Scenes we would have liked to see part 4

Stanley started into the parking lot -- and froze when a voice called out to him. "Dr. Riverside, Dr. Riverside!"

This was how it started. He'd walked into the parking lot and a vaguely familiar man had summoned him to look at someone in pain. Panic rose in Stanley's gut, momentarily overwhelming his best intentions. The small man who had been calling him came to a halt, juggling a tape recorder, and a notebook. "Dr. Riverside, how did your father raise the one million dollars for your return?"

Stanley struggled with thought, speech. "I'm sorry?" he stammered.

"The money? Did the kidnapper's really get the money?"

"Uh... Yes... I mean, I saw them with money," Stanley began to backpedal away from the man's aggressiveness. "But the police must have it. They were caught right away."

"But where did it come from? Did your father sell any of his assets? In particular, did he put his shares of Nash, Peabody & Riverside on the block?"

"I really don't know," Stanley said, beginning to feel more than a little upset.

The security guard, Peterson, approached. "Hey, you, leave Dr. Riverside alone! We've got a crisis here!"

Stanley's perceptions widened again, and he grabbed at the straw with relief. "That's right. That's right." He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't seem to stop. "I've got to work. That's right. Excuse me." He fled toward the bus that was starting to discharge passengers. "Wait! Wait! Don't get off the bus yet!"

"But I'm supposed to leave them here!" the driver protested.

Stanley clambered up into the bus. "Just a few minutes," he said. "Please, I need to talk to you, please sit down." The refugee commuters muttered as they sat, but at least they sat. "I'm Dr. Riverside," he began.

"Hey, weren't you on the news?" A woman asked from the nearest seat.

"Yes." Stanley was beginning to hate the news. "That's not important right now, though. Did any of you get examined by a medical person at the scene of the accident?"

"No," said several voices, and the woman near him added. "They said to get on the bus and someone at the hospital would look at us."

"Damn." Stanley looked out the door and saw one of the orderlies coming up with a wheelchair. "Michaels, go get an ortho cart, please. And make sure it has plenty of cervical collars."

"Sure, Doc!" Michaels said.

"Cervical collars?" One of the casualties asked.

Stanley looked at the uncertain expressions of the people in the bus and ran his hand through his hair. "It's all right," he said, trying to think of how to do this without unduly frightening anyone. "I just like to be cautious. You understand that there are certain kinds of injuries that need a faster response, so I'm going to ask some questions, and try to get the people who need care the most into the hospital first."

They were paying attention.

"Okay. If you're having trouble breathing, or the person sitting next to you seems to be having trouble breathing, raise your hand."

He'd sent four respiratory distress cases and a possible cardiac case in and was starting on the bleeders when Ernie climbed onto the bus. "Stanley? They need you inside."

Stanley took off his stethoscope and looked up at her, from where he was kneeling next to one of the seats. "Who's taking triage?"

"I am, on this bus," she said. "We've got some of the interns in, and they're covering the other two buses."

"Watch out for cervical injuries," he said, pulling himself up to his feet. "And shock. I've asked people to keep an eye on their seat partners." He handed her the clipboard and the tags, and bent down to try to scope out the parking lot before leaving the bus.

"Got it," she said, and then gave him a measuring look. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine," he said, and took a deep breath and left the bus. He kept his head down as he crossed the asphalt, hoping no one would notice him until he was safely inside.

"Dr. Riverside!" A woman's voice. That might be safe. He looked. It was Nurse Andrews, her cap perched on hair that was still up in curlers, her face devoid of the light foundation and lipstick she normally wore. She took the last couple of steps to catch up with him as she tucked her car keys into her pocketbook. "I'm glad to see you're all right," she said, taking his arm momentarily, to negotiate the curb. "Who's coordinator?"

"Jackson," Stanley answered, automatically, and then glanced down and saw that her knee was wrapped in an ace bandage. "What happened to you?"

"Rheumatism," she said, shrugging her acceptance of it. "I usually have time to exercise out the kinks before I come to work, but..." she waved a hand at the chaos of the parking lot.

"Isometrics?" Stanley asked, grateful to indulge in inanities if it would keep his mind busy until he was safely inside.

"Karate," she said, flashing him a grin that said she knew exactly how incongruous that mental image appeared. "You might try it, Doctor. It's good for the lower back, you know."

Stanley surprised himself by laughing. "I don't think I'd be very good at it," he said, imagining the look on EJ's face if he were to start breaking boards in his pajamas every morning. It was nice to laugh. Nice to have a karate expert - or at least a karate student - escorting him past the ring of reporters and into the warm safety of ER. Jackpot was just inside the entryway, trying to get a clear look at a deeply wounded abdomen. Stanley went over to help hold down the patient, and Andrews slung her pocketbook over her shoulder and went around to help the EMT get the IV reestablished.

