On my way out of work today I saw a woman on the hospital staff laying on the ground. Standing above her I recognized her as the 5 Surg ward clerk who I had worked with earlier.

She was supine, head and long brown hair on the ground. The instincts kicked in -- the questions, the emergency algorithms, party experiences, old episodes of rescue 911 and 21 Jump Street -- it all surges throughout your body at moments like these. It flows through your veins like the pumping adrenaline. It's similar to those other tests. But it isn't a test.

Same scenario: body down. Different situation: No instructor.

Question #1

Hey, how are you doing?

Response:

(Lifts head slightly and rolls a little bit from side to side. Stairs into infinity. Monotone voice.) "Yeah, I'm okay. I'm just waiting down here for my husband."

Question #2

Did you fall?

Response:

"Yeah."

Question #3

Did you hit your head?


"No. I mean, yeah."


There must be a medical why reason this has happened.

Are you diabetic? [low blood sugar makes people act very intoxicated]

No.

(I check for medic alert bracelets.)



I quickly come to the conclusion that she's recently done some kind of narcotic. I look for needle tracks. I see a point in her left AC. She has recently shot up. Probably morphine or Ativan.



I've seen some pretty bad shit today and I'm emotionally fried. Kids with pumpkin shaped heads and bulging eyes, raw meaty wounds, teenage children of elvish stature, and hordes of innocents in extreme pain. But this takes first prize. She's got responsibility. She transfers the orders that I carry out. She's an adult for Christ's sake.

What the fuck?



And here she is, completely out of her gourd under 7:41 PM daylight.



In the distance there's a Rastafarian kitchen worker sitting on the concrete fence smiling like the Cheshire Cat.

Fucking bastard. You gave her the drugs, didn't you.

"Alice" appears safe. Breathing, albeit embarrassing.

I go inside to make a phone call from the ER. I dial the operator and she patches me up to 5 Surg.

"5 Surge, this is Debbie."

"Hey Debbie. Are you the ward clerk?

"Ward clerk. Charge nurse. I do them both. Same thing."

"You know that ward clerk that worked up there earlier today."

"Uh huh, (states name)."

"Well, I found her out front laying on the ground with a change in mental status. She looks drugged."

"Are you with her?"

"No, not right now. I think she's safe. She said her husband is on the way. I'll go back out and stay with her. Is she diabetic?"

"No, I don't think so. Maybe you should go stay with her."

"Okay. Will do. I just thought you should know."

"Okay. Thanks."

"Bye."

"Bye."

I go back outside and she's not there. I turn my eyes 360 degress. Nowhere. Maybe she was picked up.

This is Oakland.

I start crossing the street towards my car. A black man in a suit is trying to pass out fliers to drivers stuck in traffic. He offers one to me, but I decline. Ghetto apartment kids are playing in dirt lots.

From a distance I survey my car. The windows haven't been broken. It pays to have a ghetto car in a ghetto neighborhood. I climb into my car and take $2 out of my wallet for the nasty toll booth man.

I'm going to enjoy my three days off.