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| Medical School, Fear |
A tsunami of terrified people running in every direction, some left, some straight, some right. We suddenly see them bounding into our hallway packed with gurneys, equipment, and injured human lives. Twenty or so people, fleeing towards us into a "safe" zone. Who could possibly know how safe it would prove to be? The wave of frantic runners was stirring up increasing chaos. Panic that stimulated more panic. All the frightened individuals were now engaged in a game of musical rooms, trying to secure safe places for themselves. Someone bad must be stalking the ER and we were all in harm's way. Fears forced the treatment room doors open. People dove in, and then barricaded themselves inside respective fortresses. My first patient was no exception, flying off his table as well, with his stitch and needle swinging from his arm. Desperation was plastered on his face, on every face.
In just seconds, the resident and I unexpectedly found ourselves all alone. Everyone else had successfully hidden themselves away. We were the only two people remaining in the hall and found ourselves downright vulnerable. Dead men now standing. Every other breathing soul had vanished. We may as well have had targets painted on our chests--just for doing our jobs.
Kaboom...
That sound ramped up our motivation. Panic like I have never known stirred a primal sense of survival. The gun shot was deafening, and life threatening. We felt like animals now trapped before the coming lion.
The two of us looked for any secluded spot of hope. And the only thing that offered a semblance of that was a mop closet, small and dank. A place so awful you would never wander into it on any given day. But today was decidedly different. Fearing for your life will drive you to look at things differently. The room was no more than three feet by three feet. The clorox smell was suffocating. I doubted that even a mouse or a cockroach would venture into this space of nine square feet, for fear of what the toxic bleach would do to its skin.
Kaboom...
That suddenly gorgeous three-by-three foot room defined life! It was an offer of sanctuary. Enticing beyond understanding. All of those fears that circulated around in our heads about the smell and appearance were now washed away. A new and beautiful home stood before us. Whoever or whatever was carrying the very big gun was coming. We stormed across the minuscule threshold.
Dropping onto the floor, slamming the door, sitting in puddles of clorox and moisture, our feet locked squarely against a barrier that guarded our lives. A three inch wide piece of protective wood now stood between him and everything us. My new best friend and I covenant to brace the door, even if a big ugly bullet pierced our dwelling. I had his back. He had mine. Kaboom... He is right outside our home. We cannot even breathe. Motionless. Terrified. The boogeyman is now just feet away. I am focused on my prayer of panic. Please let me live. My wife is at home eight months pregnant, probably sleeping like a baby. Her smile flashes across my mind.
We hear feet scampering. Then voices. Then silence. No movement is heard for one minute, then two, then five. Neither of us have the will to speak. Silence seems to have prolonged life. Ten minutes pass before the first signs of non-threatening activity are heard. We hear soft voices outside our door. Maybe we are safe. With fear, we stand and crack open the door. Bullet holes are seen in the wall. Order appears to have been restored. The boogeyman is gone.
Suddenly, doors to the emergency room fly open. People are once again yelling. There he is, the man who'd held the gun minutes before is carted by, but he doesn't look so good. This time he is the one bleeding. He has been shot by officers and hit. People are holding pressure to his neck. Life must be tenuous from how it looked. But that day, interestingly, was not his last. He was in fact, blessed to be where he was, in a major trauma center. His would-be targets now whisk him to the operating room. The very people he meant to harm now go to save his life.
The man with the stitch hanging out of his arm? My former patient. Never found again. But somehow, I got it. I didn't blame him one bit. It had been a crazy night. No matter where that poor soul had ventured on that fine summer evening, had not worked to his favor. I have often wondered, all these years later, if there is still a man cruising the streets of Dallas with a halfway sewn-up arm, with a needle and thread hanging out, swinging back and forth. If there is, and if you see him, tell him I am sorry that I didn't get to finish the job. It was my first night in that place. Next time I will work faster.
Who said that getting a medical education was without any risks?
Have you ever been in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Run for Your Life Even Faster, The Conclusion, Larry Puls, (click to tweet)
Don't miss part one of Run for your Life
Would be interesting to hear your patient's version of this story. He probably tells the story whenever he shows off his scar. So glad you survived to tell us about it.
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