"Thanks, Stan," Jackpot said, as he tucked the pressure bandage back into place. "Pre-op!" he told the waiting orderlies. "Get the labwork done up there."

"Shoop said you needed me," Stanley said, wondering if Jackpot knew that he had a piece of gauze caught in his hair.

"Outside room three," Jackpot said. "I've got head wounds coming back from radiology and not enough doctors to read the pictures."

"Right," Stanley said, "there's something in your hair," he added, gesturing, but not waiting to see if Jackpot found it. He headed for the corridor outside of room three and found eight gurneys, and Gloria Brancusi trying to find a place to put a ninth.

Stanley went to the first gurney and picked up the x-ray envelope that had been left on the patient's chest. He held the x-ray against the light, and swore. "Skull fracture. Miss Brancusi?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"We're going to need to insert a cranial pressure monitor." He glanced down the corridor. "Probably more than one. Could you please fetch the trays?"

"They're on the counter," she indicated with a chin. "But I can't get the hair clippers to start."

One of the orderlies beat Stanley to the device and banged it gently on one end. It started to buzz. "I used to be a barber. Who do you want bald, doc?"

"This one," Stanley said, pointing and then moving down to the next gurney to look at the x-ray there while he had the chance. "No skull fracture. Looks good." There was a second x-ray. "But this arm is definitely broken. We've got one for ortho, here." He scribbled the diagnosis on the patient record, giving the patient a quick reassuring smile, "You'll be fine," and went to the next one. He had cleared six of the gurneys in one direction or another and was back at the first one, trying to find a cranial vein for the monitor, when Trapper went by, pushing a gurney so laden with monitors and and tubes it was hard to see the patient. Stanley met his eyes for a moment, and saw Trapper peer over his glasses, checking. Stanley flushed, pleased that Trapper cared enough to spare a moment to be concerned, and smiled to let Trapper know he was okay before he went back to inserting the monitor sensor.

He felt a curious duality. On the surface, he was busy, making medical decisions, doing delicate procedures, ordering tests and admitting patients. But part of him was tense with expectation, flinching away from canes and painfully aware of the holstered guns of the cops who occasionally came through with the casualties. He began to become inured to people calling him by name, though, as the morning wore on and so many of the arriving staff took a moment to address him, or lay a hand on his arm or shoulder as they passed. By the time they had cleared out the critical patients, and he was down to putting in stitches on the minor injuries, he was able to joke a little with the patients, and reassure them. Miss Brancusi stayed nearby, fending off the reporters who wanted to talk to him, and producing paper cups of water whenever she thought he could take a moment to take a drink.

By seven o'clock, they were able to start working on the patients from the cafeteria, and the other holding areas, and by eight o'clock, the specialists and private practice doctors were arriving to take over the patients who needed consults. Jackpot pulled Stanley off the floor and into his office long enough to wolf down a couple of donuts, and report on the situation status.

"We got 175 casualties, and have admitted 78 of them for treatment or testing, so far." Jackpot riffled though his papers. "The rest are minor cuts, broken bones, and sprains, and we're treating and releasing them as quickly as we reasonably can. From what I understand, Bay General has numbers that are about the same."

"Not too bad, considering." Stanley's planning had figured on twice that many serious casualties. "How many surgery cases?"

"Only fifteen," Jackpot pushed up his glasses to rub at his eyes. "Some of the head jobs may end up there later, but that's up to the neuros."

"Any DOA's?" Stanley asked.

"Not here. Bay General had a couple. We've got the driver of the second train, though, and he's critical -- Martin's operating on him right now -- and from what I saw I'd say his chances are pretty slim. But other than that I think we got off pretty lucky."

"I thought we'd lost Martin," Stanley said, startled.

"We did," Jackpot said. "But he hasn't had a chance to find another position yet, and he thought we could use the help. I wrote up the paperwork as a consult to keep the liability insurance people happy."

Stanley nodded and ate the last bite of his donut. "Good thinking."

"Thanks." Jackpot leaned agains the desk and let his eyes close. "What a lousy weekend," he sighed.

Stanley hadn't truly believed that anyone but EJ and John would miss him. Would care. He had hated every minute of being kidnapped. But it was almost worth it to discover that Gonzo would come to his rescue, that Ernie and Gloria had worried, and that Jackpot had had a lousy weekend because Stanley was in trouble. The small solicitudes of the other staff, the obvious concern of his friends, and the miracle of his father caring enough to arrange for the ransom from somewhere else in the world -- Stanley's astonishment welled up inside of him and burst out as laughter.

