was a typical Saturday night. Maybe he should have trained as an ob-gyn, Ethan thought as he continued to assess the patient. Then he would have been there for the high point of people’s lives instead of the low. He would have facilitated birth, instead of fighting to prevent death. He could have celebrated with patients. Instead his Saturday night was invariably spent surrounded by people at crisis point. The victims of traffic accidents, gunshot victims, stabbings, drug addicts looking for a fix—the list was endless and varied.
And the truth was he loved it.
He loved variety and challenge. As a Level 1 Trauma Unit, they had both in copious amounts.
They stabilized the patient sufficiently to send him for a CT scan. Ethan knew that until they had the results of that scan, they wouldn’t be able to assess the extent of his head injury.
He also knew that it was difficult to predict what the scan would show. He’d had patients with minimal visible damage who turned out to have massive internal bleeding and others, like this man as it later turned out, who had a surprisingly minor internal bleed.
He paged the neurosurgeons and spoke to the man’s girlfriend, who had arrived in a panic, wearing a coat over her pajamas and terror in her eyes. In the emergency room everything was concentrated and intense, including emotions. He’d seen big guys who prided themselves on being tough, break down and sob like a child. He’d seen people pray when they didn’t believe in God.
He’d seen it all.
“Is he going to die?”
He handled the same question several times a day, and he was rarely in a position to give a definitive answer. “He is in good hands. We’ll be able to give you more information when we see the results of the scan.” He was kind and calm, reassuring her that whatever could be done was being done. He knew how important it was to know that the person you loved was receiving the very best care, so he took time to explain what was happening and to suggest she call someone to come and be with her.
When the man was finally handed over to the neurosurgical team, Ethan ripped off his gloves and washed his hands. He probably wouldn’t see the patient again. The man was gone from his life, and he’d probably never know about the part Ethan had played in keeping him alive.
Later, he might check on his progress but more often than not he was too busy focusing on the next priority to come through the door to think about those been and gone.
Susan, his colleague, nudged him out of the way and stripped off her gloves too. “That was exciting. Are you ever tempted to take a job in primary care? You could live in a cute small town where you’re caring for three generations of the same family. Grandma, Grandpa, parents and a big bunch of grandkids. You’d spend your day telling them to give up smoking and lose weight. Probably never see a drop of blood.”
“It was what my father did.” And Ethan had never wanted that. His choices were the focus of lively arguments whenever he was home. His grandfather kept telling him he was missing out by not following a family through from birth to death. Ethan argued that he was the one who kept them alive so that they could go back to their families.
“All these months we’ve worked together and I never knew that about you.” Susan scrubbed her hands. “So you come from two generations of doctors?”
They’d worked together for over a year but almost all their conversation had been about the present. The ER was like that. You lived in the moment in every sense.
“Three generations. My father and grandfather both worked in primary care. They had a practice in upstate New York.” He’d sat, five years old, in the waiting room watching as a steady stream of people trooped through the door to speak to his dad. There had been times when he’d wondered if the only way to see his father was to get sick.
“And your mother?”
“She’s a pediatrician.”
“Jeez, Black, I had no idea. So it’s in the DNA.” Susan yanked a paper towel from the dispenser so vigorously she almost removed it from the wall. “Well, that explains it.”
“That explains what?”
“Why you always act like you have something to prove.”
Ethan frowned. Was that true? No. It certainly wasn’t true. “I don’t have anything to prove.”
“You’ve got a lot to live up to.” She gave him a sympathetic look. “Why didn’t you join them? Doctors Black, Black and Black. That’s one hell of a lot of Black right there. Don’t tell me, you just love the warm fuzzy feelings that come from working in the emergency room.” Through the door they heard the woman yell fuck you and exchanged a wry smile. “All those cute patients enveloping you with endless love and gratitude—”
“Gratitude? Wait—I think that did happen to me once, a couple of years ago. Give me a moment while I cast my mind back.”
He didn’t feel as if he had to live up to anything.
Susan was wrong about that. He walked his own path, for his own reasons.
“You must have been hallucinating. Lack of sleep does that for you. So if the rare dose of gratitude isn’t what does it, it must be the patients who curse you, throw up on your boots and tell you you’re the worst doctor that ever graced god’s earth and that they’re going to sue the hell out of you. That works for you?”
The humor got them through days that were fraught with tension.
It sustained them through the darker shifts, through witnessing trauma that would leave the average man on the street in need of therapy.
Everyone in the trauma team found their own way of dealing with it.
They knew, as most people didn’t, that a life could change in an instant. That there was no such thing as a secure future.
“I love that side of it. And then there’s the constant buzz of working with adoring, respectful colleagues like you.”
“You want adoring? Pick a different woman.”
“I wish I could.”
Susan patted his arm. “In fact I do adore you. Not because you’re cute and built, although you are, but because you know what you’re doing and around here competence is as close as it gets to an aphrodisiac. And maybe that’s driven by a desire to be better than your daddy or your granddaddy, but I love it all the same.”
He shot her an incredulous look. “Are you hitting on me?”
“Hey, I want to be with a man who is good with his hands and who knows what he’s doing. What’s wrong with that?” Her eyes twinkled and he knew she was winding him up.
“We are still talking about work?”
“Sure. What else? I’m married to my job, same as you. I promised myself to the ER in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer and I can tell you that living in New York City the emphasis is definitely on poorer. But don’t worry—I wouldn’t be able to stay awake long enough to have sex with you. When I leave this place I fall unconscious the moment I arrive home and I’m not waking up for anyone. Not even you, blue eyes. So if you’re not here for the love and positive feedback,
