Phoenix Fatale

1 Critical Condition Pearland, Texas, south of Houston Late September “Dammit! Where’s my blood type? She’s going to bleed out,” said Dr. Ken Brantley -- the attending E.R. physician at the Pearland Medical Center -- to a team of frantic medical personnel. “Tell the lab to expedite. Let’s do a CVC, chem panel, and tox screen to see if she’s on anything. Where the hell did she come from anyway? If she didn’t get here by ambulance, how did we get her?” There was no answer. “Doctor, her face," a young nurse said. "My God, look at her face.” She wrung her hands as she backed away. “Animals,” came his reply. “The damage to her facial structure is the least of her problems right now. We’ve got to get her stable. Kelly, get back over here. She’s not going to hurt you.” But the young nurse froze, her eyes wide. Dr. Brantley quieted his tone and tried again. “Kelly, she’s a person. She’s a human being with a mother and a father and people who love her. She needs your help.” The nurse complied. “Doctor,” yelled a lab technician from across the room, “she’s type O-positive. The chem panel and tox screen will be out momentarily.” “All right, let's start her on two liters of O-positive with lactated ringers. I don’t like the look of this,” he said. “Her blood pressure is dropping, people. She’s losing blood somewhere.” He glanced at the heart monitor. It painted a jagged line across the screen. “She’s tacky. s**t, she’s going into V-fib! Get the crash cart. Charge, three hundred.” The fledgling nurse stared at him, again frozen. “Kelly!” His thunderous voice awakened her from a state of mental vapor-lock. Kelly spun around, grabbed the defibrillator cart, and wheeled it into position. “Charging three hundred,” she said across shaky vocal cords. The doctor took the paddles, applied them to the young female patient’s chest and yelled, “Clear!” The body rocked upward as everyone studied the heart monitor. “Thank God. Normal sinus rhythm. That was close.” “Chem panel toxicology results are back," a technician said “Well, what is it?” “No barbiturates or other illegal narcotics, but she drew a positive test for Rohypnol.” “Roofies. Son of a b***h, the date rape drug. Somebody ought to find the thug that did this to her and kick his ass.” “Looks like someone’s way ahead of you, doc,” said the same lab tech. “Just saw a bunch of cops come in with the medics. They’re bringing in four more, males, unconscious. Pretty banged up from the looks of them. Ambulance driver said he doesn’t know anything about our female patient here, but he picked up the others at a biker bar.” “Well maybe there is a little justice in the world,” Dr. Brantley said. He took an ultrasound wand in his hand, pressed it into the woman's abdomen and rotated it from one side to the next. “Call Surgery. Tell them we’re sending one up.” “What is it?” Kelly said. “Here, learn something. See this?” he said as he pointed at the ultrasound monitor. “That’s her spleen. See the cloudy area here, on the edge? That’s a rupture. Tell the O.R. we’ve got to expedite on this one. This young lady is going to be lucky if she survives the night.” As the staff wheeled the patient from the room, the physician turned and said, “Now, let's go take a look at the thugs.”