Page 52 of Stone Vows

It’s a death sentence.

“What’s her name?” Neill asks.

“I think it’s Rosita,” the EMT says.

Neill looks at the commotion behind us as more critical cases are being wheeled into the ER. People are starting to arrive to look for loved ones. Many are crying, some screaming, patients are yelling out in pain, hospital staff are scrambling about. It’s a scene from a war zone.

He looks at our patient and then at me. “Dr. Stone, Rosita is your patient now.” He pulls me to the side. “I need to be out there helping those who might survive. There is nothing we can do but make her comfortable. Start her on oxygen. Give her morphine and cover the burns with towels soaked in saline. Debridement of the wounds would just cause her unnecessary pain, and an IV would simply lead to more swelling. It’s possible you’ll have to perform a fasciotomy, but we’ll play that by ear. Keep her warm—she’ll feel chilled. And contact family if you can.”

I nod. “Yes, sir.”

He takes Nelson and Jameson with him. Probably to find the next dying victim to assign them to. He closes the door behind him, closing us off from the mayhem beyond.

Rosita is crying, rattling off words in Spanish that I fail to understand.

“Do you speak English, Rosita?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been badly burned, but we need to see if you have other injuries. Can you tell me where it hurts?”

“Here,” she says, putting her hand over her lower right-side ribs where a large bruise is forming.

“I’ll give you something for the pain. Is there anyone we can call?”

“Sí, my husband, Raul,” she says in a heavy accent muffled by the oxygen mask I put on her. Her voice is hoarse as her throat is most likely swelling from smoke inhalation.

I write down the number she gives me and hand it to the nurse who comes in.

We get busy cutting off what clothing we can so we can get Rosita into a gown. Then I give her morphine to take the edge off her pain.

“See if we can get an ultrasound machine,” I ask Sandra. “And call her husband, please.”

I remove the mask and look down Rosita’s throat. It’s bad, but not bad enough to intubate her yet. She needs to be able to speak to her husband. Once she gets intubated, that’s it, there’s no going back.

I make her as comfortable as I can. She looks down at her burned arm. Then her good arm comes across her body to feel the horribly disfigured left side of her head.

She gasps. “¡Dios mío!” She grabs my hand and looks at me. “How much is burned?”

“Don’t worry about that, Rosita. Let us take care of you.”

She squeezes my hand. “How much, doctor?”

I blow out a deep sigh, trying to keep the awful truth out of my eyes. “Over seventy percent.”

She nods, failing to fight back her tears. “I don’t have much time, especially if my liver is damaged.”

I stare at her, confused. She was working in a garment factory. “Are you a doctor?”

“I was a nurse,” she says, taking a big breath that I know is hard for her. She removes her mask so she can speak more clearly. “Fifteen years ago in Guadalajara, before we came to America. But Raul wanted our child to be born here.” She covers her mouth to muffle her cries. “¡Oh, mi hijo! Julio will be devastated. He is so young.”

I sit with Rosita as she breaks down and comes to terms with what is happening to her. I don’t tell her it will be okay, because she knows it won’t be. I just hold her hand and let her go through all of the emotions.

Sandra finally comes back with the ultrasound machine. “You have to be quick. They need it elsewhere.”

It doesn’t take me long to confirm Rosita’s self-diagnosis. She has a substantial laceration on her liver. She’s right. She doesn’t have much time.

“And her family?” I ask Sandra.

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