Page 25 of No Greater Love
Even I could admit that said something about how much he cared.
Hell, he might just stand a chance after all.
eight
tasha
Some daysyou were juston. Today was one of those days.
First, there was the HVAC tech in Room 2, writhing in agony with what looked like the worst case of conjunctivitis I'd ever seen. Three residents had already been in there, throwing around words like "chemical burn" and "industrial accident," when I asked the simple question: "What exactly were you working on when this started?"
"Just routine maintenance," he'd said through gritted teeth. "Checking the sterilization units in the hospital's ventilation system."
Bingo. "Did you look directly at any of the UV lights?"
The sheepish pause told me everything I needed to know. UV keratitis—essentially a sunburn on his corneas from ultraviolet exposure. Not rocket science, but apparently none of the doctors had thought to ask about UV exposure when dealing with an HVAC tech complaining of severe eye pain.
Twenty minutes later, Dr. Lee was writing him a prescription for eye drops and strict instructions about eye protection, looking slightly annoyed that a Fast Track nurse had solved what the residents had been puzzling over.
Then came Mrs. Henderson, sweet sixty-eight-year-old grandmother who needed an MRI for her knee pain. The night shift nurse had already cleared her through the screening—no pacemaker, no surgical implants, all good to go.
Except I actually read the screening form.
"Mrs. Henderson," I said carefully, "the form asks aboutanymetal piercings. Are you sure you don't have any?"
She blushed adorably. "Well, I do have one, but it's in a... very unusual place. Would that matter?"
I kept my expression perfectly professional. "If it's anywhere that would be painful as hell when the MRI kicks on, then yes, it absolutely matters.” Absolutelynojudgment from me! If Grandma wants to have fun, Grandma can have fun! “That's exactly why we do the complete screening on everyone."
Crisis averted. The MRI tech thanked me profusely when I called to update the orders. Apparently, discovering a clitoral hood piercingafterthe machine was running would have been, ahh...problematic.
I was feeling pretty good about my clinical decision-making when EMS rolled in with what should have been a straightforward finger injury.
The kid—and he really was just a kid, early twenties at most—was practically hyperventilating on the stretcher, cradling his left hand like it might fall off. His index finger was swollen and obviously painful, but from what I could see, it wasn't mangled or deformed.
"Got it slammed in a heavy door about an hour ago," the EMT reported to Sophia, freshly returned from her globetrotting adventures and thrown right back into the crucible of the ER. "Significant pain, some swelling. We splinted it."
Sophia glanced at the board, which was already packed. "Send him to triage. We'll get him worked up when?—"
"Wait," I interrupted, watching the kid's face. He'd gone pale at the word "triage," probably imagining another hour of waiting with a throbbing finger. "What exactly did you tell him about the injury?"
The EMT, a young volunteer who looked like he was maybe nineteen himself, shifted uncomfortably. "Well, you know, with that kind of trauma to the finger, there's always a chance it might need amputation if there's significant damage to the?—"
"Amputation?" I stared at him. "You told a kid with a slammed finger that he might need amputation?"
"I mean, it's always a possibility with crush injuries?—"
I looked at the kid's finger again. Swollen, yes. Bruised, definitely. But the nail bed looked intact, there was no obvious laceration, and he had full range of motion despite the pain.
"Sophia," I said, making a decision, "just send him to Fast Track. I think I can take one more."
She raised an eyebrow but nodded. "Your call."
Twenty minutes later, I had the kid comfortable with an ice pack and pain medication, his x-ray ordered, and his anxiety significantly reduced after I'd explained that his finger was almost certainly just bruised, not dangling by a thread.
"So I'm not going to lose it?" he asked for the third time.
"Not unless you're planning to stick it in a blender," I said dryly. "You'll be sore for a week or two, but all your digits should remain attached."
