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Early August 2002, Boston, Massachusetts Trauma alert STAT...trauma admitting. Trauma alert STAT...trauma admitting. Trauma alert STAT... Dr. KT O'Bannon sprinted down the crowded hall toward the trauma bay at Boston Hospital, dodging stretchers, visitors, and hospital personnel with the agility that had made her an All-State hurdler in college, one hand pressing the stethoscope draped around her neck against her chest to prevent it from flying off. The emergency call being broadcast through the overhead speakers was the sixth trauma alert of the day. That's what happened on weekends in the summer, especially when the weather was as hot as it was this particular Saturday evening. Drivers were short-tempered and drove too quickly on roads that were too congested for even the normal speed limit. People partied too hard and too often in backyards and bars, becoming victims of accidents and assaults. And of course, there were always those individuals who chose to settle their disputes with knives and guns rather than fists. Regardless of the mechanism of injury—vehicular, blunt, or penetrating—KT handled them all. And she loved it. Loved the excitement of never knowing what challenge the next crisis might present, the rush of being on the firing line—of being the one making the life-and-death calls—and the incredible high of beating the odds one more time and snatching another life from the jaws of death. Security STAT...trauma admitting. Security STAT...trauma admitting. Security STAT...trauma admitting. KT hesitated for only a second, wondering at the unusual request, before she shouldered through the double doors of the trauma admitting area. Unlike the emergency room proper, which was partitioned into multiple curtained cubicles for the treatment of patients with minor injuries or medical problems of all types, the trauma area was designed as a fully-functioning operating room. As such, it consisted of a single, forty-by-forty foot room with several adjustable padded operating tables aligned in the middle of the space beneath huge circular overhead halogen lights. Every available inch along the walls was occupied by bins of supplies and instruments, including full surgical packs containing all the instruments required to perform any type of invasive surgery. There was even a power drill to perform a craniotomy—the removal of a section of the skull in the event that it was necessary to relieve acute pressure on the brain. Even though KT did not know what life-threatening problem awaited her, the basic routine, repeated thousands of times over the past fifteen years, was so familiar that the natural surge of anxiety incited by the disembodied voice over the hospital intercom system was softened to a distant thunder in the background of her consciousness. She did know with absolute certainty that the nurses, residents, EMTs, and trauma techs would already have the resuscitation well underway, functioning efficiently without her direction. Establishing the ABCs of resuscitation—airway, breathing, circulation—was second nature to even rank beginners after a few days in the trauma unit. In all likelihood, an endotracheal tube would already have been placed into the trachea to deliver oxygen, IVs started to augment blood volume and support circulation, and drainage tubes inserted into the bladder and stomach to monitor output and control secretions. Her greatest contribution was going to be organizing and prioritizing treatment, including managing the often complicated drug therapy, and performing whatever urgent surgical intervention might be needed to control hemorrhage or maintain an airway. Mentally gearing herself for battle, KT swept the room with a confident gaze and a split-second later realized that something was terribly wrong. A patient did lie on the table in the center of the room—a middle-aged Asian male whose short-sleeved, checked shirt was soaked with blood—but the usual milling mass of individuals who made up the trauma team and who should be surrounding him were absent. Instead, three women and two men huddled in a semi circle on the far side of the room facing the door that KT had just barreled through, and they all appeared to be staring at another man, his back to KT, who jittered from foot to foot at the base of the patient’s bed. “What’s going on?” KT said abruptly as she started forward. She didn’t even have time to flinch away when the standing man pivoted sharply and slashed her right cheek with a long, thin-bladed knife. Shocked more by the absurdity of the act than the pain, KT jerked to a halt. “What—” Out of the corner of her eye she saw the knife arcing back—a glinting slice of deadly silver, and this time it was headed for her throat. She did the only thing she could. She blocked the weapon with her open hand. The blade, honed to a razor's edge, sliced with terrible efficiency across her palm. Someone screamed in the distance. KT’s vision wavered as blood splattered her face and chest. Her legs were suddenly so weak that she dropped to her knees. The sudden change in position probably saved her life, because the next thrust of the knife passed high over her left shoulder without touching her. Then as she hunched forward, cradling her injured hand against her chest in an attempt to stop the bleeding, the room exploded into pandemonium. Three security guards burst through the doors amidst chaotic shouts and the clatter of instrument trays being knocked to the floor. Kneeling in the center of the room, surrounded by the glittering stainless steel instruments and swatches of blood, KT was unaware of her assailant being subdued and dragged away, oblivious to the blood streaming steadily down her face, soaking into her scrub shirt, and pooling on the floor between her legs, unconscious of the frantic voices calling her name. Her attention was riveted to her hand. Her befuddled mind couldn't make sense of what she saw in the depths of the wound, but in the core of her being, she knew. "Oh god,” she whispered. “Oh god, oh god...I can't move my fingers.” Excerpt courtesy of Radclyffe © Radclyffe 2004
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