Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 37197 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37197 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
I collapse beneath the weight and then my world goes black.
2
HARLOW
“Get ready. We’ve got wounded coming into the ER,” Marcy says.
“How many?”
“At least twelve,” Marcy replies. “And one firefighter.”
The adrenaline surges through my veins as I rush around the ER, following Marcy Peters step for step as we prepare for the flood of bodies coming through the doors any minute. As a nursing student, I’ve been shadowing Marcy in the ER for about a month now. Every night is different, and very few of them haven’t had moments of pulse-pounding exhilaration. There’s always a rush of activity and something exciting going on, and there are always lives hanging in the balance.
A lot of RNs opt to go into lower-stress departments where there isn’t so much at stake on a nightly basis. I can see why and don’t blame them for it. Maybe it’s morbid, or perhaps masochistic, but I have to admit, the rush I get from the flurry of frantic activity with literal life-and-death consequences while doing my rotation in the ER is unlike anything I’ve felt before. More than that, it’s addictive.
I’ve never considered myself to be a thrill seeker or an adrenaline junkie, and some might object to my characterization of ER shifts that way, but there is no other way I can describe them. There might not be much going on for the first couple of hours, but when those doors bang open and paramedics wheel somebody in and the action starts, it’s an adrenaline-fueled buzz to save their life. It’s electrifying in ways I’ve never felt before. And, for lack of a better word, that kind of excitement is absolutely compelling.
My head is buzzing so loudly that I don’t even hear the ambulances roll into the bay and almost jump out of my skin when the doors crash open and the EMTs start rolling our victims into the ER.
“Stay on my hip and get ready to do what I tell you to do,” Marcy tells me.
“I’m ready.”
As gurneys start filling the department floor, Marcy takes charge and starts barking orders to the nurses standing by. The movements are fast but efficient and well-ordered. The doctors, nurses, and staff whirl around the ER department floor like they’re running through a well-choreographed dance. And all the while, I stay on Marcy’s hip, handling anything she tells me to handle, and helping where I’m able. She seems pleased with my efforts.
With the victims of the structure fire being well cared for, Marcy turns just as the doors from the ambulance bay crash open again. The EMTs roll in another gurney, and when I see who’s strapped to it, my mouth grows dry and my heart stops dead in my chest. As they roll the patient over to us, I stand rooted to my spot, unable to move. Unable to think. Barely able to even breathe.
“Harlow!”
Marcy’s voice snaps me out of my paralysis, and I look at her, my head swimming. “Sorry.”
“Are you okay?” Marcy presses.
“I’m fine.”
“If you’re not, tell me now. I need somebody who’s here with me.”
“I’m here, Marcy. I’m good. I promise.”
Her gaze lingers on me for a moment, her face skeptical. But she finally nods, and we snap into action, helping to get the patient from the EMT’s gurney onto the bed in the ER bay. Once we’ve got him settled, the paramedics give Marcy an update on the patient’s status and a description of his injuries. Numb, I listen to it as my eyes drift down to him. The paramedics have already cut his turnout coat, suspenders, and t-shirt off, leaving him in just his boots and pants.
He’s unconscious, and his face is black with soot. Blood is dried and crusted at the corners of his mouth as well as around his nostrils, and he’s completely motionless. If not for the monitor tracking his heartbeat, I might think he’s dead.
“Okay, thanks. We’ve got it from here,” Marcy says, then turns to me. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
The EMTs roll their gurney out, and I pull the curtains around the bay closed, giving our patient some privacy as we work on him. Although I do everything Marcy asks me to do, my motions are stiff, almost robotic. My mind is numb, and I’m simply working by rote, relying on my training to get me through it all. We work on him for almost half an hour before we manage to slow down enough to breathe.
“Okay, he’s stable. He’s banged up, but he’s going to be fine,” Marcy says.
With my eyes still on him, I find myself unable to speak, so just nod. I peel off my gloves and drop them into the trash can, then run my hands over my face. Hunter lies stretched out on the table in front of me, his face battered and bruised, but he otherwise looks as if he’s merely sleeping. The relief I feel knowing he’s going to be okay is indescribable.