John A. Doe

Last night was so exhilarating! Within the span of just under two hours, we got in 5 helicopters. I was on the helipad getting one when a co-worker ran up the four flights and told me to take that one down and he'd stay for the one that we could see just past the buildings. It was crazy! This particular patient was brought by PHI (who, by the way has the coolest helicopter ever...loads in the back, and they have their own stretcher), and we had to unload hot - that means no waiting for the blades to turn off, you just charge up there and duck! This guy was a level one. I always love it when we have to unload "hot", it's so cool. I only wish that the patient had been concious so he could experience the helicopter ride. But if you were awake, it very well might have been terrifying to be strapped to a cold, hard board, on your back, with a mask flooding your face with oxygen, not to mention you have a stiff plastic tube down your throat and someone, not you,is making your lungs grab the 02. And just imagine, you're pulled out of the bird, blades furisouly making rounds above you, you're swung around going feet first down a ramp, rushing to the elevator. Once at the first floor, you swing again into the hallway, and rush again -chooosh, chooosh - we're still breathing for you. We push you into the trauma bay, bed one, and if you thought all this before was crazy, nah, it's just beginning now. Before you're even moved to the bed, there's ten people staring down at you: pushing, pressing, and poking on you. There's a lady doctor at your head, checking placement of that tube that's letting you breathe. Another couple of doctors are pushing your stomach, checking for rigidity; shining lights in your eyes to see if your pupils say hello; pressing all the way down your spine to check for deformity; moving a chilly stethoscope all over your chest, checking to hear S1 and S2, breath sounds bilateral and clear. Meanwhile, I'm here putting stickers on your chest, connected to wires that will give us a picture of what your heart's doing. I'm squeezing your arm and listening for your pulse to find a blood pressure - not good, it was hard to find - it's 42 systolic. Then I grab your right arm and pull it straight, looking for a good vein. Ah, there it is, in your a.c. If you were awake, and sometimes anyway, I'd tell you, "ok, you're gonna feel a big poke, one..two...three" and on three a large bore needle sinks into your vein; yep there's a flash, now I'll take 7 tubes and watch your blood gush into each one of them. Oh! it's been 5 minutes, time to head out. You're connected to the Level one, rapid infuser, which we have to drag behind us through the hall. We make a procession, like a staunch parade, you leading the way, trauma team marching behind. Pretty soon, you're on the operating table, and a whole different crew is taking up the fight for your life. I see you through the small door window - I hope you make it. Pushing the bed in front of me, headed back to the ER, I think about you and wonder about your family, wonder about what you were doing before this, wonder if you'll open your eyes again. To us, you had no name, so we gave you one: The infamous John A. Doe. Somehow the middle initial softens the edges, lending a sliver of personality to the generic, "we don't know who you are" name. Elevator doors open again, and again I'm back in my home and look, there's another person in three who needs attention. Roll tape.