Page 59 of Scout
The second patient is a woman in her late thirties, unconscious, with visible head trauma and multiple contusions.
“Female, thirty-seven. Unrestrained driver. Obvious head trauma. Suspected cervical fracture. Airway lost en route. No pulse!” the paramedic shouts, straddling her on the gurney, performing CPR as they roll her into Trauma Three.
Two officers follow close behind, grim-faced and silent.
“She lost her airway on the road,” he adds, breathless. “We bagged her, then lost pulse two minutes out.”
“Get the intubation kit ready,” I snap, already moving toward the head of the bed.
We slide the board across as the nurse steps in to take over compressions. The paramedic jumps down, sweat dripping from his forehead. The room shifts around us in a practiced storm.
Her shirt is cut open, exposing bruised ribs and blood pooling beneath her skin. She’s unresponsive, eyes glassy, head lolled to one side.
The med student on call tonight hesitates, then steps in at my nod.
“I’ve got the tube,” she says, voice shaking but hands steady. She inserts the laryngoscope, then the tube. “Tube’s in.”
“Confirm placement,” I say. The monitor blips, but there's no sign of exhaled breath—no CO2, nothing. That means the tube’s in, but her heart’s not circulating anything. No pulse. No movement. Nothing.
“Still no rhythm,” someone calls.
“Get the paddles,” I say, already moving toward the defibrillator. They're handed to me fast.
“Charge to two hundred. Clear.”
Her body jumps on the table.
“Still flat,” the nurse says quietly.
Then the smell hits.
“Jesus,” someone mutters. It’s unmistakable now; alcohol, sharp and sour, bleeding off her skin.
From behind the glass, one of the officers knocks and calls through, “We need a blood alcohol on the driver!”
I stare at the monitor, then back at her broken body.
“Son of a bitch,” I whisper. “She was drunk?”
We charge again.
“Clear.”
Could’ve killed her kid over a damn bottle. The thought hits me hard—a gut punch that steals the air from my lungs. I glanceat the girl in the next room. She trusted her mother. And this? This is what she got in return.
I clamp down on the rage, shove it beneath the clinical calm I’m supposed to wear as armor. But it rattles inside me, sharp and relentless. If we lose this woman—and God, we’re close—I don’t know if I’ll feel angry… or relieved.
Still, we keep going. Because that’s the job.
The defibrillator beeps, charging again.
The monitor blips… but still no sign of life. No electrical activity. No pulse.
She’s not coming back.
And all I can think is: this was avoidable. This was selfish. This was drinking and driving with your kid in the car and thinking the rules didn’t apply to you.
And now? They do.
