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Kate
Drake called me on Thursday to let me know he would be late due to a practice with the band so I knew I wouldn’t see him until really late. I decided to walk down to a deli close to Central Park, grab a sandwich and something to drink, and sit in the park. I loved watching the sun set, the long orange-red sunbeams falling between the buildings surrounding the park, glinting on the windows.
I checked my watch and saw that it was close to five o’clock. I finished my sandwich and threw the wrapper into a trash can. When I went to cross the street, I saw my trusty security detail parked a few cars down the block. Its lights flashed on as the black SUV pulled out of the spot so he could trail me as I walked along the street. I told him I didn’t want a ride, because I needed the fresh air and so he followed me down the street, keeping a few car lengths behind.
I decided to take a more circuitous route back to the apartment, so I could walk along Central Park, so I stepped off the curb and heard the screech of tires…
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Drake
My world came crashing down when my pager went off while I was on my way from my office to the cafeteria to grab a sandwich for supper.
I assumed it was one of my residents, reminding me about getting off early for drinks and food, but I had already told them I had a practice and was staying over the supper hour to wrap things up before I left for the night.
I checked my message. It was from John, Kate’s bodyguard.
If you’re at NYU, get to the ER right away. Kate’s on her way there in an ambulance. She was involved in a hit and run when crossing the street. I told them to take her to NYU where you are. I tried to call you but your cell went to voice mail.
I ran to the ER, my heart pounding almost out of my chest, a constriction in my throat.
When I arrived, I spoke to the nursing staff, who informed me that Kate was being brought in and would arrive any minute. I stood by the ambulance bay waiting, taking in deep breaths trying to calm myself, running everything I’d learned about trauma to pregnant women in my time working the ER. The last thing Kate would need would be me panicking, but in those minutes while I waited, my heart racing, adrenaline pumping, I couldn’t help it.
Kate, oh, Kate… Katie… My hands were shaking and I felt close to tears.
I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. The minutes seemed to stretch interminably, as I ran down a checklist of what to do. Finally, her ambulance drove up and I ran to meet it. The doors opened and I saw her on the stretcher, an oxygen mask covering her face.
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I introduced myself. “I’m Dr. Morgan, her husband. What have you got?”
“She was struck in a pedestrian crosswalk and has a head injury and vaginal bleeding. How far along is she?”
“Twenty-nine weeks,” I said, thinking about the odds of the baby surviving if they had to deliver her now. From memory, I thought she had a pretty good chance of surviving if they had to do a crash C-Section but that would depend on how much blood Kate lost.
The EMTs brought her in on a stretcher, rolling her in with grim faces. She was on a backboard, was wearing a cervical collar, had an oxygen mask on and they had already started an IV and were giving her Ringer’s.
I took Kate’s hand as they wheeled her into the trauma bay. Already, nurses and ER docs were waiting for her, and I knew I had to step back and let them take over. I let go of her hand with reluctance, but had to trust that they were the most capable of dealing with her. One of the nurses came to me and put her hand on my shoulder.
“Dr. Morgan, I’ve contacted Dr. McAllister. She’s on her way but she was just finished in the OR and so she won’t be able to scrub in but can consult, if she’s needed.”
I nodded and watched while the EMTs transferred her care to the ER staff, letting them know her vitals and the specifics of her case. I listened as I stood in the entrance to the trauma bay, my chest tight, my throat choked, hands still shaking.
The good news was that both patients were still alive. The bad news was that Kate’s pulse was high and thready, indicating loss of blood. Her heart was pumping fast to try to keep her body oxygenated. They’d given her Ringer’s to replace blood volume. She was unconscious but her pupils were responsive, indicating that she wasn’t brain dead. They checked for the baby’s pulse and it was strong, but showing occasional decelerations, which could either be premature labour induced by the trauma or an abruption – the separation of the placenta from the uterus. If that was the case, they had only minutes to deliver Sophia before she would be affected by lack of oxygen.
I watched helplessly while they wheeled in a portable ultrasound machine and imaged her uterus while the nurses cut off her clothes in preparation for surgery. They’d deliver her if the ultrasound showed that she had an abruption or internal bleeding.
I tried to see the ultrasound monitor but couldn’t over the staff crowed around Kate, working on her.
“She’s abrupted,” the ER doc said and nodded to the others. “Let’s get her in the OR stat.”
Then, in a matter of mere moments, Kate was rushed to the closest OR and that was it.
“I want to scrub in,” I said, my voice shaky.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Morgan,” the circulating nurse said when I stood outside the OR. “You know better than that. Wait here,” she said. “They’ll do their best to save them both. What is your wife’s blood type?”
“A-positive,” I said, straining to see Kate over her shoulder. “Save her,” I said, my voice finally breaking. “If it comes to a choice, save my wife.”
