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Deb held her fingers to the teen’s neck. “No pulse."
“Resuming compressions,” Josh said, placing the heels of his hands in the proper position and working even harder. “He’s coming back. He’s gonna come back.”
“What are you doing, Josh?” Dr. Rosenberg asked. “It’s a GSW to the head.”
“It’s Christmas!” Josh snapped, panting. “He’s a fucking kid, and his mom’s waiting on us to come tell her he’s going to be okay!”
“Fine, one more,” the doctor said, pointing to me. “Epinephrine.”
I flicked the preloaded syringe twice and then stabbed the IV port with the needle, administering one milligram of epinephrine.
Josh continued compressions for three more minutes, and then Deb checked for pulse and rhythm.
Deb’s brows pulled together. “Asystole, Doctor.”
Josh leaned over the boy again, positioning his hands. “Resuming compressions.”
“Enough, Josh,” Dr. Rosenberg ordered.
The staff’s eyes bounced between Josh and the doctor.
Dr. Rosenberg yanked off his gloves. “Time of death, one twenty-two a.m.”
Josh’s jaws twitched under his skin. He’d heard the doctor, but ignored him and continued compressions.
I glanced at Dr. Rosenberg, worrying that if he felt like he’d lost control of his ER, Josh would lose his job.
I reached out and touched Josh’s arm, leaving a bloody handprint on his skin. “Josh, he’s gone. Enough.”
Josh leaned back on his knees, winded. Sweat poured from his hairline. He used his forearm to wipe his brow, smearing dark blood across his skin.
We all looked at the monitor, hoping for a miracle. Nothing but a flat line streamed across the monitor.
“Goddamn it! Stupid fucking kid!” Josh yelled.
“Josh,” I said, standing with my arms out to my side, my scrubs covered in blood.
Josh kicked the tray table, knocking it over, his eyes wild.
Everyone but me backed away. “Avery! Out!” I yelled.
Josh shouldered his way out of the room as the rest of the staff stood around the boy, just fourteen.
The X-ray tech backed out of the room with her portable machine, and the respiratory therapist followed. Deb printed out a final rhythm strip showing the flat line, and one by one, staff members removed tubes and began cleaning up the mess.
“I’ll go speak with the family,” Dr. Rosenberg said.
“Doctor,” I said, stopping him. “Might want to change first.”
He looked down, noted the mess on his coat, and then nodded.
“I’ll finish up,” Deb said.
I pulled off my shoe covers and gloves and nodded to her, wiping my face with the back of my wrist. I walked out of the room, down the hall, and turned the corner, looking for Josh. He was sitting on the break room floor, his back against the wall.
I knelt in front of him. “You can’t do that.”
“I know,” he growled.
“Look at me,” I said. His head snapped up. “You can’t pull that in my ER, understand?”
His shoulders fell and he looked away, nodding. His jaw shifted to the side. “I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s … it’s fucking Christmas. He blew his brains all over the Christmas tree with his mom’s new pistol.”
“I know,” I said, wishing I could say something more comforting, but there was nothing rational about what had happened to that child.
He wiped his wet cheek and sucked in a breath, his face crumbling. “I feel like a fucking pussy.”
“It’s okay. Everyone deals differently.”
“Baby,” he said, reaching out to wipe my face.
I leaned away from him. “I’ve got it. I’m going to get cleaned up. Make sure you debrief at the station.”
I stood, looking down at the large crimson splotches on my scrubs.
“Yeah?” I confirmed.
He nodded again, indignant. “Yeah, yeah, all right.”
“See you at home.”
Josh’s bottom lip trembled for a moment, and then he sniffed, stood, and shook it off.
We all had our reasons for doing this kind of work. Josh’s compassion ran deeper than even he knew. He didn’t do it for the money or the glory. We had shitty hours and even shittier pay, but at the end of the day, Josh could go to bed knowing he had helped someone, and for him, there were few things more important than that.
The women’s locker room was decorated in cheap red and green decorations. Most of the lockers bore pictures of the nurses’ children or nieces and nephews. Mine was empty but for one black and white photo of Josh and me at Quinn’s mom’s house on Thanksgiving. I walked past the lockers and into the bathroom, pulling my scrub top over my head and tossing it into the red biohazard box.
In the mirror, I noticed dark spatters and smears on my face, and the blood that had bled through to my sports bra.
My eyes stared back at me, dull green with dark circles underneath. Pieces of blonde hair had fallen from my ponytail. The rest of the staff was a mess, too. We had all worked hard the last hour to save that boy, but sometimes, no matter what we did, we couldn’t fix everyone. Not even Josh.
I pulled off my scrub bottoms and then turned on the faucet, watching the sink turn red while I washed my face and arms. I dried off, feeling the weight of disappointment and heartbreak, knowing not even a fraction of what I was feeling could be compared to the loss felt by the boy’s mother.
I gripped the sink, choking out a cry. After that first sob, my entire body shook, and I gave myself five minutes to grieve for the boy I never knew. My watch counted down the minutes, and then I washed my face again and dressed in fresh scrubs, ready to do my best to help the next person in need.
