Angels in the ER (15 page)

“Aaaaah! Get off me!”

Then he tried to spit into Jeff’s face. Jeff was too quick and managed to dodge the liquid projectile. But Jimmy’s action led to an unexpected and unwanted result. Jeff’s right hand had been poised just above Jimmy’s face, and now he quickly thumped him across the bridge of his nose. It was not a forceful blow, not enough to break the skin or any bones. But it was enough to get his attention. It smarted and Jimmy let out a yelp.

“Ooh, get off me!”

The cycle repeated itself. For a few seconds, Jimmy would be still. Then he would start squirming again, trying to kick Jeff. And once again he tried to spit on him. Then a quick pop to the face.

“Ooh! Somebody get him off me!”

It was then I noticed Jeff’s eyes. I had seen him angry before, but fortunately not very often. It usually took a lot to provoke him. His face would turn red, he would get very quiet, and then it would blow over. But this time it was different. Jimmy must have found the right buttons tonight. Jeff’s eyes were mere slits and his pupils were pinpoints. I shuddered.

Here was one of our best nurses, a hulk of a man. And he was strong. Yet I had seen these huge hands gently hold a two-month-old and deftly start an IV in its tiny hand. And I had watched as he almost tenderly lifted a ninety-year-old woman from her wheelchair onto an examining bed. But I never dared say that to him.

Tonight he was a different person—someone I hadn’t expected to see, and someone who scared me a little.

“Doc!” Jimmy had noticed me standing beside the stretcher. “Get him off me!”

Jeff still straddled Jimmy’s body, his right hand poised just above his face.

I glanced at Jeff but he was staring intently at his patient.

I looked again at the pleading man on the bed. “Jimmy, if you’ll behave yourself, I’ll try to get him off you. But you’ll have to behave. No more kicking and no more spitting.”

“Okay! Okay! Just get him off me!” he replied.

Jeff was not moving. He seemed not to be impressed with Jimmy’s sincerity or newfound contrition. I wasn’t so sure myself.

“Jimmy, I’ll try to do that, but you’ll have to promise to calm down. Do you hear me?” I asked him. “No more kicking.”

Tom Daniels had walked over and now stood at my shoulder. He surveyed the scene while stroking his chin, an amused look on his face. “Make him cross his heart and pinky swear,” he whispered in my ear.

I looked at him and frowned. “Tom, I’m trying to save this man’s life,” I chided.

“Please, Doc, get him off!” Jimmy was wearing down, and I thought it would be safe to rescue him.

“Jeff, it’s time to let him up. Come on, hop off that bed,” I tried to persuade him.

Without a word and with an unexpected agility, Jeff sprang to the floor. He walked over to the corner of the room to pick up the urinal, pressing the wrinkles out of his scrubs with the palms of his hands.

Jimmy wasted no time and certainly not this opportunity. He sat up on the bed and dangled his feet over the edge, trying to locate the floor.

“I’ve had enough! You guys are crazy! I’m outta here!”

“Jimmy, just calm down,” I told him. “We’ll be glad to check you out, but you’re going to have to behave. Just keep your seat.”

It was to no avail. Jimmy was determined to get himself out of our department.

“I said I’m outta here and I am!” He got to his feet and with better balance than I had anticipated, he walked to the doorway. He
stumbled once and turned in the direction of Jeff. “You’re one crazy #$%#&!” And then he was gone.

Tom Daniels looked in Jeff’s direction. “Jeff, you okay?” he asked.

“Mm-hmm,” was the response. He was okay. He was not back to himself yet, but he was okay. He walked over to bed B. “She need anything else right now?” he asked us, his face still red from his recent activity.

“No,” Tom replied. “Just keep her IV going wide open and let’s get that CT as fast as we can.”

Sheryl had her CT scan: a ruptured spleen and probable torn intestine. Thirty minutes later, she was in the OR and had just been put to sleep.

I was alone, sitting behind the nurses’ station. The door to triage opened and an elderly man came into the ER. He walked over to the counter and slapped both hands down in front of him.

“Are you the doctor?” he asked me.

“Yes, I’m Dr. Lesslie,” I answered. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m Stanley Wells, Jimmy’s daddy,” he answered. I sat up a little straighter in my chair. “And I wanted to have a word with you.”

I studied him for a moment. I guessed he was fifty-five, maybe sixty years old, though he looked much older. His face was worn and wrinkled and he stood hunched over. Too many hard days and harder nights. And too many years with Jimmy.

“Yes, what about Jimmy?” Several thoughts came to my mind. He had collapsed in the waiting room. He had gone home to get a gun. He was calling the police. But it was none of the above.

“I just want to apologize. I know he’s a handful. Obnoxious young buck, especially when he’s been drinkin’. And he’s pretty drunk tonight,” he told me. “I understand he caused quite a ruckus back here.”

“Well, he did get a little rowdy, Mr. Wells,” I said, taken a little off guard but definitely relieved. “I guess you know he was involved in a pretty serious auto accident?”

“Yeah, I’ve already talked to the police about it,” he answered. “How is that woman, Sheryl? I think he met her at the bingo parlor last week. Seems like a nice girl. She gonna be okay?”

“Well, she’s in the operating room right now. She has some internal damage and bleeding, but she’s in good hands and I think she’ll be alright,” I answered.

“Doggone that boy! I told him a hundert times to stop drinkin’, and ’specially not to drive when he has been. But he don’t listen. Never has, and I guess he never will. Three DUIs, and now this. I don’t know what I’m gonna do with him.”

