A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” — Thomas Mann —
September 30th (Tuesday)
It was just one of those days at the Emergency Department of North Shore Memorial. Our hands were full with trauma victims from a hit-and-run. No eyewitness but we had two critical patients awaiting transport to a better facility with neurosurgical capabilities. The department was swamped with relatives of both the victims. The police were there too. Air transport was required for transfer and with both patients strapped in, we proceeded to the rooftop for extraction.
I told my colleague to take his lunch break while I return to deal with the remainder of the patients. None of them had anything serious that would warrant a further stay at the hospital, so I prescribed the necessary medications and sent them packing. I was looking forward to my lunch break when it happened.
The emergency doors opened up to admit, on first glance, what looked like an archery incident gone bad. The boy was bleeding from a puncture wound made by an arrow, which was now protruding from his abdomen. He was going into shock and I paged the resident surgeon before inserting an IV line. Luckily his vitals were stable and a quick ultrasound showed presence of free fluid in the abdominal cavity but it was not as bad as it was initially presumed. He was started on intravenous fluids and morphine was prescribed for his pain.
I turned towards the lady whom I assumed to be his teacher, as her emerald-green eyes caught my attention. She was actually starring at me, with the sort of dissecting look, usually associated with a detective from the CSI series, that I used to watch with the ex. Her black hair was cut short and hung straight down from her shoulders. Her eyebrows were as thick and as straight as her hair, giving off a nonchalant look, despite what was happening to her student. The sharp features of her face were merely a reflection of her entire body structure, toned muscles standing out on her lanky frame. My guess at that time was that she’s an athlete, probably the school’s PE teacher.
I was not wrong. She introduced herself as Ms Penn of Westlake Middle School, my former school and the unfortunate boy was her student. She wasn’t sure what had happened but someone had accidentally shot poor Billy, currently lying on the emergency bed right now, being looked over by the resident surgeon.
Billy’s parents duly arrived and she went off in their direction. She was reassuring the boy’s parents. Beneath that cool and unapproachable exterior, lies a soft spot. The surgeon took the parents consent and Billy was wheeled towards the Operating Theatre.
Thinking back, she does look like this one particular actress from the popular Game of Thrones series.
My, my. Jack Corrigan. Barely a few days have passed when your ex dumped you and now you are already thinking about someone else. No wonder your mother labeled you as a borderline narcissist.
I totally disagree with that. I had a few words with Ms Penn, I don’t even know her first name. There are so many blanks to fill up, I doubt she will ever return to North Shore Memorial, she doesn’t look like someone who would get sick quite often.
The last paragraph sounded a bit crazy, talking to myself with the help of the journal. What am I doing here? Am I becoming crazy?