like. Although it’s Friday night, and I wouldn’t want to hold up your plans.”
Wayne’s gaze narrowed and she imagined he was already internally debating with himself. Was it more important she believe he had big plans on a Friday night or that she needed his dubious expertise for two simultaneous traumas?
Decisions, decisions. She fought a smile, especially when Luanne comically rolled her eyes from behind Wayne’s back. Neither one of them particularly cared for the guy.
Clearing her throat, she turned her attention to Luanne. “Any other patient-care issues I need to know about?”
“Nope.” Luanne shot a quick glance at Dr. Netter and belatedly Jillian realized Wayne might take her innocent remark as something derogatory. She stifled a sigh as Luanne hastened to assure her, “Everything’s fine. The hospital beds are still pretty full and we have a few patients waiting on discharges upstairs.”
“Great. I’ll head over to the trauma room, then.” Jillian walked away, feeling Wayne’s piercing gaze boring into her back. To make a bad situation worse, she’d also once turned down his offer to go out for dinner, and he’d been impossible to deal with ever since. He just couldn’t believe she wasn’t interested. Of course, he didn’t realize she hadn’t dated a lot of guys in her lifetime. At first because her mother had been ill and later because she just hadn’t found anyone interesting enough.
Wayne did not even come close to tempting her. When he didn’t follow, she figured he’d decided not to stick around after all.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she focused her attention on the ED nurses and techs scurrying around to prepare the rooms for the incoming traumas. Sirens wailed from the ambulance bay and in moments the double doors burst open, spewing chaos into the room.
“John Doe number one, approximately sixteen years old with a gunshot wound to the belly, normal saline running wide open through two anticubital peripheral lines.” A paramedic called out pertinent information as the patient was wheeled into the first trauma bay.
“John Doe number two, approximately the same age at sixteen, was shot in the chest. We intubated him in the field but his vitals are deteriorating rapidly. Fluids going wide open through two peripheral antecubital IVs.”
Of the two, the chest wound was by far the more serious and required immediate attention. Jillian raised her voice. “Call for a cardiovascular surgery consult, stat.”
“We already did, when the call about a gunshot wound to the chest first came in,” Bonnie, one of the trauma nurses, quickly explained. “They were finishing up in surgery and planned to send a surgeon down.”
“I don’t see anyone yet. Call them again,” Jillian ordered.
Another nurse picked up the phone to send a second page.
“Blood pressure barely 70 systolic and heart rate irregular and tachy at 120,” Bonnie called out. “Looks like he may be trying to go into a wide complex rhythm.”
Jillian wasn’t surprised to see one of the paramedics kneeling on the gurney beside the second victim, keeping pressure on the chest wound. As the nurses fell into their respective roles on each side of the gurney, she donned sterile gloves and moved closer to examine the severity of the wound.
“Thanks, I have it now.” She waved a hand, indicating he could let up on the wound. A flash of silver on a badge caught her eye and belatedly she realized the man holding pressure wasn’t a paramedic at all but a cop.
He released pressure and immediately blood pooled in the center of the young man’s chest. The cop slammed his hands back down, covering the gaping wound and leaning his weight over the area. “Dammit, he’s going to bleed to death before the surgeon gets here.”
Jillian couldn’t argue—the brief glimpse she’d had of the injury told her it was bad. She snapped out orders. “I want four units of O-negative blood running through both IVs for a total of eight units, using the rapid infuser. Get this kid’s blood pressure up before we lose him. I also want a portable suction unit here so I can examine this wound.”
Marianne, another nurse, wheeled over a suction unit. Grabbing a pack of sterile gauze off the instrument table, Jillian turned back to the patient. She glanced up at the cop, registering a flash of recognition as she met his intense dark green eyes. “Let up on the wound again and this time stay off.”
His expression grim, he nodded.
When he lifted his hands she shoved the sterile end of the suction catheter into the area to clear most of the blood. Using the gauze to soak up the remaining blood, she examined the wound.
“The bullet must have gone through the pericardial sac and injured his heart.” The injury to the boy’s chest was bad, but he had youth on his side. The young could survive a lot more than your average older adult. “Where’s the surgeon?”
“He’s on the way,” Bonnie responded.
“Blood pressure continuing to drop despite the blood transfusions,” Marianne informed her in a terse tone. “We’ll need to start CPR.”
“Give me another minute.” Jillian continued sucking the blood from the wound, and then carefully packed the area with gauze, hoping to buy the kid a little more time.
“Dr. Raymond from CT surgery is here.”
Finally.
“We lost his pressure!” Marianne cried.
No! Jillian stared at the monitor then glanced down at the boy. “Start CPR.”
The cop still kneeling on the gurney placed his hands over the center of the kid’s chest and began giving chest compressions. Blood continued to seep from the wound. She didn’t waste time telling him to get down—for one thing the strength of his compressions were better than most, and for another, if they didn’t fix the hole in this kid’s heart soon, their efforts would be futile anyway.
“A bullet punctured the pericardial sac and grazed his myocardium.” Jillian quickly gave the surgeon the details. “He’ll need to go to the OR.”
Todd Raymond shook his head as he glanced at the vital signs displayed on the heart monitor. “It’s no use. He won’t make it to the OR, he’s lost too much blood.”
Jillian couldn’t believe his caviler attitude. Was he really going to give up that easily? She held onto her temper with an effort. “Are you telling me you’re not even going to try?”
He shrugged. “What do you want me to do—open his chest here?”
“Get the chest tray, stat!” Jillian knew their efforts might be useless but this was a teenager, for heaven’s sake! Didn’t this child deserve every chance possible? “I’ll give him some sedation.”
When the tray was open and ready, the cop stopped giving compressions and jumped down from the gurney, knowing without being told that his assistance was no longer needed.
The alarm on the monitor overhead went off as the kid’s heart rhythm went straight line without the aid of CPR. Jillian wasn’t a surgeon but she didn’t flinch when Todd drew his scalpel down the center of the boy’s chest, meeting up with the open area left by the bullet.
“Hand
