by Kelly Kenyon
~*~
I had been sitting in the cafeteria, a frothy Traverse City Cherry cappuccino warming my cold, chapped hands. Three years ago I switched to using nitrile gloves after realizing I had developed an allergy to latex, but my skin still dried up, cracking and bleeding at the knuckles, especially during the winter months. I use hand lotion religiously, but it never seems to do much good. Brittany, the intern, sat down next to me with a plate of fruit and one of those disgusting microwaveable cheese and sausage English muffins. Her long blonde hair was piled messily atop her head.
“I don’t know how you girls do this every day. I don’t think I’m cut out for it” she said matter-of-factly. Every new girl says this in the beginning. I always give the same response. After seeing it every day, you get used to it. What I don’t say is, you become numb; unaffected by blood, illness and death. Emotionless, as my husband says every so often. Claire also joined us. She was a veteran at this hospital. Twenty plus years. The state of her hands were a telltale sign that she had been around long before there were such strict precautions when taking X-rays. She mentioned the old woman with Alzheimer’s who had wandered away from her home late last night. She was near death’s door when they found her early this morning, huddled up in a ditch after sleeping outside in the ten below zero weather.
“Such a shame” Claire had said. “Such a horrible disease. I’m just glad I didn’t have to inform the family. That’s one part of being a doctor that I don’t envy.” We all nodded in agreement. The woman had been brought in at approximately seven this morning. Joyce, one of the paramedics, was operating the Ambu-Bag. The elderly woman’s chest rose and fell mechanically, but by the time they got her to the operatory she was already gone. The lack of oxygen had caused brain death. They kept her on a ventilator until her family had arrived to make the final decisions.
We finished our morning break chitchatting about the usual things; crazy patients, asshole bosses, our husbands, funny things our kids said or did, sex, or lack thereof. The rest of the morning went fairly smooth. At nine-fifteen, a frantic mother brought her ten year old son in after the school called for her to come get him. He had gotten a bloody nose and the school nurse couldn’t get the bleeding to stop. A short while later, the paramedics brought in a middle-aged man experiencing a myocardial infarction. He had been having chest pains and his wife, worried sick, called 911. Another patient was seen at ten to eleven and treated for mild whiplash after a teenage girl ass ended him at a stoplight. She had been skipping class and was in the middle of a very important text message. She was examined and released with no injuries.
There are days like this quite often. Days, like today, when you have to find something to clean or dust because there are no patients to work on and nothing else to do to pass the time. Days when you have to keep yourself busy so you don’t get you’re your ass reamed for standing around. If you don’t, you get sent home early by the head honcho and miss out on those hours in your paycheck. This was the calm before the storm, as they say.
At eleven-forty-five, Claire hollered with urgency down the hallway for me to come to the nurse’s station. At the moment, I was in Op 3 dusting the air vents. I climbed down from the gurney, cleaned away my shoe prints with a cavicide soaked wipe, and pulled a clean paper cover over the bed before leaving the room. Dr. Moody, Dr. Allen, and the rest of the staff were standing around the nurse’s station. Brittany’s hand covered her mouth; tears welled up in her eyes.
“What’s going on?” I asked Claire.
“There’s been a mass shooting…”she choked, her voice catching in the back of her throat.
“What? Where?” my heart dropped in my chest making it hard to breath.
“Ford Elementary School. It’s bad, Tris. Really bad. Dispatch sent all available units to the school. Tris, there’s going to be a body count…”
“What about the other schools?” I asked, remembering only then that my phone had gone off on vibrate deep in my pocket while I had been cleaning. I reached for it then, absentmindedly, and glanced at the screen. I had a missed call from my husband. My heart raced, my face flushed with heat. I wondered if my own children knew what was going on. Where they scared?
“I imagine they’ve got all the schools on lockdown,” Claire answered, her hand now on my shoulder. “But Janice…her grandkids go to Ford. She left…”
“Oh my God,” I replied, that swelling feeling lurked up in the back of my throat. “I’ve got to step outside, Claire. My husband called. Got to make sure everything is ok at …” she waved me off, understanding that this was urgent.
My hands, arms, and legs were shaking uncontrollably as I stepped outside around the Ambulance bay. The air was biting cold and it had begun to snow big, wet snowflakes. They felt good melting against my hot cheeks. Around the corner I leaned against the cold brick wall, hit the missed call option on the touch screen of my iPhone, and redialed my husband’s number. His cool, collected voice answered on the first ring.
“Tris? I’m on my way to the school,” he said. “Don’t worry, the kids are fine. The schools are on lockdown until further notice, but I canceled my meetings for the rest of the day. I’ll wait for them outside…”
“Thank God,” I said, my voice breathy. “Should I leave too?”
“Babe, by the sounds of it, they are going to need you at work. I got this...I got this. Clear your head. Worry about what you’ve got coming through those doors today, they need you more, Ok?”
“Ok… Ok. I’ll see you when I get home,” I said, as I rubbed the delicate skin on my temples. “Hun, hug them tight for me, please?” I fought back the tears that threatened to emerge; I needed to keep my cool. He was right. My kids were safe, while someone else’s would need my help.
“You know I will,” he said and hung up forgetting to say his usual I love you’s.
After catching my breath and attempting to slow my pounding heart, I went back inside. What was in store for us today? We’ve dealt with shootings here before, but not like this. Not in the nation’s fifth most coveted city to live in. The biggest crimes here were the occasional meth lab bust or domestic violence case, and even then you don’t hear about them. They get swept under the rug, become rumors whispered among the rich big wigs at the local chemical plant. If anyone gets shot here it is usually accidental; a hunter dropping his gun from his blind and taking a bullet to the ass. Sometimes we’d get a bar fight turned bad, maybe someone would get stabbed. Not this. Our wonderful city was now going to be a crimson smudge on the map.
