Rocky is horizontal on the stretcher. He’s a dishevelled-looking fellow in his late 50s. His salt-and-pepper hair shoots out wildly in all directions and he’s sporting a week’s worth of gnarly stubble. It looks like his nose has been broken a few times. He’s heavily doused in that best-selling cologne, Eau de Stale Booze. I think he’s sleeping.
“Hi Rocky, I’m Dr. Gray.”
No response.
“Wake up, Rocky.”
He yawns widely and rolls onto his side. Ack! Plumber butt much?
“Rise and shine, Rocky!”
His eyes pop open.
“Whaddayawant?” he grunts. Communication! Hey, now we’re getting somewhere. Things are looking up already.
“My name is Dr. Gray. I’m here to see if you’re okay. Are you able to sit up?”
Sitting up doesn’t pose much of a challenge to most people, but the Rock Man makes it look like it should be included in the decathlon. He plants his elbows firmly by his sides and starts throwing his head forward in a series of jerky attempts to lift his torso off the stretcher. At the same time his legs scissor up and down vigorously. I fail to see how that’s going to help the situation. Perhaps Mission Control sent different messages to the upper and lower halves of his body. After about half a minute of flailing he manages to get himself upright.
“Thanks, Rocky. Now I’m going to – ”
“Wait!”
“What’s wrong?”
“I think I’m gonna be sick!”
“Hang on, I’ll get you a basin right away!” Too late – he leans over the wastepaper basket beside his stretcher and does a humongous technicolor yawn: “Huuurrrraaaalp! Huuurrrraaaalp!”
There’s no sign of blood in the stuff coming up. Big Macs and Pop Tarts, yes, but blood, no. I hand him some towels and canvass the area for a basin.
Does everyone else’s workday begin like this?
While an aide cleans up Rocky, I proceed to the next cubicle. In addition to looking like he’s just been keelhauled, patient number two is wearing the same cologne as Rocky. Talk about bad luck. This isn’t going to be another one of those days, is it?
“Hi, I’m Dr. Gray. How can I help you this morning?”
“I wanna go to detox. I don’t have any money, so I’ll need a ride, too.”
“Okay, we’ll see what we can do. When was your last drink?”
“Last night.”
“How much did you have?”
“Lots.”
“What were you drinking?”
“Lysol and Orange Crush.”
“Anything else?”
“Shaving cream.”
Mamma mia.
I ask switchboard to contact the intake worker at the nearest available detox centre. Rocky’s still barfing up a storm, so I order some IV fluids, Gravol, Valium and thiamine for him before moving on to the third patient. According to the chart, his name is Harley Wayne Gacy. If he’s not a serial killer, I’ll eat my socks.
“Hi Mr. Gacy, I’m Dr. Gray. That’s a very interesting Charles Manson T-shirt you’re wearing! Who would have guessed that chainsaws could be so versatile? So, how can I help you today?”
“I need prescriptions for OxyContin, Talwin and Ritalin. And something for my nerves, too. And my parole officer says I have to get these disability pension forms filled out right away… .”
¡Ay, caramba!
My fourth patient presents with a stellate scalp laceration sustained in a booze-induced inward pike off the back of a moving pickup that occurred sometime around midnight. I'm surprised he waited so long to come in - it looks like an asteroid collided with the back of his skull. I give him a complimentary reverse yarmulke and get busy with my needle driver and forceps. While I sew him up we listen to the not-so-soothing strains of Rocky repeatedly breaking the 11th Commandment (Thou Shalt Not Upchuck on the Floor of the ER). Half an hour later my crash test dummy is looking human once again. Antibiotic dressings, a tetanus shot and a trip to the radiology suite follow in short order. Not long after that he's exiting stage left. Goodbye Mr. Bloody-Head! No more Olympic asphalt-diving, please! I catch up on my charting and order some IV Maxeran for Rocky.
The receptionist drops another fresh batch of outpatient charts on the ER desk and whispers, “Incoming!” That immediately triggers a harrowing flashback to the time I travelled up the Nung River deep into the heart of Cambodia in search of a brilliant yet almost certainly insane colonel who…wait a minute - that was Benjamin Willard, not me. Oops. Sorry about that, folks. Anyhow, the triage note on patient number five reveals he’s here today because for the past few months he “just hasn’t been feeling quite himself.” I know from previous ER encounters that he has a tendency to ramble. This time I’ll try to take control of the interview by avoiding open-ended questions.
“Mr. Filibuster, I’m going to ask you a series of questions and I’d like you to just answer yes or no, okay?”
“Okay, doc.”
“Have you lost any weight recently?”
“When I was a young ‘un living down in Oklahoma back in the Dirty Thirties… .”
Can I get a swig of that grape Kool-Aid?
Patient number six:
“Hi, I’m Dr. Gray. How can I help you today?”
“I’m from out of province and I’ve run out of my birth control pills. Can you give me a refill?”
“No problem. What are they?”
“I’m not sure. Something-21.”
“Most of the brands come in packs of either 21 or 28.”
“Actually, it might have been Something-28.”
Swing low, sweet chariot… .
Patient number seven is another prescription refill. The last one was a bit of a gong show, but I’m confident things will go more smoothly this time.
“I’m Dr. Gray. How can I help you?”
"I’m here in Ontario on vacation and I’ve run out of my pills. Can I get some refills?"
“Sure. What medications do you take?”
“I don’t know the names.”
“Did you bring your bottles with you?”
“No, but I can tell you what the pills look like. There’s four white ones, a pink one and a wee little yellow one.”
Just take me now, Lord… .
Despite having an entire pharmacopoeia at my disposal, Wookiee-like noises continue to emanate from Rocky’s cubicle. Eventually I throw in the towel and admit him to the medical ward. The rest of the morning continues on in a similar vein. The afternoon’s no prize, either. Around suppertime the nurse supervisor informs me the waiting room is finally empty. Thank God! I was about to change my name to Sisyphus. If I’m lucky, things will stay quiet for a little while. I go home to eat with Jan.
By the way, we never say the Q-word out loud in our department. Every ER worker on the planet knows the instant you make a comment about how quiet it is, a jumbo jet full of ventilated preemies will crash land in your staff parking lot. Probably right on top of your car. That’s just the way ER karma rolls.
It is now the witching hour. I’m two-thirds of the way through my 24-hour shift. I think I’ve treated close to 20 people since I got back at 8:00 p.m. Thankfully, I’m down to the last one. According to the triage note, she’s a previously healthy 60-year-old who has been experiencing minor cold symptoms for a week. Her vital signs are all normal. Hmm. Something tells me this case isn't going to make it onto House. Oh, well. One last person to see, and then I get to crawl into bed for a while.
“Hello, Mrs. Coryza, I’m Dr. Gray. How can I help you tonight?”
“Well, I’ve had this runny nose and cough for a week now, so I figured I should come in and get checked.”
“Have you had any fever?”