Jackpot blinked and blushed, realizing what he had just said, but then he started to laugh too, and it was a minute before he could catch his breath enough to say, "Sorry."

Stanley waved away the apology. "Lousy!" he repeated, with tired glee. "A lousy weekend!" He could tell that he'd have to stop laughing soon, or he'd end up crying, but it took Miss Brancusi poking her head in the door to give him enough of a reason to try to pull himself together. "Yes?" he asked, trying to look professional, while Jackpot choked down giggles.

"I'm sorry," Gloria said, torn between amusement and concern. "But we've got a car accident victim coming in -- we need you, Doctor."

"Coming," Stanley said, getting to his feet. He appropriated the checklist clipboard from Jackpot as he went past. "Why don't you go see what you can do about all those sprains, and I'll take coordinator until Titus is freed up. And when the waiting area is clear, sign out and go home. You look exhausted."

"Thanks, Stanley," Jackpot said, surprised, but clearly pleased by Stanley's show of consideration. "I'll do that."

Trapper came down from the operating rooms to see how things were doing a little after nine, and found Stanley propped against the nurses' station counter, talking to someone on the phone. "Well, if you do get through, tell him that his son called. His son. Stanley. Oh, never mind. I'll try back later." He hung up the phone with a wry expression, but then noticed that Trapper standing there and brightened. "Hi, John. How is your patient?"

"Doing nicely, thank you," Trapper said. "How's ER?"

Stanley waved a hand at the nearly emptied corridor. "We're almost back to normal. Just a dozen or so sprains left, and I managed to snag all of the interns to deal with them. It's good practice." He looked past Trapper curiously. "Where's Gates?"

"Still in OR three, with Martin," Trapper said. "Where's Jackpot? I've got some paperwork for him."

Stanley took the sheaf of paper, and glanced at it. "I'll take care of it, John. I sent Jackson home to get some sleep. He's supposed to look at the patient's tonsils, not the other way around."

Trapper chuckled, reassured that Stanley was holding up all right for the moment. "Did you get any breakfast yet?" he asked.

"Two donuts," Stanley said, reading through one of the sets of lab reports. "John, did we get this patient onto a cardiac monitor? I don't see a notation."

Trapper pulled his glasses down from his forehead to his nose and took a look. "Hmm. I'll check on it." He looked over the glasses at Stanley. "Tell you what. By the time I get done with rounds, Gonzo should be out of OR. I'll buy you both breakfast at the cafeteria."

"I'd like that," Stanley said, quietly pleased. He was beginning to feel a little tired, to be honest, but there was a lot of paperwork and re-stocking of emergency supplies to be seen to, and he didn't feel like he could leave ER until the basics were done. Breakfast with John would be good incentive.

Ernie turned up half an hour later, having rearranged the nursing staff to cover, and found Stanley wavering between the paperwork and the supply closet. When he saw her, he sagged a little with relief. "Mrs. Shoop? Would you mind going through all of these admission forms? They're giving me a headache."

"Are you sure it's the forms?" Ernie asked, taking the paperwork off his hands. She thought he looked a little pale, and his hair needed combing.

"I think so," he said, frowning thoughtfully. "It doesn't feel like the one I had yesterday. And I've been drinking plenty of water, haven't I, Miss Brancusi?"

Gloria came out of the closet, with a stack of clavicle braces propped between her hands and her chin. "Two quarts since seven this morning," she confirmed. "Maybe you're just tired, Dr. Riverside."

"Well," Stanley said. "A little. But this work has to get done. And I have to have breakfast with John in a little while, and then I have to pick up EJ at the airport -- if I can find my car keys. Did you run across my car keys this weekend, Mrs. Shoop?"

"I'm sorry, Stanley," Ernie said, knowing perfectly well that his keys had been in his labcoat pocket until she had put them into one of his drawers. "I think you might have to get a locksmith. But EJ has a spare key for the car, doesn't she?"

"Of course," Stanley smiled. "That's it. We can get a new key made from EJ's set." He frowned. "But how am I going to get to the airport?"

" I can pick up EJ," Ernie said. "In fact, when I spoke to her yesterday, that's what I told her to expect. And I've already arranged for coverage."

"Really?" Stanley's face fell. He really wanted to see EJ.

"Well I knew you'd be tired, after the weekend you'd had," Ernie consoled him. "And while I wasn't expecting a train disaster on top of everything else, I thought it would be easier if you didn't have to fight the airport traffic."

