The Surgeon's New-Year Wedding Wish. Laura Iding
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was pulseless electrical activity, which basically meant the kid was bleeding to death. Or he’d already herniated his brain from all the fluids they’d given during the trauma resuscitation.
“Bolus him with epi, I found the arterial bleed.” At least she’d found one of them, though she suspected there could be more.
“I already bolused him with epinephrine several times. Now he’s in a wide complex rhythm.”
“No!” Leila didn’t so much as glance at the heart monitor, keeping her gaze focused on what she was doing. One more stitch and she’d have the artery closed off. Then she could take a look at his spleen. Maybe that was the other major source of his bleeding.
Finishing with the artery, she quickly switched the focus of her exploration on the area of his spleen, cutting the splenic artery in an effort to minimize the blood loss. But once the artery was open, she realized the blood wasn’t pulsing at all, but simply oozing at a slow rate.
Horrified, she glanced up at the monitor, realizing it was too late.
“Didn’t you hear me, Leila?” Dirk asked. “I said he’s gone.”
She momentarily squeezed her eyes closed and dropped her chin to her chest. She hadn’t heard, hadn’t wanted to believe what her professional eyes were telling her. After taking a moment to compose herself, she lifted her head and glanced at the clock. “Time of death 1:32 a.m.”
There was nothing more they could have done. She knew it, yet that didn’t make the prospect of telling Anton’s parents that their seventeen-year-old son was dead any easier.
When she returned to the ED, Quinn immediately crossed over, although he stopped abruptly when he saw by her expression that the news wasn’t good.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a weary tone. “I did the bilateral fasciotomies, but he had a severely fractured kidney, a ruptured spleen and so much other internal damage along with his head injury that I just couldn’t save him.”
Quinn stood there for a long moment, his jaw clenched, his gaze dark and resigned as he gave a brief nod. “I’ll talk to his parents.”
She wasn’t sure why, maybe because he seemed to be taking the news so hard, but she reached out to touch him. “I’m the surgeon of record. I should do it.”
As still as a statue, he stared at her hand on his arm as if it was something he’d never seen before and then finally raised tortured eyes to hers. “We’ll both go,” he said in a low, gruff voice.
Surprised by his acquiescence, she simply nodded and walked alongside him to the small private waiting room he’d given to the boy’s parents, not far from the larger public one.
His mother took one look at them and promptly burst into tears.
Quinn opened his mouth, but no sound emerged from his throat. He swallowed hard and sent Leila a silent plea for help.
Leila stepped up. “My name is Dr. Ross. I took Anton for emergency surgery, but he had too many injuries, to his spleen, his kidneys and his brain. I’m so sorry to tell you, he’s gone.”
“No-o-o,” wailed the mother, collapsing onto her husband for support. When Anton’s father broke into harsh sobs, his large shoulders shaking with grief, Leila felt her own eyes well up, too.
This part of her job never got any easier. Never.
“Why did he do this?” Anton’s mother asked. “Why?”
Again she had no answers. She glanced toward Quinn, whose face was drawn so tight he almost looked angry, but the agonized expression in his gaze reinforced his struggle to hide his own grief and helplessness.
“It’s not your fault,” Quinn finally said, taking a step forward to put a reassuring hand on the sobbing woman’s shoulder. “Please know, this isn’t your fault.”
“It has to be our fault!” The woman cried, nearly incoherent in her distress. “How could we not have known he was so unhappy? How could we have missed it?”
“It’s not your fault,” Quinn repeated.
“Teen suicide is very tragic,” Leila said in a soft tone, picking up a pamphlet from the rack of educational brochures on the wall. “It’s normal to feel responsible, but you need to know Dr. Torres is right. This isn’t your fault.” She slid the pamphlet toward Anton’s mother. “There’s a support group here for parents just like you. When things calm down after a few weeks, please consider giving them a call.”
Anton’s mother continued to cry and didn’t take the brochure. Anton’s father pulled himself together, the gut-wrenching sobs eventually quieting, and he reached for the information, folding the pamphlet before sliding it in his pocket. Leila sincerely hoped they’d get the help they needed.
After a few more minutes, she and Quinn left them alone. The ED nurses would keep an eye on the parents and for now their job was over.
“That was a rough one,” Leila murmured to Quinn. “He was so young.”
“Any suicide is rough, regardless of how young the patient is,” Quinn said in a harsh tone. “Suicide is a horrible thing to do to a family.”
Shocked by his outburst, she didn’t know what to say.
Instantly, his face changed, resuming the remote, cold mask he normally wore. “Excuse me, but I need to make rounds on the other patients in the arena.”
He left and Leila stared after him, the brief moment of camaraderie between them having vanished in a heartbeat.
Yet she wasn’t angry or upset. As she watched him move toward the arena and speak to the charge nurse, she found herself wondering about the enigmatic physician.
Because she was fairly certain Quinn Torres wasn’t nearly as arrogant and rude as she’d originally thought.
She was beginning to realize his outward aloofness might be a shield to hide the suffering he was feeling inside.
Chapter Two
QUINN tried not to dwell on Anton Mayer’s death as he finished the remainder of his work and prepared to head home. He’d split the night shift with Jadon Reichert who’d come in to relieve him at three in the morning to cover Simon Carter’s holiday. It was only fair, as Simon had worked the night shift on Christmas Eve.
Physically exhausted and emotionally drained, he crawled into bed, hoping to get at least four hours of sleep before he had to get up to face the day.
Yet as soon as he closed his eyes, the image of Anton’s bloody face bloomed in his mind. Squeezing his eyes tight and trying to push it away didn’t help because he could still hear the desperate sobs of Anton’s parents echoing through the room as Leila told them Anton was gone.
The young man’s death haunted him.
He didn’t need a psychiatrist to explain why. He knew full well the events of the night reminded him too much of his wife, Celeste. She hadn’t jumped off a two-story building onto concrete, but she’d died by her own hand just the same, abruptly ending her young life far too soon.
He’d resented reliving the grief and angst all over again while talking to Anton’s parents. Knowing you should have saved someone and hadn’t was an awful feeling. He’d known exactly what dark hopelessness they’d felt.
Thank heavens for Leila. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if she hadn’t come with him. She’d been the one who’d given them the bad news. And she’d also cried with them, while he’d stood and helplessly watched.
And then she’d tried to comfort him, and he’d snapped at her. He’d learned in the months since Celeste’s death that rudeness and arrogance kept people away.
So why did he regret the way he’d spoken to Leila?
Scrubbing his hands