arm in an attempt to lift me to my feet.
Our eyes connect and I can see my pain reflected in hers. The dam of emotions breaks free. My face crumples in agony as I throw my arms around my mother’s back and wail. Deep, painful, sorrowful wails. She doesn’t tell me to stop. She doesn’t tell me to be quiet. She doesn’t say a single word. She just holds me and allows me to experience the grief that consumes me.
The circling of her hand on my back finally comes to a rest. I hiccup and wipe my face with my blood-stained scrubs.
“Let’s get you home.”
Feeling helpless and weak, I am once again supported and led out to the hallway. I keep my head down as we pass patients and their worried families.
“Daddy will be here any minute.”
As if he were an angel appearing before me, my father, the man whom I loved first, strides in through the double sliding doors and rushes toward me.
“Kare Bear.” He wraps his arms around me and tucks my head beneath his chin. I feel his chest shudder against my cheek.
“Thanks for coming,” I say as I link my fingers together behind his back. I can feel the perspiration moistening his button down shirt.
“I came as soon as I heard,” he mumbles quietly before speaking to my mother.
“Code Blue to ICU. Code Blue to ICU.”
Untangling myself from my father’s hold, I watch the team of medical experts rush in the direction of John Doe number two.
“I should go help.” I turn, ready to follow them.
Strong hands take hold of me. “Oh, no you don’t.”
“Dad, I have to. I have to save him. I told him I would save him.”
“Sweetheart, let them do their jobs.” He lowers himself to look directly at me. “Please.”
I pull my gaze away from him and look down at my trembling hands.
“I brought him back to life. With my own hands, I brought him back to life.”
Guilt surges at the thought that if I had stayed w
ith Alex, I could’ve saved his life, too. I could’ve done something. I could’ve helped in some way.
***
AFTER TAKING A long hot shower, I wrap myself in my mother’s long white silk bathrobe and lie quietly in the bed of my childhood. I pull the quilt up, tuck it under my chin and close my eyes, praying that when I awake, this will all have just been a horrible nightmare.
A light knock on the door jars me, forcing my eyelids to part and focus on the figure moving closer.
“Alex?” I call.
After slow, quiet steps bring my mother closer, she sets down a black mug which has silver letters, etching the words Lake George, NY on its side. My mother’s proclivity for collecting tourist mugs has become somewhat of an obsession. And it was the last place Alex and I vacationed.
She smiles kindly as she sweeps a hand across my forehead then slides it down to caress my cheek. Her soft touch is warm and comforting.
“I brought you something to eat.”
My lips tighten into a hard line at the sight of the dry toast alongside the cup of freshly brewed tea. While I appreciate the kind gesture, my throat is raw from constant crying and screaming. My stomach muscles ache from vomiting as hard as I did when I insisted that my father pull his SUV over. Even my back muscles hurt.
“Thanks, Mom.” I motion with my chin to the sustenance but decline the offer.
I see her move the picture frame and alarm clock to make more room for the small dish and tea cup before I close my eyes again. My mother doesn’t like to see me like this; it makes her nervous.
“Do you want to talk?” she whispers. I feel the dip in the bed as she sits beside me, smoothing my long hair back.
“What,” I start, clearing my raspy throat before continuing. “What is there to talk about?” My eyes fill with tears and stare at her pointedly. “My husband died today.”
“Yes, he did, sweetheart. Alex is gone, but you’re still here.”
I mop my eyes with my fingertips, suppress the sob waiting to emerge, and shake my head in disbelief.
“I have so many questions. I don’t even know where to begin.”
My eyes glance around the room and land on the shelf where my cheerleading and gymnastics trophies still stand all these years later.