"Not to mention baggage claim, and all the people in the terminals. You know how exhausting the airport can be," Gloria contributed, laying it on even thicker. "And it's so public. I mean, if you wait and meet EJ here, in your office, at least you can close the door."

Stanley blushed to the tips of his ears. "That's true," he said. "If you really don't mind..." He looked at Ernie, to make sure that it was all right. It would be a while before he would impose on people thoughtlessly. He didn't want to take any chances. You never knew if you might be offending someone. "I guess there's a lot of work to do here, actually."

"Speaking of which," Gloria said, "Could you...?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Stanley got out of her way and looked down at the list in his hand. "Hemostats, hemostats, 23 hemostats...." He started to look along the shelves. "Who arranged this place anyway?"

Ernie shook her head, smiling, and took the stack of paperwork to the front desk, to work on while she answered the phone. Stanley would be okay for the moment -- or at least until Trapper or Gonzo were around to block tackle him and get him to calm down a little.

She kept an eye on him anyway, and decided that it wasn't entirely Stanley's fault that he got more and more frantic as the minutes passed. The interns kept pulling him aside to doublecheck their work, and with the support staff as decimated as it was, there really wasn't anyone else available to make sure that all of the emergency treatment rooms were up to standard. Even she had to interrupt him to make sure that certain items on the paperwork were correct. And Stanley, who usually could handle half a dozen things at once, which was part of what made Emergency run as well as it did, kept having to stop and think about what to do next. When Gloria handed him a cup of water, Ernie saw him glare at it for a moment before he reminded himself that he was supposed to drink it. He was back in the depths of the supply closet when Gonzo showed up with Trapper.

"Where's Stanley?" Gonzo asked Ernie, stretching his back against too many early morning hours in surgery.

"The Supply room with Gloria, trying to put this place back together again," Ernie said. "That is, if an intern hasn't pulled him into one of the treatment rooms, or his phone hasn't rung again. I swear, if we don't get some more personnel back in this hospital, we're going to find that we need the doctors to mop the floors."

"How's he holding up?" Trapper asked.

Ernie waggled a hand back and forth to indicate so-so. "I think I've finally figured out what the word 'frenetic' means," she offered. "See if you can't get him to take a break, please, Trapper? He's been drinking plenty, but he still has a headache."

"Low blood sugar," Gonzo opined. "I've got a headache, and it is going to require a three egg omelet -- at least."

Trapper chuckled agreement. "We'll see if some breakfast does the trick for Stan. And if not, there's always the sedative." He and Gonzo started down the corridor toward supply.

Ernie leaned over the counter and called after them, "Trapper, you aren't going to need me to scrub this afternoon, are you? I promised Stanley that I would go and pick up EJ at the airport. He's not fit to drive."

"That's fine. I'm rescheduling the Paterson case to tomorrow," Trapper said, waving her an okay. "He's got a low grade fever, and I'd like to have a full night's sleep before I go in."

"Thanks, Trapper. Have a nice breakfast."

Gonzo and Trapper caught up with Stanley as he came out of the supply closet, balancing a box of tracheotomy kits on top of a box of suture kits, and looking back over his shoulder to ask Gloria a question. He jumped when Gonzo took the boxes out of his hands. "What? Oh, oh, Gonzo. John. It's you. Um. We're just trying to finish distributing the supplies."

"So I see," Trapper said, taking Stanley's arm. "But Gloria knows what to do. It's breakfast time."

"You remember breakfast?" Gonzo said, cheerfully abandoning the boxes onto a nearby wheelchair. "Eggs. Bacon. Fresh orange juice?"

"But..." Stanley protested, worried lines deepening on his forehead. "we aren't finished."

"I've got it covered," Gloria said, coming out to rescue the supplies. "You go on, Dr. Riverside. There aren't that many things left to do. And it might help your headache."

Trapper pulled Stanley along, "Speaking of which, I thought you were going to tell me if the headache came back," he said, sternly.

"Yeah, Stanley," Gonzo put in. "You promised."

Stanley forgot about the supplies, and let himself be herded toward the cafeteria. "Well, I knew you were coming back, John, and Gates was in surgery, and I sent Jackpot home, so..." He looked abashed. "I did tell Mrs. Shoop," he offered apologetically.

"Did you take anything for it?" Gonzo asked.

"Aspirin. And I asked the lab for a UA, but it hasn't come back yet." Stanley looked so worried that Trapper couldn't help but laugh.

"Okay, Stan. That's good enough for me. Now, how do you like your eggs?"

(and segue into the last scene from the episode....)

This page hosted by Get your own Free Home Page