- Joined
- Dec 19, 2010
- Messages
- 10,255
- Reaction score
- 13,584
"You're Next"
I saw a story in the news about something that happened to an ER doctor. It reminded me of something that had happened to me before, so I started writing about it. Then my imagination got a little bit carried away. So, let’s just say parts of this story are absolutely true, and other parts are, well…just read along.
I walk in for my ER shift. There’s a letter in my department mailbox. It’s a hand written letter from a patient. I open it,
“Hey doc! I just wanted to thank you for taking care of me last week. It was one of the low points of my life and I really had hit rock bottom. You’re the first one to talk to me like a human being. You convinced me to get help. They finally let me out. Thanks, again. You saved my life. You’re a great doctor. We should hang out sometime.”
Sincerely,
Jerry —–
Cell: XXX-XXX-XXXX”
I remember the patient. I admitted him for severe alcohol intoxication, depression and suicidal thoughts about 2 weeks ago. It’s not that often that you get to start out a shift with a “thank you” letter, albeit with a bizarre request at the end to “hang out sometime.” In this ER game, you take every pat on the back you can get, because they don’t come every day.
I walk to the pit to see my first patient. First up is, “Broken wrist.” I walk into the room and it’s him, Jerry, the letter writer. “Hi, Jerry, what can I do for you today?”
“This,” he holds up his mangled right hand and wrist. “I got pissed off and punched a wall.”
“Wow, you sure did a number on yourself. What happened?” I ask.
“Did you get my letter?” he asks.
“Yes. Why do you ask?” I wonder aloud.
He stares at me silently, and uncomfortably long. “Oh, I don’t know,” he trails off, staring through me. “Just fix me up, and we’re good.”
I walk out of the room. That was weird, I think to myself. I put in an order for x-ray of the hand and wrist. I put that plate up in the air to spin, and move on to:
Chest pain,
Migraine,
“Can’t see,”
Sprained knee,
“Menstrual,”
“Sick still,”
Split lip,
“Vag drip.”
Jerry’s x-ray is done. Wow. He’s completely shattered his wrist and 4th and 5th metacarpals in his hand. I haven’t seen a one this bad in a long time. I walk into his room. “Jerry, you’ve badly fractured your hand and wrist. You’ll probably even need surgery. I’m going to call the orthopedic surgeon.”
“No. I want you to fix it. You owe me, big time,” Jerry says.
“No, you don’t understand. It’s badly fractured. You need a surgeon for this, a specialist,” I explain.
“Did you hear me? I said, ‘NO ’,” he says, gritting his teeth so hard they could shatter.
After years of seeing anything from little old ladies to psychopathic criminals, it takes a lot for a patient to truly bother me, but this guy is truly disturbing in a way that’s hard to describe. It’s time to get out of this room. “That’s the way it has to be for you to get the best care,” I say and walk out of the room.
As I get to the door, he yells, “This s—t is your fault mother f—-r! You should have called me back. I left my cell number on the letter for a reason. YOU shattered my hand and wrist. This is because of you. You save my life and then just TURN on me, like I’m nothin’?! You’re a PSYCHO!” I get out of the room, and call security to come stand by as he is splinted up and turned over to the ortho team, who I made fully aware of his psych history and behavior. A psych consult is obtained. He denies all suicidal or homicidal thoughts and is admitted. After a little while, he leaves the department and my shift ends, uneventfully.
I walk out to the car. It is 4:00am and deadly black in the parking lot. I look around. Are you sure they committed him, or did they splint him and sent him home? I ask myself. I look behind myself. There’s no one. I look ahead: no one. I move a little faster and get to my car and open the door and get in. I start the car and look in the rear view mirror. I pause. Could someone be hiding in the back of my car? I turn around to look. No, you’re just paranoid, I tell myself. You just had a bad shift. There’s nothing to worry about. That guy was harmless; all bark, no bite. I’ve dealt with much worse before, and regardless, he was committed. Or was he?
I get home and I’m exhausted. I get inside and go straight upstairs to check on my kids. They’re both angelically asleep. I go to my room and my wife is asleep. I get in bed and as soon as my head hits the pillow I’m out. Sweet restful darkness takes over as the light switch of my consciousness flicks off. Then, out of blackness blasts a crushingly loud,
WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!
My wife shrieks, “Oh my god! The alarm! The ALARM! The kids, THE KIDS!” I jump out of bed. Adrenaline blasts through my chest. Holy s—t, I think as I run out of our room. I have no gun, no knife, no weapon, nothing. I run through our family room. I might take a bullet tonight, I think to myself, or maybe worse. I run upstairs to check on my kids and they’re asleep, despite the unbearable screech of the alarm. I look around at the windows: nothing. I run back downstairs. I check the back door and front door. Somewhere around the corner, someone’s going to be there. Just then, I remember: Jerry.
Oh. My. God.
The door to the guest room. Holy crap. STOP.
Quiet…
Silence…
I tip-toe to the final room…
I put my hand on the door knob…
In silent slow motion I turn the knob and…(read more)
.
