Page 9 of Resuscitation
In the far corner, across from the small dining table in what passed for a living room but barely had space for a TV stand and coffee table, they found Thomas slumped in his worn recliner, his face a ghastly blue-gray color, sweating and barely conscious.
Prescription bottles were piled on an end table, and to one side of the recliner stood a cane, which Blake had never seen Thomas actually use. He was a proud man—one of the reasons why, when he called, they always knew it was serious. Thomas would never waste their time, not like some of their frequent flyers who really were just lonely and wanted company.
“Thomas, we’re here,” Blake assured him. The old man was almost totally blind, and Blake didn’t want to startle him. He was rewarded by the old man’s eyes flickering open, focusing as best they could on Blake.
He and Alyssa went into a familiar routine, one which they had performed on many previous visits.
While Alyssa listened to his heart and lungs, Blake checked Thomas’s vitals and attached the chest leads and hooked Thomas up to the monitor. “Now I’m going to check your pulse oximetry.” He clipped the pulse ox over Thomas’s forefinger. “Heart rate 122, sats 92,” he told Alyssa as he placed an oxygen mask over Thomas’s face.
She nodded, removed her stethoscope. “Thomas, we’re going to send an EKG to the hospital while I check your blood sugar.”
Blake knew her words were as much for him as for Thomas. As they shifted position, Blake worked the monitor to record and send the EKG while Alyssa slid the glucometer from a pocket of her bag.
“Let’s sit you up, Thomas.” She helped the old man up. His color was better with the oxygen and he was more awake now. She swiped an alcohol pad over his finger tip. “A little prick.”
“Never been called that before,” Thomas said, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask.
Blake could tell he was trying to make light of the whole thing, but he still didn’t look good. Not the Thomas Blake had come to care for.
“I would never be so rude,” she replied. The tiny needle released a droplet of blood. Alyssa pressed the test strip to collect the blood and waited for the result. The glucometer beeped three times—a warning that the measurement was out of normal limits.
“Thirty-eight.” Alyssa opened their med kit and grabbed the glucagon, deftly drawing it up into a syringe. “Okay, we can work with that. Blake, see if there’s any juice in his fridge. If not, we’ll start an IV here instead of waiting until we’re in the rig. And check his insulin supply.”
“You’re gonna be just fine, Thomas,” Blake said as he moved to the kitchen.
“You know the drill, Thomas,” Alyssa said, holding up the syringe. “Where do you want it? Thigh, butt, or arm? You’re so damn bony, it’s gonna hurt wherever I give it.”
In answer, he tugged at his shirt, trying to extract his arm but getting tangled in the oxygen tubing. Alyssa helped him open his shirt far enough that she could reach his deltoid muscle. He made a small groan when she injected the medicine.
Alyssa tossed the sharps in the disposal bin, then circled her fingers around his wrist, feeling his pulse. She could’ve just have easily read his heart rate from the monitor, but Blake knew she preferred the human touch. She always said she could tell a lot from how a patient’s pulse felt, more than just counting their heart beat. “Better, already much better.”
Blake pressed a glass of OJ into Thomas’s hand and showed Alyssa his insulin doses, arrayed in two trays, one for evening, one for morning. Diabetes had ravaged Thomas’s eyesight; he wasn’t totally blind but the tiny numbers on insulin needles were too much for him to read, so he relied on the county health worker to measure out his dosages for the days between dialysis. Blake tapped the morning tray—there were two missing syringes.
“My fault,” Thomas muttered, pushing aside the oxygen to sip at the OJ.
“Grabbed a morning syringe with the higher dose, instead of your evening one?” Alyssa’s tone was gentle. “Honest mistake. I’m glad you called us when you did.” She glanced at the monitor and took the oxygen off. “Drink.”
As he obeyed, downing the OJ, she glanced around the apartment. “You know, Thomas, I think this place needs a serious makeover. It’s starting to look like a set from a B-rated horror movie.”
Thomas chuckled.
Almost back to normal, Blake thought. Almost.
“Horror movie? More like a classic! Every item here tells a story. Like that old lamp,” Thomas said, gesturing to a tarnished piece that had seen better days. “That’s from when we first got married.”
“When was that again?” Alyssa asked. She was testing his orientation and memory, but doing it in a much nicer way than asking who the president was and the day of the week.
“July 1st, 1973. A sweltering day in Manhattan. At the reception, the AC was down. Fans blowing every which way, but they didn’t help. Rose was so happy, though.” His smile was laced with regret, and Alyssa touched his shoulder with quiet sympathy. “And all I cared about was that I had her.”
“She was a beautiful woman,” Blake offered, glancing at one of the many photographs.
“She was, she was,” Thomas said quietly.
“Hey, you two stop. I’ll be sobbing all the way back to the ER, the way you’re carrying on,” Alyssa interjected.
“Do I have to go?” Thomas asked. “I’m feeling better.”
“That glucagon’s gonna wear off, and you know with your kidneys, you don’t respond as well when your sugar gets out of whack,” she reminded him. “Besides, don’t you need to go to Potsdam for dialysis anyway? When’s your appointment?”
