Drive time, interrupted
I was clipping down University this afternoon, a million thoughts on my mind. I had been hammering away at my (late) term paper all afternoon, and I had five hours to go home and finish the job.
As I neared the intersection of University and Andrews Highway, the screeching of tires suddenly snagged my attention. My eyes darted over to the oncoming lane, just in time to see a man.
A pickup truck.
Impact.
I've never witnessed anybody actually get run over. To be honest, I wasn't sure I'd seen what I thought I'd seen.
His neck, jerking violently. His body, flopping onto the pavement. The truck, unable to stop until yards later.
People slowed. Nobody seemed to be getting out. I looked at the body in the road. There was blood coming from his head, and he wasn't moving. He was a large fellow.
Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.
Where was the screaming coming from? The man lay still in the middle of the road. An onlooker was crouched over him, calmly.
My eyes trailed further into the distance, where the pickup had finally stopped. The driver had gotten out and was leaning his head against the vehicle, mouth agape, face contorted. Ah. So he was the one making the noise.
I was afraid to walk over to what seemed -- by all outward signs -- to be a corpse. I grabbed my cell phone and busied myself dialing 911. Now, another person -- a woman -- had joined the man in crouching over the body. Both took turns putting their fingers to his neck.
Seeing them touch him somehow helped me get my bearings. I strode across the street, trying to sputter a location to the emergency operator. All traffic had come to a stop. People were gawking from their vehicles.
As I approached, I saw his stomach. It was moving. "Is he breathing?" the 911 operator suddenly demanded. Although my phone was still up to my ear, I had forgotten about her.
"Tell them not to move him!" she ordered. I repeated her instructions to the man, a cowboy, and a second fellow, a college student -- who had been trying to help the injured man lift his head. He was blinking. He looked dazed.
That's when I really began to take him in.
The skin was split open from ankle to knee, along the inside of his right calf. I could see all the muscles and tendons beneath. It was pale pink, in contrast to his dark black skin. It reminded me of poultry at the grocery store.
The gash on his head was still bleeding, albeit not as badly as I'd initially thought.
I breathed a sigh of relief. That's when I saw the puddle. Dark, thick, soupy, red.
Growing.
My eyes darted down. I realized, to my horror, that the underside of the man's wrist was gone. Blood was pumping out onto the pavement in rhythmic spurts. For a moment, I was stunned, then fascinated.
"Um, don't we need to get a tourniquet on his arm?" I spoke up. All three pairs of eyes traveled down to the wound in question.
"Yeah, yeah we do," said the woman. I looked up, and noticed she was dressed in nurse's scrubs. She must have just come from work. "He could bleed out on us, if we don't."
Within seconds, someone had fished a rag out of a car. I worked to wrap it around the man's large, fleshy arm. It barely fit. "This isn't working," I intoned.
The cowboy quickly removed his belt, and offered it up.
We tried to keep the man talking. At one point, he grew silent, and his eyes fluttered and rolled up under the lids. "Hey! Talk to me," I snapped, alarmed. "Tell me your ABC's, or something." I kind of giggled at the last part. It seemed like a really stupid request of an injured man.
He turned his head and looked at me, through the cowboy's legs. His eyes seemed to focus once more, and he gave me a weak half-smile, as if he were trying to figure me out.
I could smell the alcohol in the air.
Several moments later, he tried to raise his arm. "No, no. Don't do that," the nurse warned him. "Your arm's broken. Stay with us, bud. Talk."
He continued to try to lift for a moment. As his arm raised, his hand flopped limply, making a sickly smacking noise in the blood puddle on the asphalt.
I winced.
"He's still bleeding pretty bad," the nurse observed.
The blood puddle had grown to about a quart's worth. Looking down at my hansd, I realized they were smeared with the sticky red stuff, from applying the tourniquet. For a brief second, I thought about bloodborne pathogens.
And then I felt ashamed for doing so.
* * *
I wasn't able to sleep very well tonight.
I called my dad around 1 a.m., knowing he'd probably still be awake. As a physician, he's dealt with more trauma than most people see in a lifetime. He listened to my story, then said softly, "You know you did the right thing, honey. If he lost a quart of blood, you assessed the situation correctly. He needed a tourniquet."
I wasn't so sure.
"What if I catch something from him? What if I put myself at risk?"