.
.
.
.
.
I saw a story in the news about something that happened to an ER doctor. It reminded me of something that had happened to me before, so I started writing about it. Then my imagination got a little bit carried away. So, let’s just say parts of this story are absolutely true, and other parts are, well…just read along.
I walk in for my ER shift. There’s a letter in my department mailbox. It’s a hand written letter from a patient. I open it,
“Hey doc! I just wanted to thank you for taking care of me last week. It was one of the low points of my life and I really had hit rock bottom. You’re the first one to talk to me like a human being. You convinced me to get help. They finally let me out. Thanks, again. You saved my life. You’re a great doctor. We should hang out sometime.”
Sincerely,
Jerry —–
Cell: XXX-XXX-XXXX”
I remember the patient. I admitted him for severe alcohol intoxication, depression and suicidal thoughts about 2 weeks ago. It’s not that often that you get to start out a shift with a “thank you” letter, albeit with a bizarre request at the end to “hang out sometime.” In this ER game, you take every pat on the back you can get, because they don’t come every day.
I walk to the pit to see my first patient. First up is, “Broken wrist.” I walk into the room and it’s him, Jerry, the letter writer. “Hi, Jerry, what can I do for you today?”
“This,” he holds up his mangled right hand and wrist. “I got pissed off and punched a wall.”
“Wow, you sure did a number on yourself. What happened?” I ask.
“Did you get my letter?” he asks.
“Yes. Why do you ask?” I wonder aloud.
He stares at me silently, and uncomfortably long. “Oh, I don’t know,” he trails off, staring through me. “Just fix me up, and we’re good.”
I walk out of the room. That was weird, I think to myself. I put in an order for x-ray of the hand and wrist. I put that plate up in the air to spin, and move on to:
Chest pain,
Migraine,
“Can’t see,”
Sprained knee,
“Menstrual,”
“Sick still,”
Split lip,
“Vag drip.”
Jerry’s x-ray is done. Wow. He’s completely shattered his wrist and 4th and 5th metacarpals in his hand. I haven’t seen a one this bad in a long time. I walk into his room. “Jerry, you’ve badly fractured your hand and wrist. You’ll probably even need surgery. I’m going to call the orthopedic surgeon.”
“No. I want you to fix it. You owe me, big time,” Jerry says.
“No, you don’t understand. It’s badly fractured. You need a surgeon for this, a specialist,” I explain.
“Did you hear me? I said, ‘NO ’,” he says, gritting his teeth so hard they could shatter.
After years of seeing anything from little old ladies to psychopathic criminals, it takes a lot for a patient to truly bother me, but this guy is truly disturbing in a way that’s hard to describe. It’s time to get out of this room. “That’s the way it has to be for you to get the best care,” I say and walk out of the room.
As I get to the door, he yells, “This s—t is your fault mother f—-r! You should have called me back. I left my cell number on the letter for a reason. YOU shattered my hand and wrist. This is because of you. You save my life and then just TURN on me, like I’m nothin’?! You’re a PSYCHO!” I get out of the room, and call security to come stand by as he is splinted up and turned over to the ortho team, who I made fully aware of his psych history and behavior. A psych consult is obtained. He denies all suicidal or homicidal thoughts and is admitted. After a little while, he leaves the department and my shift ends, uneventfully.
I walk out to the car. It is 4:00am and deadly black in the parking lot. I look around. Are you sure they committed him, or did they splint him and sent him home? I ask myself. I look behind myself. There’s no one. I look ahead: no one. I move a little faster and get to my car and open the door and get in. I start the car and look in the rear view mirror. I pause. Could someone be hiding in the back of my car? I turn around to look. No, you’re just paranoid, I tell myself. You just had a bad shift. There’s nothing to worry about. That guy was harmless; all bark, no bite. I’ve dealt with much worse before, and regardless, he was committed. Or was he?
I get home and I’m exhausted. I get inside and go straight upstairs to check on my kids. They’re both angelically asleep. I go to my room and my wife is asleep. I get in bed and as soon as my head hits the pillow I’m out. Sweet restful darkness takes over as the light switch of my consciousness flicks off. Then, out of blackness blasts a crushingly loud,
WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!
My wife shrieks, “Oh my god! The alarm! The ALARM! The kids, THE KIDS!” I jump out of bed. Adrenaline blasts through my chest. Holy s—t, I think as I run out of our room. I have no gun, no knife, no weapon, nothing. I run through our family room. I might take a bullet tonight, I think to myself, or maybe worse. I run upstairs to check on my kids and they’re asleep, despite the unbearable screech of the alarm. I look around at the windows: nothing. I run back downstairs. I check the back door and front door. Somewhere around the corner, someone’s going to be there. Just then, I remember: Jerry.
Oh. My. God.
The door to the guest room. Holy crap. STOP.
Quiet…
Silence…
I tip-toe to the final room…
I put my hand on the door knob…
In silent slow motion I turn the knob and…(read more)
.
.
.
.
.
.
)