He paused and studied the backs of his gnarly hands.

“Anyway, Doc, I just wanted to come back here and apologize for the way my boy acted. I hope he didn’t hurt no one.”

“No, he didn’t. But we were trying to check him over for any injuries when he took off. I think he’s going to be okay, but if he wants to be looked at, just bring him back here.”

“Thanks, Doc, but I doubt if he wants to come back in here. He’s sittin’ out in the waiting room with the police and I think he’s gonna be leavin’ with them. He’s in some trouble this time. He ain’t got no driver’s license, and he’s already smarted off to the cops a coupla times.”

He paused and shook his head. “I think he’s okay though. He ain’t complainin’ of any pain or anything. But if he changes his mind, I’ll bring him straight back.”

“You do that, Mr. Wells,” I told him. “If you have any questions about Jimmy, just bring him back or give us a call.”

He stood straight up now, and put his hands in his pockets.

“Okay, and thanks. But like I said, I’m real sorry for the way he acted out.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “And I hope you have a better night.”

I watched as he walked back out through triage.

Twenty minutes later, Jeff stood with me at the nurses’ station. He was at my left elbow and was writing Sheryl’s chart, making sure all we had done was duly noted. Moments earlier, Tom Daniels had
relayed a message to us through the OR scrub nurse. Sheryl was fine. Her spleen had indeed been ruptured and had needed to be removed. Everything had gone well and he was now closing up. Maybe Sheryl would learn something tonight. Not necessarily about meeting guys at a bingo parlor, but maybe about not riding with someone who had been drinking. It would be a costly lesson.

I heard footsteps behind me, coming from the triage entrance.

“Doc.” The voice sounded familiar, but the tone was different. I turned around to see Mr. Wells once again, now standing before me.

“Yes, Mr. Wells. What can I help you with?” I asked him. “Does Jimmy want to be seen now?”

Jeff kept writing on the chart in front of him, never looking up.

“Not exactly, Doc,” Mr. Wells announced, a perceptible edge to his voice. “I want to talk with you a minute.”

“Sure,” I replied. “What’s the problem?”

“Well, I just went out and was talkin’ with Jimmy. The police have taken him down to the station, but before he left, he told me somethin’ that was pretty disturbin’.”

“And what was that?” I was afraid I might already know the answer.

“Jimmy told me that when he was back here the doctor jumped on him and beat him up. Held him down and kept hittin’ him in the nose.”

He paused and stepped closer to me, his face only inches from mine. And he was angry.

“Now I know that Jimmy can get obnoxious when he’s been drinkin’, but that ain’t no call for you to beat up my son, Doc. What with him bein’ under the influence and unable to protect hisself and all. That just ain’t right and I’m here to complain about it.”

He stood with his hands on his hips, indignant.

Jeff never looked up from his work. He just kept writing.

“Mr. Wells, let me say a couple of things,” I began. “First of all, I am the only doctor on duty tonight. And secondly, I did not hold your son down and I certainly did not hit him in the nose.”

“Well, somebody did!” he exclaimed. “I can see the red marks on his nose, and Jimmy said a doctor done it, and he don’t lie to me. Well…not usually.”

“Let me say it again, Mr. Wells, and I know you’re upset, but I’m the only doctor back here, and I did not beat up your son.”

I tried to be as convincing as possible, but he was not yielding.

“Now listen to me, Doc—” he started again.

But I interrupted with, “Mr. Wells, let me tell you what happened back here. We were trying to evaluate your son, to check him out and make sure everything was okay. But he became obnoxious, as you said earlier. And he started cursing and spitting and kicking. And finally, one of the nurses had to sit on him and make him behave.”

I peeked at Jeff out of the corner of my eye. He had stopped writing, but he didn’t move. He just looked down at the chart on the countertop.

Mr. Wells backed away. He was obviously trying to digest this new information. Then he held his hands outstretched in front of him, palms up.

“You mean to tell me that a nurse beat up my boy?” he asked, incredulous.

“That’s right, Mr. Wells,” I told him. “A nurse had to make him behave.”

Jeff didn’t move.

“You mean a nurse…” he muttered, visibly slumping.

“Yes, Mr. Wells, a nurse had to make your son behave,” I confirmed.

He stood staring at the floor, silent for a moment.

“A nurse beat up my boy. Well, I’ll be doggoned.”

He never once looked in Jeff’s direction.

Then Mr. Wells straightened himself, held out his hand to me, and said, “Well, Doc, I want to thank you for trying to help my boy. And I apologize again for his behavior. I know ya’ll did all you could for him.”

I shook his hand. “No problem, Mr. Wells. I hope that everything goes alright for you and your boy.”

He nodded, turned, and shuffled toward the triage door.

“I can’t believe it,” he muttered. “A dang nurse beat up my boy.”

He stepped through the door and was gone.

“Quick! Get me a number 4 airway tube!”

We were going to lose the eight-month-old if we couldn’t secure his airway.

“And get respiratory down here,
stat!
” I added.

Less then a minute earlier, EMS had burst through the ambulance entrance doors, carrying this young child. “Head injury,” Denton, one of the paramedics, had called out, heading straight to major trauma. “Barely breathing and not much of a pulse!”

Lori and I had hurried into the room and quickly assessed the infant. Denton had laid him on the stretcher and then taken a step back. He was breathing hard and was obviously upset. The baby had no muscle tone and only a faint, slow heart rate. There was no immediately obvious injury, but I quickly noticed that his pupils were markedly dilated and deviated to the right. That was not a good sign.