A second or two passed before they were able to register what had taken place. They could feel the adrenaline surging through their bodies, their lungs in need of more oxygen. Slowly, each one began to look to the other, searching for reassurance. It felt as though they had been part of some surreal dream sequence of the perfect trauma delivery system. It felt good, damn good! Now, if only the patient would survive.
"Paper work," the stern looking woman at the desk demanded with an outstretched hand. "Do you have any paper work on the trauma patient?"
The dream atmosphere was now broken by the harshness of reality. John turned his gaze to her and slowly shook his head; "There was no time, no paper work generated. Hell, we didn’t even give him a name." He looked down at his watch noticing that only twelve minutes had elapsed since the trauma pager warned them of the almost immediate one-minute ETA.
She looked over the top of her glasses at him and mockingly said, "What am I supposed to call him?"
The other E.R. nurse cleared his throat and softly spoke, "Lucky…call him Lucky Doe." Steve truly believed that, deep in his heart. The ex-paramedic had seen many gunshot victims bleed to death, either enroute to the hospital or upon arrival in the trauma rooms. But this had been different; it had almost a magical feel to it. "I’ll let Admissions know." The nurse ran his hand through his thinning, light brown hair in a sort of calming gesture.
"What trauma surgeon is in charge of that patient?" The woman asked the E.R. nurses in front of her. She saw the puzzled look on their faces. "Why am I asking you," she muttered to herself, "first day of…hell, first hour of a new staff year." Her finger slammed down onto the intercom switch connecting her to the surgical arena for that particular patient. "Room One. Do you have the patient with multiple gunshot wounds?"
"Yes!" was the reply heard over the low hum of static noise.
"Your patient will be called Lucky Doe." The woman paused. "I need the name of the operating trauma surgeon please."
There was silence. A moment later the intercom crackled to life. "Trivoli,
Trauma Fellow Garrett Trivoli."
The patient had been quickly transferred to the operating table, prepped and draped while the anesthesiologist hurriedly applied his monitoring devices to the young man’s body. Trivoli’s eyes never leaving the monitor, donned the customary protective clothing of the operating arena.
"Place him in trendelenburg position and keep the temperature in this room at 50 degrees," the Fellow directed. "I’ll need size 8 gloves, please." She glared at the scrub nurse as she held out her hands. "I suspect that this will be the first and last time I have to tell you my glove size."
The nurse was shocked at the display of arrogance in the new Fellow. ‘Jeez, not even an hour into the new training year and already an attitude.’
She readied the sterile gloves for the surgeon to wear. "I’ll make sure the word gets around, Doctor," she nodded politely. ‘Yeah, that you’re one demanding bitch.’
Garrett now stepped up to the table, extending the gloved hand, "Bovie, please."
The surgeons were at the forefront of the battle to save the young life now. There was no time to waste, as Trivoli and Chief Surgical Resident, Rob Kreger would have to quickly find the major bleeders and stop them if at all possible. It was sure to be a team effort and one that would not be over anytime soon.
**********
John and Steve returned to find the E.R. aide, Marianna, starting to clean up the trauma room. They were startled to see the amount of mess that had happened in such a short time.
"I can’t believe what a mess you guys make," she teased them.
"Well, be glad that trauma was only in this room ten minutes," John said, "or it would be a lot worse."
"Oh my, guess I’m a little late," Dr. McCormick poked his head into the room.
"Sorry, doc, the patient is already in the O.R.," Steve apologized to the E.R. Attending Physician.
"Alright then, ah…what was his name, do we even know?"
Steve looked straight at the stout, balding physician; "We’re calling him, Lucky Doe."
The doctor let a smile slowly crack across his face, "Let’s hope so."
"Say, you wouldn’t happen to know who the trauma surgeon was?" Dr. McCormick asked stepping back into the room.
"Trivoli, Trauma Fellow Garrett Trivoli." A large grin appeared on John’s face. ‘Yeah, this Trivoli rush came as close to having sex as one could get at work,’ the tall blonde nurse thought to himself. ‘This might even put a whole new outlook on the time that I spend in trauma.’
The Physician was surprised by the expression on John’s face. "Thanks, I’ll get the information I need when they’re done in surgery," McCormick said as he started to leave.
The nurse’s facial expression would not erase itself from Ian McCormick’s mind. He knew of John’s fanaticism with sports, his appetite for lewd comments and sexual escapades. ‘Trivoli, hmm…could have been a collegiate sports figure, or maybe someone who cracks comments like John.’ Then it hit him. That look! It was the one that most teenage boys have after their first sexual encounter or men when deep in lustful thoughts. The physician looked over his shoulder at John. ‘Oh, God, he’s getting off on men now! Jeez…I hope it’s only Garrett Trivoli,’ he thought and began to quicken his pace away from the Trauma hall, a feeling of homophobia coming over him.
************
In a combined group effort, the three co-workers and Housekeeping brought the trauma room back to a state of readiness. Now, the nurses would have to try to put together some sort of paper work on Lucky Doe. Everything had happened so fast and simultaneously that it was going to be hard to chronologically come up with the chain of events that took place.
Finally, Steve and John were satisfied with their Trauma Assessment paper work. It was sparse but told the entire eleven-minute story of Lucky Doe while he was in their care. They both knew that once Nan reviewed it, their manager would be asking why certain things had not transpired in the way of patient care.
Steve hung his head; "Nan’s going to be on the war path over this one."
"The patient’s still alive," John snapped. "At least I hope he is. If she has questions, let her take it up with the physicians."
"I say, why don’t we just let her watch the tape. That should answer any of her damn questions."
John’s face lit up; he had forgotten that all traumas were video taped for critical review. ‘Maybe I should review it, myself. I wonder…will it be as arousing the second time around?’ The thought was now evident on his face.
"Jeez, John, I wish you could keep your mind on work instead of last night’s conquests," Steve was now visibly agitated.
‘Oh, but I am!’ was the younger nurse’s mental reply.
***********
The operating room was quiet except for the rhythmic bleeps of the heart monitor, a constant reminder of the life they were trying to preserve. Surgeons had their own peculiar style of conduct that surrounded them in the operating arena and Garrett Trivoli was one for intense concentration, solely focusing on the patient. Spoken words being kept to a minimum. Perhaps this is why everyone paid attention when the voice of the Surgeon was heard.
"Vitals, please." The words seemed to be spoken as a directive and not polite etiquette.
The anesthesiologist surveyed his electronic equipment. "Heart rate, 90. BP 108 over 66. Respiration’s 14. Color appears to be good," he reported, looking directly at the patient’s face.
Garrett breathed a sigh of relief. The biggest part of the battle was over. Now only the small skirmishes remained. A fight is still a fight no matter how big or small. The surgeon had learned the hard way many years ago. Some of the most deadly battles were those that could possibly be mistaken as insignificant annoyances. Over the years, Trivoli had learned to let instinct guide the swiftness of response, but to take care that her quest for perfection was not marred by some insignificant oversight that would conquer in any altercation.