K Darblyne - The Fellowship

"Do you want to sit down, Mom?"

"No, just get me out of this zoo before it’s too late. I just want to go home," the older woman pleaded.

Propped on either side by her co-workers, Karen shakily made her way to the locker room. The night shift was officially over.

The trauma hallway and room were bursting with activity. The critical nature of the incoming patient was evident. Every level of medical professional on the team realized that it would be a race against the clock to save the young man’s life. There would be no time to discuss methods of treatment or to consult with the Attending Physician. It literally was down to do or let the young man die. And by the gods, if Trivoli had anything to say about it, this young man was going to get another chance at life. ‘The ball is in my court now! This is what I have been training for my entire career,’ raced through the surgeon’s mind.

A feral smile came to the Fellow’s face as the overhead loudspeaker squawked, "Trauma patient is in the department. Trauma patient is in the department."

Seeing the blood drenched, limp body of the young man on the ambulance stretcher, Garrett began firing off orders letting instinct take control. "I want a quick chest x-ray and abdomen x-ray. Check for pulses. Get me a pressure. Hang all four units of blood and notify the Operating Room that we’re coming up now. Tell them to have Thoracic Surgery meet us up there. Call the Blood Bank and have them send a ten pack of O positive blood to the O.R. to start, and a four pack every fifteen minutes for the next hour."

Trivoli watched as the team worked to meet all of the demands. The monitor showed tachycardia with multiple PVC’s, the pulse was weak and thready; the blood pressure was 70 over 40.

‘Not good, not good at all,’ Trivoli thought. "Time to move, NOW, to the O.R.," the low contralto voice decreed.

The directive caused the hallway to clear almost immediately creating an unobstructed path to the elevators. Every hand and foot was in motion to expedite the young lad’s way to the operating room, giving him a desperate chance for life. Once inside, the doors closed and the ascent was speedy.

The elevator came to a stop, the doors opening on the Operating Room level.

With the look of a well-rehearsed team, the forward momentum towards the area of bright lights and cold steel resumed instantly. The driven group easily negotiated the sixty feet of hallway and the two left-handed turns needed to bring them to the main entrance of the O.R. where they were met by the surgical personnel. The exchange of one team with the other was flawless with not an ounce of momentum lost.

The E.R. trauma team now watched their patient being maneuvered swiftly down the hall and into the surgical theater. The concern on their faces could have been construed as a silent prayer offered for the safekeeping of their patient’s life, teetering precariously on death’s doorstep.

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.