X-ray vignette 3 - the delivery truck

[again, raw and unedited. Truck = bus]

GLOSSARY

"Five bucks on Difficulty Breathing.

"Ten on Pedestrian Struck."

Ian looked at Marcus quizically, then in shock as the
dispatch flashed up on the screen. Back up Three-one Boy for a
Pedestrian Struck.

Traffic was backed up for a block and a half approaching the
scene, so Marcus grabbed the ALS bag and the monitor and
proceeded on foot, leaving Ian to bring the Truck through as best
he could. Ian watched his bobbing form thread through the
stopped cars for a moment, then returned to the gridlock before
him. Solid cars up this block and an 18 wheeler stopped at the
intersection. It was impossible to tell what lay beyond it. On
the left, an unbroken row of parked cars; half a space up on the
right there was an open parking place, but a delivery van was
pareked on the right sidewalk near the corner. Traffic behind
the Truck was already three cars deep.

Marcus would have to take Three-one Boy's Truck. If he
needed Ian, he could sentd one of the Basics back to look after
X-ray's Truck and Ian could run up to the accident on foot.
"Three-five X-ray tech," he called on the radio.

"Go ahead," came Marcus's voice.

"You'll have to take Three-one Boy's Truck. We're blocked
in."

"Two patients. Need that Truck."

Ian acknowledged and checked his mirrors again. Five cars
now sat behind him. Clearly, the delivery van would have to go.

Ian laid on his horn and a low "waaap!" escaped the Truck.
Traffic nudged forward uneasily, herded by repeated blasts of the
horn. When Ian reached the open parking place, he squeezed
through and onto the curb.

The delivery van took less in the way of horn, more in hte
way of just-do-it. When 15 seconds of air horn produced no
driver or movement Ian jumped from his Truck and ran to the
driver's door of the idling van. With an absurd feeling of pride
he snapped off the radio antenna and used it to smash the window,
then opened the door and climbed in.

Only the Fire Department ever gets to break windows, he
thought, maybe I should change careers. He deposited the van in
a Bus stop half way up the block and retreived his Truck, pulling
up to Marcus a few minutes later.

Clearly, this accident was a cluster. Two State Troopers,
State Troopers, stood over Marcus and half of Three-one Boy, one
holding an oversized umbrella, the other two Maglites. Another
Trooper was helping two firefighters roll a rumpled squad car
away from the victim. Engine 157 stood by with a stretcher and
held IV bags. New Gotham Police interviewed witnesses and
maintained crown control.

"Three-three Zebra took the other patient," Marcus
explained. He nodded to the crumpled body on the pavement,
"Bicyclist struck, thrown ten feet into this parked van,
depressed skull frac, pelvic frac, intubated, clear and equal,
pulse 120, 96 over 72 up to 116 over 84 with one liter of saline,
unilaterally blown pupil. Three-one Boy is blocked in. Is
anybody not ready?" he asked the collection of people preparing
to log roll the patient onto a spineboard, "One, two, three."

Marcus, half of Three-one Boy, and FDNG loaded the patient
onto Three-One Boy's stretcher while Ian pulled X-ray's stretcher
out and abandoned it on the pavement. As he helped load the
patient into the Truck he suddenly burst out laughing. Marcus
shot him a look but Ian shook his head, "Later."

Oxygen. Hyper ventillation. N.S. wide open. Mannitol.
Call ahead to the hospitl, and lights and sirens to New Gotham
Trauma Center, with State Police close behind. Doctor Koffi met
them at he door, read their eyes. "OR 3," he drawled, following
them into the elevator. He got hte history on the way up and
disappeared with the patient and his staff when the elevator
doors opened onto the operating ward. Marcus, Ian, and the half
of Three-one Boy watched them recede down the hallway with their
former patient, the sound of the stretcher wheels ringing loudly
in their ears.

Station 13 shared a parking lot with the hospital. The
three angels trooped over for a replacement stretcher and marked
their old stretcher at the hospital OR. Already Ian could feel
the tentacles of the post-call blues.

The State Plice followed Three-Five X-ray to New Gotham Trauma
because their car had hit the bicyclist while going lights and
sirens. Witnesses described in confused but vivid detail how the
police car had sped down the steet at 20, 50, 40 miles per hour,
almost missing the bicyclist, hitting him squaely on the front
wheel, the rear wheel, the side, as he tried to turn away, as he
tried to lay the bike down. The bicyclist was run over, was
thrown into a moving, a parked van, a lamp post. He screamed, he
was silent, you couldn't mistake it, he uttered the Lord's
Prayer. they all agreed that the bicyclist had run a ed light,
except for thosewho knew it was green. "I remember it
distictly," one woman told the police, "the signal wasn;t working
at all." The trooped couldn't recall clearly but thought he had
the right of way. He did have his lights and siren on, or at
least he did when his car came to a rest over the victim.

In the end it turned out that the bicyclist had a helmet cam
on, transmitted live to the web. Hundreds of viewers watched,
enthralled, as they ran the red ligth, caught a flash of grille,
and cartwheeled, landing heavily on hte pavement with an audible
'crack'. The transmission was so clear that they could read the
badge number of the horrified trooper as he knelt over the dying
bicyclist and called for an ambulance. At sony, phones rang off
the hook with orders for that model of camera, which had been
diuscontinued last spring for poor sales.

Back in the Truck, Ian watched life pass him by as he and
Marcus idledat their corner. Trucks, busses, an occaisional
gypsy cab drifted by, hissing on the wet pavement. Overhead the
el rumbled and squeaked. A police car drove by, weaving and
struggling past the mid morning traffic, squaking its siren
relentlessly, fruitlessly. The wipers swished across Ian's
vision and fell silent again.

In the shotgun seat Marcus had already fallen asleep, his
head back, his mouth open. Jazz played softly on the stereo. In
the Operating room, Ian knew, a struggle against death was
unfolding for his patient. A fruitless struggle. Ian folded his
newspaper ans composed himself for sleep. Just before it came, a
small smile appeared on his lips. In retrospect, the door to the
delivery van had been unlocked.

GLOSSARY