Abandoned. John Schlarbaum
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Exiting onto the third floor, the foursome ran into the I.C.U. department and with the help of three waiting nurses, Helga was transferred onto a high-tech hospital bed in room 8. As the team hooked their unconscious patient up to various machines, the porters quietly pushed the stretcher out of the room to wipe it down with disinfectant cloths.
“What do you think happened, Rita?” asked Jeff, the younger porter. “Hip surgeries don’t usually go wrong.”
Rita, a grizzled decades-long hospital employee who had seen it all, shrugged. “The hip probably wasn’t the only problem. She’s pushing 90. It’s a miracle they brought her back to life at all, if you call that living.”
“I guess,” Jeff said as they discarded their rubber gloves and used cloths into a garbage can. “Who’s next?”
Rita unfolded her call sheet and crossed off the line listing Helga’s surgery. “Mr. Mason on the sixth floor. Gallbladder.”
As they approached the exit, a nurse filling out paperwork at her desk commented, “Thanks for bringing us more work.”
“She’s not even your patient, Amanda. What do you care?” Rita asked in a sarcastic tone.
“I cover for Pam when she goes on break, so technically 8 will be my responsibility at some point. From what I’ve heard, that bed may be vacant soon.” Amanda checked the row of rooms. “I don’t know what’s in the water, but this wing could be rechristened Critical Alley, because the majority of our current guests won’t be leaving by wheelchair.”
The outer hallway door opened.
“What a coincidence – here's Luke now with the morgue cart,” Amanda said as they watched him enter the department. “Where’s your partner?”
“Rob’s going to meet me. Room 2, right?”
“To start,” Rita cracked as she and Jeff went on their way.
Luke gave a courtesy smile and left the cart in the aisle. He wandered the horseshoe-shaped department peering into rooms, thinking Rob may be inside one helping to boost a patient in their bed. Retracing his steps, he slowed his pace when he overheard the charge nurse on the telephone say, “Yes, she’s in room 8 ... Helga Klemens, spelled with a K, not C. ... She apparently died on the operating table and they somehow managed to bring her back from the other side.”
Luke turned his head toward Helga’s room where a doctor, four nurses and a respiratory tech were hovering next to the bed. Momentarily forgetting his search for Rob, he edged the door open and asked in a shaky voice, “Do you need any help?”
The nurses looked in his direction and simultaneously smiled. Luke was one of the good ones. “No, we’re alright here, Luke,” the head nurse answered. “Are you on the floor for turns?”
“Ah ... no, I’m here to pick up number two,” Luke said, his eyes unable to break from the sight of Helga with an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth and numerous I.V. drip lines attached to both arms. Wanting to leave the professionals to do their work, he quietly stepped out and walked in a daze to the body cart.
“Where were you?” Rob inquired, sticking his head into room 2. “Not that we’re in any hurry.” Returning his attention to Luke he asked, “Are you okay, man? You’re as white as a sheet.”
Luke switched into auto-pilot mode, knowing he couldn’t get out of this call. Afterwards he’d take his second break to settle his nerves. “Yeah – let’s get this done,” he replied as they lifted the butterfly-emblazoned cover to reveal a steel slab that resembled the cooler trays in the morgue.
A few minutes later, Luke and Rob were exiting the elevator on the ground floor when an announcement was made over the hospital’s speaker system.
“All available porters – Code blue. I.C.U. room 8 stat. All available porters – Code blue. I.C.U. room 8 stat.”
Luke reached for his radio and stepped away from the cart.
“We can’t go, Luke!” Rob insisted. “I’m not leaving a dead body in the hallway.”
Two porters rounded the corner, passing the body cart like they were lapping their coworkers at a track and field meet.
“Don’t worry, boys. We’re heading to I.C.U.,” Noelle, the female porter advised, jogging to the still open elevator door.
“Thanks for coming to work today, fellas,” Brad, the male porter added, pushing the floor and door buttons. “Have fun.”
Watching the elevator door close seemed to stir something in Luke, loosening the logjam of conflicting thoughts he’d been having of Helga. She’ll be fine.
“Let’s get this call done, dude,” Rob said impatiently. “I’ve got a coffee date with that hot volunteer from the Help Desk.”
“Obviously, she’s the one who needs help,” Luke said with a smile, steering the body cart down the hall. “Let’s get buddy here settled in and go on break.”
In the midst of offloading the deceased onto a morgue tray, another announcement came over the airwaves.
“I.C.U. Code blue – cancelled.”
Luke knew of only two reasons to terminate the call: the patient had been successfully resuscitated or died.
“That was quick,” Rob said, pushing the tray further into the cooler. “I hope they made it.”
Don’t let them kill me.
“Somehow I don’t think she did,” Luke said glumly, removing his gloves. “I suddenly have a splitting headache. I gotta find some aspirin. Can you fill out the paperwork?”
Rob noticed that his friend was off again. “No problem. Take a power nap in the locker room. I’ll drop the keys and checklist to security.”
“Thanks.”
After getting permission to take his break, Luke found an empty waiting room and collapsed into a chair, where he contemplated whether to tell anyone about his conversation with Helga or let it go. “She was 88 years old,” he told himself. “Maybe it was just her time.”
He checked his cell phone and saw an email from his girlfriend about having lunch together. He replied he’d meet her in two minutes. Before that however, he touched base with the female porter who had attended the I.C.U. call and she confirmed, “The old lady didn’t make it.”
Enroute to the front lobby, a crestfallen Luke caught a glimpse of Dr. Singh in her office with the newspaper reporter he’d talked with earlier.
Maybe Jennifer could help me, he thought, remembering her business card in his pocket. I’ll ask Maryanne first. After all, she had access to the security camera footage that might be helpful, if there ever was an investigation of Helga’s death.
***
Jennifer repositioned herself in an uncomfortable plastic chair across from Dr. Singh, who sat behind a desk that resembled a miniature army tank.
“If your office supplies budget ever runs too low, I know a scrapper who’d gladly take this 1960s monstrosity off your hands.” Jennifer smoothed her hand over the dull metal finish. “Emile could probably get $200, minus his commission,” she added with a wide smile.
Dr. Singh laughed. “I believe the basement in any building is where old furniture goes to die, which in our case seems appropriate.”
“It does.”
Dr. Singh folded her hands together and put them on top of the desk. “So how can I help you? On the intercom you mentioned our latest John Doe.”
“Latest? Do you get a lot of them?” Jennifer asked.
“Maybe a dozen or so a year,” Dr. Singh replied nonchalantly, “but they aren’t classified as John or Jane Doe for very long. In the majority of the cases, a missing person report