The Diary of Dr. Sara Dillane, M.D.

The Diary of Dr. Sara Dillane, M.D.

March 3rd, 08

            No one dies of a Myocardial Infarction in my ER and lives to tell about it. But, unless zombies are taking over New York, that’s exactly what happened.

            I worked him myself. I called his time of death myself. But, just before the end of shift, here comes Toby, my charge nurse, telling me that we have a problem, that our John Doe is missing.

            “But he’s dead.” I said like a moron, “I called it myself.”

            “And that is why,” he said, “I said we have a problem.”

            It all started on the subway around five. No, actually, I lied. The fact that I was even stepping off of the subway when my John Doe went down is even a fluke. I stepped out of my apartment, then out of my building on 49th, and sure enough, my car wouldn’t start. And, I’ll be damned if it doesn’t have a new battery and a new catalytic converter to the tune of several hundred dollars. I felt like Agassi would’ve if he’d lost the championship match at Wimbledon.

            In a stupid rush and a moment of absolute idiocy, I thought, Well, I’ll take the subway, it’ll be fine. I also vowed to deal with my mechanic later. For good measure, I gave my front right tire a stiff kick.

            So, avoiding the lecherous stares from the old Financial District businessmen, I rode to the stop just before the hospital, and as I was stepping off the train onto the platform, I heard someone scream. Several someones in fact.

            “Help!” A woman shrieked from just down the way as I began to push my way through the crowd bottlenecked at the doors; a young guy in a yellow hoodie with something gleaming in his hands shoved past me, although, in my sudden focus, I barely noticed him. My doctor senses were tingling -- somewhere nearby a life needed saving.

            As it always happens, a crowd of well-meaning bystanders got in my way. “It’s okay, I’m a nurse!” One broad shouted, holding up her hands to ward off any actual help.

            “That’s nice.” I had the presence to say as I knelt down next to the writhing John Doe, “I’m a doctor. Get out of my way.” As I felt his racing pulse at his neck, I instinctively brushed his light hair out of his eyes as gently as I could. He was handsome, very handsome, and he was dying.

            I realize now just how unnerving it was to see someone not five years older than myself pallid, and gasping for breath and clutching his chest on the floor of a subway platform, but then, I didn’t realize it. I was so focused on him and caring for him that the rest of the world -- the metallic rattle of subway cars pressing down their iron tracks, the woman on her cell phone calling 911, the construction workers pressing the crowd back to give us some room as their tools jostled in their suede belts -- seemed to melt away as my hands moved on the autopilot that comes with working in the emergency room of St. Francis Hospital, trying to keep check on John Doe’s vitals, calm his breathing and comfort him all at once.

            Soon, medics from the firehouse up the street thundered down the stairs, carrying an orange backboard between them. As they thudded around us, John Doe went pulse-less.

            I must have screamed something because one of the medics whom I vaguely recognized (Brian or Ryan or something from Twelves) yelled something else back to his crew as they moved him onto the backboard. We ran.

            In the back of the ambulance, one medic began bagging him, and I leapt, straddling his waist, and began compressions. John Doe remained lifeless.

            In the hospital, I worked him for almost an hour.

Shocking, shocking, shocking; “Clear!”

            Hands crossed over his unbeating heart on the cool, pale flesh of his strangely scarred chest; one, two, three. “Breathe!”