Angels in the ER (10 page)

“Dr. Blanchard,” he began. “I guess you know what happened out there this morning.”

Bill recognized the officer, Tim Reed, and was relieved he was the one working the accident. He knew Tim from many other tough encounters such as this, and always found him professional and thoughtful.

“Yeah, Tim. EMS told me about it. But I’d like to hear it from you too. What happened?”

Tim recited the same bleak story given to Bill by the paramedic. He did add that the trucker had sped away but had been stopped several miles down the road. He had been charged with driving with an expired DOT card. Other charges would be pending.

“Thanks, Tim,” Bill told him. “That’s what I need to know. I guess I’ll go back and talk with Mr. Jones.” Without thinking, he picked up the clipboard of the young man waiting in the family room.

“Sorry about that, Dr. Blanchard. You know it’s against our policy
to inform relatives about deceased loved ones. Wish you didn’t have to do this.”

“I wish no one had to do this. Thanks.”

He walked toward the family room, trying to compose a few words that would somehow lessen the pain for this young man, and for himself. Nothing came to mind. It never did.

The family room was located in the back of the department. It was small, ten by ten, containing a small sofa, two chairs, a table and lamp, and a telephone. The bare essentials.

Bill opened the door and found Virginia and Mr. Jones sitting in the chairs. They both looked up as he entered, and they got to their feet. Virginia stepped around Bill and into the doorway.

“I’ll be at the nurses’ station if you need me,” she told him.

From the distraught but puzzled look on Mr. Jones’s face, Bill figured that Virginia had not told him anything about his wife’s condition. He heard the door close behind him and the two were alone.

He also figured that Mr. Jones knew something terrible had happened and that Dr. Blanchard would not have anything good to tell him.

“Have a seat, Mr. Jones,” Bill said, motioning with the clipboard to one of the chairs.

“No thanks, I’ll just stand,” he responded. “What can you tell me about my wife? How is she? When can I see her?”

He was a large, athletically built young man, six-one or six-two, and he must have weighed two hundred and fifty, easily outweighing Bill Blanchard by more than seventy-five pounds.

Bill was still struggling with how to begin the conversation and how to convey the awful news. Should he be direct, blunt, to the point? Should he gradually ease into the fact that this man’s wife was dead, killed instantly in the wreck?

He was turning these thoughts over in his mind as he stepped farther into the room and sat down in one of the chairs. As he did so, he forgot that he was positioning himself dangerously far from the
door. Rule Number One: In such a situation, always—always—stand between the family member and the door.

Mr. Jones, in his nervous, purposeless pacing, happened to end up directly in front of the doorway, blocking any rapid exit. Unfortunately, this new circumstance was completely lost on Bill. Momentarily oblivious to the situation, he began what he thought would be the gentlest way to let Mr. Jones know about his wife.

He began by describing the accident, of which the young man had little memory. He explained about the truck driver and his careless high-speed maneuvering. Then he told him about his wife.

“The truck apparently caused you to swerve to avoid a collision, and you lost control of your vehicle. The car flipped several times and your wife was thrown out.” He purposefully didn’t mention that Mr. Jones had been seat-belted and his wife had not. There would be enough time for self-recrimination in the months and years ahead.

“I’m afraid that when she fell out of the car, she struck her head on the ground. With the speed of the vehicle and the force of the impact, she suffered a significant head injury. I’m sorry I have to tell you this…but she didn’t make it. She’s gone. But it’s certain—”

He was about to tell him she hadn’t suffered, that her death had been immediate, but he didn’t have the chance. It was then he realized his mistake. The young man in front of him was about to explode, and Bill was in the worst possible position.

Mr. Jones was looking at the floor, trembling, with clenched fists. Bill slowly stood up from his chair, hoping to correct his unthinking mistake.

Too late. Mr. Jones erupted. He grabbed Bill by the throat and effortlessly slung him through the air, then turned and slammed him into the door.

“You son of a b——!” he screamed. “You killed her! You killed my wife!”

There was little Bill could do. He struggled to free himself, but his assailant was too big and too strong. The clipboard fell and clattered on the tiled floor as Mr. Jones repeatedly slammed Bill against the
door. And then he began to punch him in the face with a fierceness born of his frustration and grief.

Virginia heard the commotion and immediately ran to help. She tried to open the family-room door. There was no lock on it, but Dr. Blanchard’s body was jamming it shut. She pushed as hard as she could but to no avail. She ran back to the nurses’ station and called Security.

Two officers arrived within minutes and as they approached, there was an ominous quiet within the room. The door now opened without resistance. They saw Mr. Jones standing in the corner, his back to the door. His head was hanging down and his forehead was pressed against the wall. He was breathing heavily, but he was calm.

Lying motionless on the floor was the body of Bill Blanchard. Blood was dripping from his mouth and there was a small, dark-red pool forming on the cold tile under his face. His glasses were lying beside his head, the lenses shattered and the frames mangled.

He would survive, though it would be weeks before he would be able to return to work in the ER. Three missing teeth, a fractured jaw and eye socket, two broken ribs.

Rule Number One…

7:45 a.m.
It was raining. A tropical storm had dealt the coast a glancing blow and we were receiving the remnants of its flanking layers of clouds and the moisture that came with them. The streets were slick, and the visibility was poor.

