chapter 2
fiction
HUFFINGTON
09.23.12
her sternum. “Metastatic breast cancer,” the nurse calls,
flipping pages in the chart. “Admitted for pain control.” You
lighten up the pressure and continue to push, rhythmically,
fast. You look around, trying to pick out from the mass of
excited bystanders the people who belong. The noise is immense. On the opposite side of the bed you see one of the
respiratory techs has arrived. “Airway,” you shout, and the
tech nods: she has already seen the puffing cheeks. She
takes the mask and bag from the nurse and adjusts the patient’s neck. The patient’s chest starts to rise and fall beneath your hands.
“What’s she getting for pain?”
“Morphine PC A.”
“What rate?”
The question sets off a flurry of activity among some
nurses, one of whom stoops to examine the IV pump at
the patient’s bedside. “Two per hour, one q fifteen on the
lockout.”
“Narcan,” you order.
By this time, the pharmacist has arrived, which is fortunate because you can’t remember the dose of opiate blocker. You doubt this is overdose here, but it’s the first thing
to try. Out of the corner of your eye you see the pharmacist
load a clear ampoule into a syringe and pass it to a nurse.
Meanwhile on your left, the other resident and the intern
are plunging large needles into both groins, probing for the
femoral vein. The intern strikes blood first, removes the
syringe, throws it onto the sheets. “Send that off for labs,”
you shout. Blood dribbles from the needle’s hub as the intern threads a long, coiled wire through it into the vein.
The other resident stops jabbing and watches the intern’s
progress. With a free hand she feels for the femoral pulse,
but the bed is bouncing. You stop compressing. The resident focuses, shakes her head. Start compressing again.
A nurse reaches around you on the right, trying to fit