Electronic versions of JSNMA back issues through Summer 2008.
Last night, my first patient died. Well, she was the first patient that died whom I was actually following. Sure, I have recollections of the late 20-something years-old guy who came to the trauma bay at Baystate dead on arrival from a gunshot wound to the head. I remember his brother, another casualty of the night, coming in just after him, occupying the same place in the trauma bay on a different stretcher asking, no, pleading with us to tell him where his brother was. No one wanted to break the news that his beloved brother was zipped up in a bag, with his body still on the stretcher just next door where the curtain was drawn. However, in the midst of this tragic family drama, life in the emergency room continued.
New freshly pressed clothes, new woodened desks, new unopened books, new kind teacher, new school, and a few new friends were all I was greeted with on my first day of third grade. A few days into this excitingly new environment, I contracted the chicken pox virus and was enjoying a few days at home, watching television and trying not to scratch. One night, while trying to walk to the bathroom, I stumbled and fell. The world was spinning and I did not know why. I called out to my parents for help. My father came quickly and carried me into my parents’ room. I had a fever of 101oF. My mother gave me Tylenol and drove me to the city hospital. Soon after I was admitted, I rapidly slipped into a coma.