My dad sighed heavily. I knew that he had given mouth-to-mouth to scores of patients, some of whom had been vomiting blood beforehand.
"You did the right thing," he repeated. "I'm sorry you had to see that, honey."
* * *
Against my better judgment, I also called Jay. I knew he had worked the cops beat tonight.
Part of why I knew is that the OA reporter had not shown up on the scene while I was out there. Jay is notoriously slow to respond. Word among media friends is that he misses a lot of stuff, and he angers police when he *does* show up at the scene.
Still, I figured he would have covered the accident after the fact, by following up with the police and hospital personnel who handled it.
I couldn't get him to answer his phone, so I called Crosby. "Jesus," he exclaimed as I told him what had happened. "I'll call Jay and see if he'll answer for me. I'll find out for you."
When he called back, his voice was a bit calmer.
"Non-life-threatening injuries, cops say."
"Huh," I responded. "That's not what it looked like to the nurse and me. He lost an awful lot of blood."
"Really?" Crosby said. I could tell from his tone he was simply humoring me. "'Non-life-threatening' is what they told Jay."
I thought for a minute.
Maybe my dad was wrong. Maybe I didn't assess the situation correctly. But then again, on the other hand, maybe the tourniquet is what *made* the guy's injuries non-life-threatening.
I hung up and called my father again. He confirmed what I was thinking.
"Rapid blood loss is not a good thing," he told me. "If there was a quart out in the road, you handled the situation appropriately. It probably *would* have been life-threatening if someone hadn't pulled over and staunched that.
"You. Did. The. Right. Thing." He said the last words slowly, for emphasis, then paused, before adding: "Try to get a good night's sleep tonight, honey."
I told him I would.
But the thing is, I'm still trying. And not succeeding very well. I don't know if I handled things the right way or not.
I realized after the accident that I had a few slight hangnails. My mind immediately began working overtime.
I didn't *have* to put my hands in the guy's blood. I didn't *have* to be the one holding the tournequet. Maybe I should have let the nurse or the cowboy do it. Maybe I should have just dialed 911 and then left.
On the other hand, at least I was there. Which is more than I can say for the reporter who should have been. It's easy to talk trash when you're sitting on your butt, reading a faxed news release.
It's not so easy to sleep, when you've been bleaching blood off your hands all evening.
As I neared the intersection of University and Andrews Highway, the screeching of tires suddenly snagged my attention. My eyes darted over to the oncoming lane, just in time to see a man.
A pickup truck.
Impact.
I've never witnessed anybody actually get run over. To be honest, I wasn't sure I'd seen what I thought I'd seen.
His neck, jerking violently. His body, flopping onto the pavement. The truck, unable to stop until yards later.
People slowed. Nobody seemed to be getting out. I looked at the body in the road. There was blood coming from his head, and he wasn't moving. He was a large fellow.
Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.
Where was the screaming coming from? The man lay still in the middle of the road. An onlooker was crouched over him, calmly.
My eyes trailed further into the distance, where the pickup had finally stopped. The driver had gotten out and was leaning his head against the vehicle, mouth agape, face contorted. Ah. So he was the one making the noise.
I was afraid to walk over to what seemed -- by all outward signs -- to be a corpse. I grabbed my cell phone and busied myself dialing 911. Now, another person -- a woman -- had joined the man in crouching over the body. Both took turns putting their fingers to his neck.
Seeing them touch him somehow helped me get my bearings. I strode across the street, trying to sputter a location to the emergency operator. All traffic had come to a stop. People were gawking from their vehicles.
As I approached, I saw his stomach. It was moving. "Is he breathing?" the 911 operator suddenly demanded. Although my phone was still up to my ear, I had forgotten about her.
"Tell them not to move him!" she ordered. I repeated her instructions to the man, a cowboy, and a second fellow, a college student -- who had been trying to help the injured man lift his head. He was blinking. He looked dazed.
That's when I really began to take him in.
The skin was split open from ankle to knee, along the inside of his right calf. I could see all the muscles and tendons beneath. It was pale pink, in contrast to his dark black skin. It reminded me of poultry at the grocery store.
The gash on his head was still bleeding, albeit not as badly as I'd initially thought.
I breathed a sigh of relief. That's when I saw the puddle. Dark, thick, soupy, red.
Growing.
