1 - Dispatch From Level One Trauma

I am still in a mental fog, but remember I thought it odd that a blond fitting me for a condom didn’t at least call me by my first name.   But the bags of IV fluid had to go out somewhere and I couldn’t go anywhere - strapped to a gurney.  A skilled nurse and rubber with a clever hose attachment did the deed.  Then she was gone.

For those who have missed the opportunity to be wheeled into a major American city's Level One Trauma Unit, I can't tell you much.  Strapped to a board with a cervical collar on - the acoustic ceiling, and a few signs over doorways was pretty much all I saw.  But the noise was picture enough.  The various types of sirens pulling up - the WOOoo-Whaaa of the fire units, to the European style Dee-Do Dee-Do.  Each adding a new gurney to the line.

I got wheeled straight into an x-ray room for a quick set of spinals - then back through the corridor full of gurneys, each with its own attendant groan, scream or whimper.  Headshots in a big new open style CAT scan machine, worthy of a Starship’s sickbay.  Then spun back into the corridor like a Rubik’s space to make room for another. 

I asked someone (I can't remember who) how many gurneys - 23.  The white coats flashed by running slalom thru the gaps.  6 hours of this.  They refuse anymore cases - sending them down to Stanford or up to Marin County or even to San Jose, I guess.  Chris, an x-ray tech says, "Its crazy but I love it."

Long after dark, an elevator dings open on the 4th floor trauma ward and at last, a soft bed.  They are in the middle of a changing of the guard, with the continuous drone of voices only trumped by the address system - "Bathroom emergency fourteen B" or "Assistance room twelve A.”  The pain pushing thru the morphine was diminished by the nearby sounds - moans, screams, and crying - or an ominous silence.  I know I could be a lot worse.

- Wrecked Rod