Page 80 of Doctor Hot Mess

“Got it,” Carly says, already moving ahead to clear a path.

As we wheel the patient into the bay, the air feels electric with urgency. The paramedic’s voice echoes in my ears: blunt abdominal trauma, BP dropping despite fluids. My mind’s already running through possibilities as the trauma team moves like clockwork around me.

“FAST scan, now,” I say again, my tone sharp but calm. “Carly, start a second IV line. Hang O-neg. And let’s get the OR prepped—this one’s not waiting.”

The ultrasound machine is rolled in within moments, and I watch as the probe glides over the patient’s distended abdomen. My entire body tingles at the sight of black on the screen—free fluid pooling where it shouldn’t be.

“Grade III liver laceration, most likely,” I say aloud. “He’s bleeding out fast.”

“We’ve got a room ready,” Carly says, already two steps ahead.

I nod. “Dr. Hankel on his way?”

“Just paged. ETA five minutes.”

“Good. Let’s move. Carly, I want a massive transfusion protocol in place before we start. Get those labs drawn—type and crossmatch. And someone get his family on the line.”

As we transfer the patient to the OR gurney, I glance at the monitor. His BP is still tanking, but he’s hanging on. Barely.

“Hang in there,” I murmur under my breath, more to myself than to him. This is what I do. Keep it together. Solve the problem. Save the life.

The scan confirms my suspicion: there’s a Grade III liver laceration.

Carly glances at me. “You good, Bellinger? This guy’s circling the drain.”

I nod, already scrubbing in. “We’re good. Let’s move.”

The surgery goes smoothly—a testament to the well-oiled machine that is our trauma team. By the time we’re closing, the patient’s vitals are stabilizing, and I feel the familiar hum of satisfaction that comes from saving a life.

But as I step out of the OR and strip off my gloves, the needle stick from earlier in the week creeps into my thoughts. It’s been gnawing at me since it happened, like a splinter I can’t remove.

The results came back fine—no HIV, no hepatitis—but it was a stark reminder that I’m not invincible. One careless moment, one lapse in focus, and everything could come crashing down.

“Dr. Bellinger,” a nurse interrupts my spiral. “They need you back in the ER. Multiple criticals from the pileup still incoming.”

I nod, pushing the thoughts aside. There’s no time to dwell. Not here.

Back in the ER, a young woman is being wheeled in on a stretcher. Her face is bloody, and one arm is twisted at an unnatural angle. The paramedic rattles off her injuries: “Female, mid-twenties, unrestrained passenger. Open femur fracture, significant blood loss. BP’s holding for now, but barely.”

I make a quick assessment. “Let’s stabilize that leg and get X-rays. Start two large-bore IVs and hang B-positive. We’ll need an OR open as soon as she’s ready.”

Another stretcher comes in behind her—an older man clutching his chest, his face gray. My mind shifts gears, triaging in real time.

Hours after arriving for a single call that should have taken three hours, the ER finally begins to calm. The most critical patients are either stabilized or in surgery. I grab a bottle of water and lean against the wall near the breakroom. My body aches from the day’s demands.

What I had imagined to be a lazy Sunday has quickly transformed into an all-hands-on-deck day. I look at my watch. I know I still have miles to go before I can check out. I will make rounds on everyone I saw come through me.

Carly walks by, tossing her gloves into the biohazard bin. “You look like hell,” she says, not unkindly.

“Feel like it too,” I admit, taking a swig of water.

Her gaze sharpens. “You heard back about your labs, right?”

I nod, surprised by the shift in topic. “Yeah. Everything came back clear.”

She lets out a breath. “Good. You’ve been off lately, and it’s not like you.”

“I’m fine,” I say, more sharply than I intend. But her words linger. She’s not wrong—about the labs, about me. That stick wasn’t just a scare; it was a wake-up call.

---