Dating : A Night in the ER

It changed this med student’s life

“Go, go, go, go, go!” yelled Johnny, the EMT worker. He flew down the corridor, with his partner, Ray, running beside him.

It was another late Thursday night of pandemonium in West Miami’s ER unit. The waiting room was full. A young man cradled his arm in a makeshift t-shirt sling. His two drunk friends were making loud, stupid jokes. Another man was slumped in his chair, back against the wall. A gauze strip covered his forehead gash.

This was a good night for Easton. At least the drunk friends weren’t throwing up. Yet.

Easton leapt up from his station and ran behind Ray.

“Let’s go, E! Room 3! Gunshot wound! You know the drill!”

There was no time to think, with blood all over. The three men hoisted the body from the gurney and dumped it on the table.

“He’s bleeding out! Fast!” cried a nurse. The second nurse didn’t waste time with comments and set up an IV.

Easton saw the blood flowing from the victim’s neck. There wasn’t time to operate. There wasn’t time to wash up. He had to stop the bleeding, now!

He nodded to Nurse No-Comment, and she read his mind. She stripped a pair of gloves from the side table and threw them at him, across the victim’s body. He caught them, pulled them on, and placed his hand on the victim’s neck. The blood squeezed between his fingers. “Damn,” Easton thought. “I have to go in.” He placed two fingers in the hole of the victim’s neck, and held them there, placing his other hand on top. The bleeding slowed.

Ed Donovan, the ER doctor on call, entered the unit. “Damn bloody sight,” he quipped to no one in particular, as he stepped up to the table.

“Who’re you?” he grunted, in Easton’s direction.

“Easton Scott, third year…”

Donovan cut him off. “Never mind that. Great job, great save. We’ll take over here.” He nodded at the nurse and said to Easton, “Get cleaned up. I’ll see you after.” As gruff as Donovan was, he moved next to Easton with the stealth of a cheetah, removing Easton’s hands from the victim’s neck, as Easton backed off.

Easton entered the next room to strip down and clean up. Three of his med school classmates were there, scrubbing up. “Dayummmmm,” one said when they saw his hands and forearms covered in blood.

“How’s it going, Red?” the classmate joked, and the others laughed.

Easton ignored his classmates. He never liked Harold Reed, and was often the butt of Harold’s jokes. Harold came from a privileged Boston background, and had everything handed to him — until he came under Donovan’s watchful eye in the ER units. Harold wasn’t in trouble, yet, but he wasn’t doing as well as the others on their exams and rotations. The worse Harold did, the more he picked on the others. Especially Easton.

“You think you have an in with Donovan?” Harold griped.

“Not at all,” Easton responded. “Just on rotation.”

“You need to ‘rotate’ out of here,” Harold began, but then saw Johnny and Ray waiting in the hallway.

“Whatever,” Easton said, as he threw his used hospital scrubs in the bin.

“What a douche,” Johnny said, as he and Ray were heading for the diner across the street. “You coming?”

“No. I need to wait here for Donovan.”

“We’ll bring you something,” Ray said. Easton was grateful. His funds were stretched to the limit, and the waitresses at the diner were generous with the EMT workers. Easton would ask for a coffee, and they would come back with coffee and a full dinner plate to go. He didn’t ask for coffee anymore. They knew what to do.

Easton went back to the nurse’s station and sat at a desk facing one of the patient rooms. His books were stashed there, with his laptop. He opened the laptop and got to work. Johnny and Ray dropped off dinner, and he took a quick break to share coffee with them. Before he knew it, another two hours had passed, and Donovan was finished in the OR.

“Great work, Easton,” Donovan told him. If you weren’t there, that guy would have been a goner. Not too many third-years think like you.”

“Thanks,” Easton said, experiencing a moment of modesty.

“I want you to think about staying on through the summer. Filling in on rotations. Paid, of course.”

He looked at Donovan and didn’t have to think twice. “I’ll be here,” he said.

Seven Years Later

Easton remembered that night from the ER as being the turning point in his med school experience. He stayed on through the summer, as Donovan asked, and was often invited to Donovan’s home on the weekends. Irene Donovan, his wife, was a gracious hostess. Easton became the son they never had.

Now Easton was standing at Donovan’s grave site. The funeral was finished, and the guests were departing for the catered lunch at the Donovan home. Irene approached, taking Easton’s arm.

“He loved you so,” Irene began, her voice breaking. “Come back to the house. We have matters to discuss.”

Easton was stunned to learn, that afternoon, just how generous Ed Donovan was. Ed left three million dollars in trust for Easton. Irene sobbed when the lawyer disclosed the details in the will. She was grateful for her late husband’s generosity to Easton, and was provided for, many times over, herself. She told Easton that she would spend her remaining years overseeing her husband’s charitable causes at the hospital.

As he was leaving Irene’s house that afternoon, she pulled him aside. “When are we going to find a nice young woman for you?” she asked.

Easton smiled. “Irene, you know I don’t have time for that.”

“Nonsense! An eligible young doctor like you? I’m surprised one of the doctors or nurses haven’t snapped you up yet! They’re always asking me about you, as if I can’t see through their wily tricks!” Irene laughed, and so did Easton.

As Easton drove back to his house, however, he couldn’t help thinking about the one who got away, all the way back from high school. The flutist, Robin Rochelle. He never told Ed or Irene about her. Robin was his secret.

Where was she now?