On the gurney lay a young woman the colour of white marble. The red pool between her legs, ominously free of clots, offered a silent explanation.
She arrived a few minutes ago. Not even a note. My resident was breathless with anger, adrenaline, and panic.
I had an idea who she went to. The same one the others did. The same one many more would visit. A doctor, but considering what I had seen he couldn’t have any formal gynaecology training. The only thing he offered that the well-trained providers didn’t was a cut-rate price. If you don’t know to ask, well, a doctor is a doctor. That’s assuming you are empowered enough to have such a discussion. I was also pretty sure his office didn’t offer interpreters.
I needed equipment not available in an emergency room. I looked at the emergency room attending.
Call the OR and tell them we need a room. Now. And then I turned to my resident. I was going to tell him to physically make sure a room, any room, was ready when we arrived, but he had already sprinted towards the stairs. He knew — via redwolf.newsvine.com