"Heated blankets, bear hugger, pulse ox and cardiac monitors. Temperature probe on the ear," she told the nurse and tech at her elbow.
The nursing staff jumped in to carefully remove Jerrell’s robe and hose him off again with the normal saline. The last thing they needed was an ignition of gasoline vapor.
And he did smell terrible. Small wonder a paramedic had been concerned about what would happen if they tried to shock him.
“Hey, Jerrell we're just going to give you a bath, you okay?” Lillian said.
“I want my mom,” he said.
“I'm sure someone will be bringing her,” Lillian reassured him.
The portable chest x-ray rolled in, so Lillian stepped out into the hallway and into the next level of drama.
The third ambulance had arrived, and she now knew why Dr Gupta had appeared so upset.
The third patient was her husband Dr. Jacob Carver.
Three years ago, he’d performed a C-section in the back of an ambulance on another ER doctor. Lillian had been the intern tasked with saving the babies. Only the girl, Jenna, had survived.
Mariana ducked into Trauma 1 and retrieved Ryan Yates because Gupta-Carver was in no condition to give any orders based on the blank expression on her face.
Carver moaned, partially conscious, through his oxygen mask, “The twins. Did I save the twins?”
Yates understood immediately when he exited. “Hernandez, my kids in a good spot with my residents. Can you hold the fort until PICU arrives?”
“Sure.” Lillian moved toward the door of Trauma 1.
“The twins.” Carver waved his arms “I told Jessica I would save them.”
Dr. Jessica Steadman had been the pregnant ER doctor—married to plastic surgeon Daniel Steadman. She’d been thankful for her survival. Daniel had never forgiven anyone involved, Lillian included.
“He climbed in a gas tank. Without oxygen,” Dr Gupta Carver said tonelessly.
“I had to. Someone had to!” Carver thrashed on the gurney. The paramedic ignored him, keeping a firm grip on the gurney to navigate the bed to Trauma 3.
Yates’s next orders were to the desk clerk. “Get me Pulmonary Critical Care and Cardiology. Call in our backup attending.”
The desk clerk grabbed for the computer to start the requested calls, and Lillian went in to find the other kid.
The resiliency of children always amazed her. Carver was in bad shape, but these two children, exposed for far longer, were a thousand times better. They were breathing easily and their heart rates were strong and steady without any visible arrhythmia.
Their x-rays were more concerning with diffuse infiltrates.
The main resident in charge of Ray asked, “More orders.”
“IV’s and normal saline at a rate of 100/ml/kg per day. No boluses. They’re spending the night in the PICU.”
“Why? Their O2 sats are good.”
“They’re talking right now.” She pointed to the fluffy white splotch in the lower right lung. “They have early x-ray changes. Things are going to get worse over the next few hours. I’ll check on PICU.”
She exited to see the glass doors of Trauma 3 firmly shut as a new gurney rolled into the hallway.
This one had an annoyed Black woman and less-annoyed large Black man not on oxygen.
The paramedic in charge of them, Lillian recognized as Kyra Washington, a former NICU nurse.
Actually, she had been Lillian’s right hand at the doomed delivery and had quit a couple months later. So why was she a paramedic now? Then again, it seemed everyone had their own dysfunctional coping method.
