2 AM exactly… A young man on an emergency stretcher is wheeled into the trauma unit of a large suburban hospital fighting for his life.
The arms and legs of the Paramedics and EMT’s blur over this man, forcing him to breathe, suctioning the blood, holding him down as he unconsciously fights the belts of the backboard that he is attached to, a fighting of the fear from agonizing pain and the soul screaming silently that something is incredibly wrong with the body.
The smoky smell of unwanted fire and gasoline mingle on his blood stained clothes as he is rushed from the entrance to the Trauma Room. The unconscious man makes a noise, not unlike a sleeping scream, when he is transferred from the crimson soaked stretcher to the white trauma room bed. And then, the room erupts…
What was a quiet room with only two waiting individuals minutes ago now holds sixteen active people, each one solely dedicated to saving this man’s life.
The trauma doctor concentrates on the first of many steps that will divert the direction of death and around him, each of the others perform orchestrated maneuvers vital to the preservation of this single fragile human being.
In this room, right here, right now, there is no political view, no religious slant, or biased opinion, only the mission, the passion, the job… to keep this man alive…
Stained and bloody clothes are removed to assess and access the injuries incurred, leaving him as bare as when he entered the world.
Temporary splints are fixed on the broken limbs, bandages wrapped to curb the flow of blood, white cotton gauze placed where later sutures will be needed, and all the while, the air he desperately needs is forced into his mangled body.
Somehow, the man returns to foggy reality through his ripped and bloodied face, comprehending enough to understand the pain and terror of what is happening to him; he tries to escape, to assert some control, to return to a reality of an hour ago when all was well in his world. But it can’t happen.
Time distorts in this organized chaos as the arms on the clock move as feverishly as the multitude of arms trying to repair the damage inflicted upon this person.
Blood flows from the injuries alarmingly but is replaced just as quickly.
Chemicals are determinedly injected, assistance to the body, reminders to the spirit, the need to survive.
Vital measurements are made and compared as different actions are negotiated to various life balances, each of the people offsetting their skill with those of their counterparts with one goal in mind, to make that clock work for them.
Slowly, as if in victory, or as much can be here, the people leave the room to the the core caregivers. Machines are watched, fluids are measured, the edge is avoided; the man is temporarily secured to the cliff that his spirit was about to careen over.
Five hours. It has been five hours. And for now…. he is alive.
The next watch relieves the first… The sun was coming up as I carried my pack to the truck. The morning looked so different this day. A morning frost had left spider-web like traces across my windshield and I couldn’t help but make the connection of how that seemed to be a repeating pattern in life, inter-connecting, always attached somehow..
As I waited for the defroster to clear my window, I sat with the window down, letting the southern winter crispness freshen me for the drive home.
A crow descended from a nearby tree and landed on the gate next to the truck. He looked at me, his head tilted and cocked like all birds do, and cawed at me.
“Well, what do you think, bird?” I replied..
He twisted up his head and seemed to ask, “Are you Ok?”
I whispered, “Yeah, Bird, I’m good.”
He puffed up his chest in regard.
“You all did good, God is proud of you, we all are.”..
and then he flew off…