My eyes darted down. I realized, to my horror, that the underside of the man's wrist was gone. Blood was pumping out onto the pavement in rhythmic spurts. For a moment, I was stunned, then fascinated.
"Um, don't we need to get a tourniquet on his arm?" I spoke up. All three pairs of eyes traveled down to the wound in question.
"Yeah, yeah we do," said the woman. I looked up, and noticed she was dressed in nurse's scrubs. She must have just come from work. "He could bleed out on us, if we don't."
Within seconds, someone had fished a rag out of a car. I worked to wrap it around the man's large, fleshy arm. It barely fit. "This isn't working," I intoned.
The cowboy quickly removed his belt, and offered it up.
We tried to keep the man talking. At one point, he grew silent, and his eyes fluttered and rolled up under the lids. "Hey! Talk to me," I snapped, alarmed. "Tell me your ABC's, or something." I kind of giggled at the last part. It seemed like a really stupid request of an injured man.
He turned his head and looked at me, through the cowboy's legs. His eyes seemed to focus once more, and he gave me a weak half-smile, as if he were trying to figure me out.
I could smell the alcohol in the air.
Several moments later, he tried to raise his arm. "No, no. Don't do that," the nurse warned him. "Your arm's broken. Stay with us, bud. Talk."
He continued to try to lift for a moment. As his arm raised, his hand flopped limply, making a sickly smacking noise in the blood puddle on the asphalt.
I winced.
"He's still bleeding pretty bad," the nurse observed.
The blood puddle had grown to about a quart's worth. Looking down at my hansd, I realized they were smeared with the sticky red stuff, from applying the tourniquet. For a brief second, I thought about bloodborne pathogens.
And then I felt ashamed for doing so.
* * *
I wasn't able to sleep very well tonight.
I called my dad around 1 a.m., knowing he'd probably still be awake. As a physician, he's dealt with more trauma than most people see in a lifetime. He listened to my story, then said softly, "You know you did the right thing, honey. If he lost a quart of blood, you assessed the situation correctly. He needed a tourniquet."
I wasn't so sure.
"What if I catch something from him? What if I put myself at risk?"
My dad sighed heavily. I knew that he had given mouth-to-mouth to scores of patients, some of whom had been vomiting blood beforehand.
"You did the right thing," he repeated. "I'm sorry you had to see that, honey."
* * *
Against my better judgment, I also called Jay. I knew he had worked the cops beat tonight.
Part of why I knew is that the OA reporter had not shown up on the scene while I was out there. Jay is notoriously slow to respond. Word among media friends is that he misses a lot of stuff, and he angers police when he *does* show up at the scene.
Still, I figured he would have covered the accident after the fact, by following up with the police and hospital personnel who handled it.
I couldn't get him to answer his phone, so I called Crosby. "Jesus," he exclaimed as I told him what had happened. "I'll call Jay and see if he'll answer for me. I'll find out for you."
When he called back, his voice was a bit calmer.
"Non-life-threatening injuries, cops say."
"Huh," I responded. "That's not what it looked like to the nurse and me. He lost an awful lot of blood."
"Really?" Crosby said. I could tell from his tone he was simply humoring me. "'Non-life-threatening' is what they told Jay."
I thought for a minute.
Maybe my dad was wrong. Maybe I didn't assess the situation correctly. But then again, on the other hand, maybe the tourniquet is what *made* the guy's injuries non-life-threatening.
I hung up and called my father again. He confirmed what I was thinking.
"Rapid blood loss is not a good thing," he told me. "If there was a quart out in the road, you handled the situation appropriately. It probably *would* have been life-threatening if someone hadn't pulled over and staunched that.
"You. Did. The. Right. Thing." He said the last words slowly, for emphasis, then paused, before adding: "Try to get a good night's sleep tonight, honey."
I told him I would.
But the thing is, I'm still trying. And not succeeding very well. I don't know if I handled things the right way or not.
I realized after the accident that I had a few slight hangnails. My mind immediately began working overtime.
I didn't *have* to put my hands in the guy's blood. I didn't *have* to be the one holding the tournequet. Maybe I should have let the nurse or the cowboy do it. Maybe I should have just dialed 911 and then left.
On the other hand, at least I was there. Which is more than I can say for the reporter who should have been. It's easy to talk trash when you're sitting on your butt, reading a faxed news release.
It's not so easy to sleep, when you've been bleaching blood off your hands all evening.