As I approached the nurses’ station I overheard Brittany having a near meltdown. “I can’t do this… I can’t.” she cried, her voice shrill; panicked. “Old ladies with Alzheimer’s… that’s one thing. These are… these are little kids. I can’t do it.”
Claire took Brittany’s reddened face in her hands drawing her eyes to her own. “Listen kiddo, it’s ok,” she reassured her. “Go out front to Triage. Help them sort any other patients. If they aren’t in need of emergency care, send them down the street to Urgent Care. Darcy and Shantell will need just as much help as we will. It’s ok, go on.”
Brittany nodded; the tears had finally spilled over leaving damp, flesh toned trails down her cheeks. She left, wiping her tears on the sleeve of her white undershirt. Her strides were quick and childlike. They reminded me just how young she really was. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she didn’t return tomorrow to fulfill her internship with us in the ER. I can’t say that I’d blame her either.
“They’re saying there is as many as sixteen dead,” Dr. Rouse’s soft, feminine voice called out as she poked her dirty blonde head around the corner from the visitors lounge. She had turned on the large mounted flat screen TV to see if anything was being reported yet. “Six adults…ten children. There’s no word on the shooter just yet,” she informed us.
“That son-of-a-bitch! Hope he didn’t kill himself like a coward. Just for once I’d like to see a mom get a hold of one of
these sick bastards. I would kill him myself if it were one of my own…” Claire’s voice caught in her throat again. I could feel that same hard knot forming in the back of my own throat as I fought against the urge to cry.
We all stood around the TV watching the chaotic scene being broadcast on every major news network. The red “Breaking News Report” bar scrolled ominously across the bottom of the screen followed repeatedly by “Tragedy at Ford Elementary School: Mass shooting leaves at least 10 children and 6 adults dead.” They replayed the video of parents rushing their unharmed, yet traumatized children away, emergency vehicle lights flashing in the background. Some parents covered their child’s face with coats, others allowed the vultures to sweep in and peck at their prey with questions like “can you describe what the man looked like” or “did he have big guns, or little ones”. They will get their story, even at the expense of further damaging the fragile mental state of those already terrified kids.
It seemed like hours passing by as we waited for dispatch to inform us that anyone was on their way. My nails were chewed down to the sensitive pink flesh underneath. I hadn’t bitten my nails since high school. Claire paced the hallway, one arm crossed over her chest, her other elbow resting on that arm as her bulbous fingers tapped nervously away at her chin. The three doctors all huddled together watching the news in the visitors lounge. More nurses came down to the ER from different areas of the hospital, all prepared to help in case we got flooded with victims like the hospitals had after the Aurora, Colorado shooting.
“This isn’t good,” Claire said. “There should be someone here by now. Not good at all…”
“Maybe there aren’t any survivors,” said Chris, one of the male trauma nurses. He nervously clicked away at a pen, crossing his long, lanky legs as he leaned on the edge of the nurse station desk.
“There has to be. They can’t all be dead,” Claire replied.
We all wanted to believe that, I’m sure of it, though when she said it the look on everyone’s face was a telltale sign. No matter what each of us believed in, God or any other form of high and mighty deity, we all knew that God had stepped out of his office today. He had once again turned his back on his creation, allowing Satan to sneak in the back door and take the reins.
The dispatch phone trilled loudly which caused us all to startle. Chris bolted up right as Claire bustled over to the nurses’ station, her tennis shoe squeaking like sneakers on a basketball court, and quickly answered it. “What ‘cha got for us? Uhuh…Ok.” We looked on anxiously waiting to hear the news. She hung up the phone and looked at us all, pale as a ghost. “We’ve got one ambulance coming in with an eight year old victim. She has a penetrating wound to the right shoulder, through and through, and a perforating wound to the head. Looks like she may have been hit with bits of buck shot. Prepare Trauma one for her.” She demanded, waving off a couple of nurses. “Then we have another VIC, gunshot wound to the leg. Prepare yourselves. This is the guy… the shooter. He’ll be coming in with a police escort.”
“What?” the muscles in Chris’ broad jaw protruded as he spoke though clenched teeth. “This guy shoots up an elementary school, kills God knows how many people… kids…and we’re supposed to provide him medical care? Fucking Bullshit… I won’t do it. Fuck ethics. Let him bleed out…”
“I’m right there with you, Chris, but like it or not this is what we signed up for. We need you in Trauma one anyways…” She turns her attention towards me “Tris, you and I will handle him. They’ve already sedated him. Once he gets here, the anesthesiologist with put in an IV cath. His face is pretty busted up. Maybe a broken jaw as well…”
My mouth opened to dispute the decision as Chris had, there was no way I going to help save the monster, but before I could object the automatic doors by the ambulance bay retracted. A cold draft blew in as the gurney wheeled in. Joyce appeared; her hands steadily pumped the Ambu-bag just as they had earlier this morning. Joyce immediately began to rattle off the child’s vitals; oxygen levels, heart rate, blood pressure. Chris moved in quickly, keeping up with Joyce and Chad, the other paramedic.
I watched them rush her off to Trauma One. Her tiny little hand hung limply off the side of the blood soaked gurney. Her delicate, once pink flesh was now gray in pallor from having lost so much blood. I stared at it the whole way down the hallway, the way it flopped lifelessly with each bump of the bed. Somewhere was an imprint of that little hand; on a Christmas ornament hung on the tree every year, a painting made in an art class with friends from class, each print forming a vibrant, multicolored butterfly wing, or forever molded into a Plaster of Paris wall plaque lovingly created for a Mother’s Day keepsake, all of which will take on a different meaning now. She was only eight years old, much too young to die.
He would be coming in the doors any minute now. I knew then what had to be done.