“We’re going to be busy this morning,” Amy Conners pronounced to no one in particular. She was straightening out the disorganized paperwork of a busy night, left by her third-shift counterpart. “Always is when it rains like this. You’d think people would learn to drive in bad weather. Slow down, or somethin’. Or stay at home.”

She would be right, of course. This rain would result in a lot of fender benders, and potentially a few serious accidents. We would probably see them all.

As if on cue, the EMS radio pierced the fragile calm of our early morning.

“ER, this is Medic 2.”

Lori had been checking the medication log. She put the leather-bound notebook on the counter and walked over to the radio.

Picking up the phone she responded. “Medic 2, this is the ER. Go ahead.”

“ER, we’ve got an eighty-two-year-old lady here, auto accident. Full cardiac arrest. She’s intubated, no response to any medications. CPR in progress. Should be there in five. Any further orders?”

Lori looked over to me for a response. I shook my head.

“No, Medic 2. Continue CPR. Trauma room on arrival.”

“10-4.” The radio fell silent.

Lori and I walked across the hallway to the trauma room to make the usual preparations.

“See, I told ya,” Amy intoned prophetically. “I’ll call the lab and X-ray.”

“Thanks,” I said. This didn’t sound too promising. The chances of survival for this unfortunate woman were very small. Her age, the lack of response to rescue efforts, and the probability this trauma had come from an auto accident all portended a fatal outcome.

It turned out the circumstances surrounding this elderly patient were not what we had assumed. She had been driving her husband to see his cardiologist for his monthly visit. He had a heart attack six months earlier and was doing well. She was enjoying good health and had no significant medical problems. They lived out in the country, on a farm that had been in their family for several generations.

They had been driving into town this morning and she had started to rub her chest. Then she complained of indigestion, which she put down to a hastily prepared and consumed breakfast. Her husband didn’t think much of it until he noticed the car was beginning to veer a little toward the curb. He had glanced over at his wife and saw that her head was lolling from side to side. Before he could say or do anything, she had slumped over the steering wheel. The car had swerved
completely off the road, slowing and gently coming to rest against a street lamp.

A witness had called EMS, and within a few minutes we had received our call from Medic 2.

She had apparently suffered a massive heart attack and was flat-line when she arrived in the ER. Despite our efforts, there was nothing we could do to change that. She was pronounced dead twenty minutes later.

“Mr. Reid is in the family room, Dr. Lesslie,” Lori informed me. “He’s there by himself, but I think some family members have been called.”

I was finishing my notes on his wife’s chart. “Thanks, Lori. I’ll be one more minute.”

She didn’t move, but remained standing by my side. “Do you want me to go back there with you?” she asked.

“No. Thanks, but I’ll be okay. Just send his family back when they get here.”

I had Mrs. Reid’s clipboard in my hand as I stepped into the small family room. Mr. Reid was sitting on the sofa, his hands folded, his gaze fixed on the floor. He was a tall man, of medium build, with a face and neck wrinkled and weathered by many decades in the sun. He looked up as I entered.

Fleetingly, the thought occurred that I needed to position myself between this man and the door. It was a protective reflex, Bill Blanchard’s lesson having been indelibly etched into my memory. But this was an eighty-year-old man, hardly a threat.

I stepped across the small space and sat down beside him on the sofa. I shook his hand, and he somehow managed a faint attempt at a smile.

“Mr. Reid,” I began. “I need to tell you about your wife.”

He nodded slightly, his eyes telling me he already knew what I was going to say. He had known from the moment he had seen her slump over in the car.

We talked for several minutes and then fell silent. He had sobbed
for a moment, and then collected himself. He was calm and somehow at peace.

His eyes glistened as he said, “You know, she’s had a good life. A good family. Grandchildren that love her. But it hasn’t always been easy, workin’ a farm all these years. But that’s what she wanted. Wouldn’t ever consider leavin’.”

And then he expressed his concern for his sons and grandchildren. “They’re really gonna miss her. They’re farmers too, and live on the family land. They see her every day. I don’t know what to—”

His last thought was interrupted by the opening of the door. I looked up to see two middle-aged men and a teenage boy stepping into the room. These were big guys. And they all wore well-used, dirt-stained overalls, the badge of men who made their living with their hands. The door closed and the older men sat down in the two chairs. The teenager stood against the door. Their eyes were fixed on Mr. Reid, and then they moved to me.

Bill Blanchard.
Suddenly his swollen and bruised face flashed across my mind. I gripped the clipboard in my hands, flimsy protection should I need it.

I was about to say something when Mr. Reid spoke.

“Boys, I hate to tell you this, but Mama’s gone.” It was a simple statement, but all that needed to be said.

The two men immediately got up from their chairs, and the boy straightened up, bolt-upright in front of the door. Their gaze went from Mr. Reid to me, and back to Mr. Reid.

“Daddy,” one of the sons uttered. The single word contained volumes of grief and loss and love. And then they began coming across the room.

Mr. Reid was slowly getting to his feet, seeming much older and weaker than he had a few moments earlier. He seemed unsteady now. I also stood up, and glanced in the direction of the door. The teenager stood motionless, his arms dangling by his side as he stared intently at his grandfather.

One of the men reached out and brushed my shoulder as he
hurriedly stepped forward. In an instant, the two sons held their father in their arms, sobbing.