They call the "trauma team." I counted 17 people in the room getting everything ready. Emergency doctors, trauma surgeons, an anaesthesiologist, nurses, a radiographer. The resident I'm with is in charge of managing the patient's airway. Everyone, including me, wears what amounts to a blue trash bag and face shield.
There's a tv in the ER that monitors the helipad, and another that monitors the dedicated elevators. We see a light appear on the helipad, the helicopter swoop down, the stretcher rushed to the elevator.
They wheel him into the room. 10 people simultaneously pounce on him in perfect synchrony, inserting needles into his groin, arms, legs - any place they can pump more fluid into him. The team leader stands at the foot of the bed directing everything. They examine every inch of him. The kid has a tube down his throat, another in his lungs. A nurse breathes for him with a squeeze bag. They give him medicines to relieve pain, to paralyze his muscles, and to increase blood pressure. Every drug is loudly called out after it's given. I look sheepishly from the corner of the room, and start to feel light-headed. I have to leave the room and sit down.
After 15 minutes, he's no longer actively dying. They quickly wheel him to the CT scanner with a nurse chasing after him, holding all the bags of fluid above him.
The table moves back and forth, passing the kid's limp body through what looks to be a giant donut. Within three minutes, I'm looking at a reconstruction of his entire body, slice by slice. We can see the full extent of his injuries - broken everything. Broken neck. Lung, liver, and spleen contusions. Broken ribs. Damaged major lung blood vessel. Shattered pelvis. Broken femur, etc. No wonder he's bleeding so quickly. Head looks ok though. I silently wonder if he was wearing a helmet.
They prepare an OR. The surgeons will be working late tonight.
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