![]() A gash that size didn't come from bumping into a door. Then I led her to a plastic chair.Īccident, my left foot. I nabbed a green towel from a linen cart and helped Brooke replace the saturated one, trying to be gentle and not gasp at the injury. Being a Pink Lady suited me more than being a Walmart greeter, that's for sure. Unlike Helen, I love my job, and let's face it-there aren't many places an eighty-one-year-old woman can work. And once a month, on the third Tuesday, they let me operate the cash register in the gift shop. Only now we're called "service volunteers." We run errands, make fresh coffee. You should get back to your assigned duties." And by the way, it's not your place to interact with patients. "Mitzi, kindly help the patient find a seat, and someone will check on her soon. Your husband? A family member?"īrooke hunched her shoulders and stepped back, shaking her head. You'll have to call someone to bring your insurance card. I had an… accident… grabbed my keys… please, I need help." She dropped the towel from her face to reveal a cut above her cheekbone, an angry red stream tracking toward her mouth. Grabbing a form and another pen, she asked the girl's name.Įach question took more effort, with the girl leaning against the desk for support. "I'll need some basic info so I can alert triage." Helen flipped her pen in the air, and gave me a blistering look. ![]() The young woman chewed her bottom lip, her one visible eye begging. We don't know how much blood she's lost." Already, a small circle of crimson had pooled on the floor, dripping steadily from the saturated towel. "They're all full, but I can take her information and get her on the list for the admission clerk." "Can we get this patient into a room? She's bleeding." Helen told the couple in front of us that the wait would be at least two hours. I coaxed her along, and she followed a step behind me until we reached the half-moon desk that kept Helen, the receptionist, at arm's length from the rest of the world. He didn't…"Īt least those were the words I thought I heard, and a chill settled on me. Peering through the glass doors, I expected a friend or a husband to come through with the explanation, but only the neon emergency sign glowed outside.Īn overhead page crackled, and under her breath, the woman muttered, "He didn't mean it. It wasn't the blood that bothered me, but the dazed expression she wore. A diamond on the hand clutching the towel caught the light. Definitely not off the JCPenney sales rack. Red splotches like paint splatters had ruined her tailored suit. It was too early for drunks and barroom scuffles, and car wreck victims usually arrived by ambulance.Ī quick look over my shoulder told me that Helen, the intake receptionist, had her hands full, so I bustled over to the distraught woman. Strands of dark hair swirled about her face, which bore a crazed look in one eye, the other covered with a bloody towel. Gathering a Snickers wrapper and a stray Pepsi bottle the housekeeping girl had missed, I heard the ER doors clang open and turned to see a young woman burst through. I brought him a Styrofoam cup of steaming Maxwell House and wished I could do more. Shaking, he told me his wife had miscarried… for the third time. A UPS man, his face as haggard as his rumpled uniform, asked if I knew where to get a cup of coffee. I returned the nod, then smiled at a mother with an inconsolable infant. An older gentleman with sandpaper whiskers and a urine bag strapped to his leg nodded and hacked into a gnarled fist. With only five minutes until my volunteer shift ended, I busied myself by placing dog-eared Sports Illustrated, Good Housekeeping, and People magazines in the wall rack next to the candy machine, then I surveyed the waiting room of Tulsa County Hospital. She stumbled into my heart the same way she faltered through the doors of the emergency room that November evening.
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