Chapter 3 - The Diagnosis
"Turn him on his side!" I shouted, desperately trying to keep his airway clear.
Phoebe helped me roll him, her beautiful silk dress now stained with dark crimson.
The paramedics burst through the front door, carrying the defibrillator and an oxygen tank.
"Thirty-two-year-old male, sudden collapse, currently pulseless and coughing up blood!" I reported to the lead medic.
"I'm Dr. Claire, cardiac surgeon."
The paramedics immediately took over compressions while I grabbed the intubation kit from their bag.
Dr. Wells was kneeling in the corner, clutching his chest as if his own heart was failing.
"We need to shock him," the medic said, charging the paddles.
"Clear!"
Thomas's body jolted off the floor, but the monitor showed a flat, unforgiving line.
"No rhythm," the medic said grimly.
"Resume compressions."
I slid the laryngoscope down Thomas's throat to secure his airway, my hands perfectly steady despite the adrenaline flooding my veins.
As I looked down his airway, I saw something that made my blood run cold.
There was massive internal bleeding coming from the lower chest cavity, pushing up into the trachea.
"This isn't a standard heart attack," I realized, pulling back to look at the monitor.
"He has an aortic dissection."
Dr. Wells gasped from the corner.
"That's impossible," Dr. Wells whispered. "He's too young."
"It's dissecting rapidly into his pericardium," I told the medics, tossing the scope aside.
"If we don't crack his chest and repair the tear in the next twenty minutes, he will bleed out internally."
My father was standing by the doorway, looking completely horrified.
"Can you fix it?" Phoebe begged, grabbing my blood-stained hands.
"Claire, please, can you fix it?"
"I can," I said, my voice resolute.
"Load him up," the medic ordered. "We're taking him to St. Augustine; it's the closest Level 1."
I grabbed my keys, fully prepared to follow the ambulance in my car.
But the paramedic pressed a hand to his earpiece, his face turning pale.
"St. Augustine just went on total diversion," the medic announced.
"A massive pileup on I-95 just flooded their ER and all their ORs are full."
I stared at him in disbelief.
"Where are we routing?" I demanded.
May you like
"Hopkins," the medic replied, loading the stretcher.
"But Dr. Claire, you don't have surgical privileges there."
