Free Angels in the ER by Robert D. Lesslie

our early morning.
    “ER, this is Medic 2.”
    Lori had been checking the medication log. She put the leather-bound notebook on the counter and walked over to the radio.
    Picking up the phone she responded. “Medic 2, this is the ER. Go ahead.”
    “ER, we’ve got an eighty-two-year-old lady here, auto accident. Full cardiac arrest. She’s intubated, no response to any medications. CPR in progress. Should be there in five. Any further orders?”
    Lori looked over to me for a response. I shook my head.
    “No, Medic 2. Continue CPR. Trauma room on arrival.”
    “10-4.” The radio fell silent.
    Lori and I walked across the hallway to the trauma room to make the usual preparations.
    “See, I told ya,” Amy intoned prophetically. “I’ll call the lab and X-ray.”
    “Thanks,” I said. This didn’t sound too promising. The chances of survival for this unfortunate woman were very small. Her age, the lack of response to rescue efforts, and the probability this trauma had come from an auto accident all portended a fatal outcome.
    It turned out the circumstances surrounding this elderly patient were not what we had assumed. She had been driving her husband to see his cardiologist for his monthly visit. He had a heart attack six months earlier and was doing well. She was enjoying good health and had no significant medical problems. They lived out in the country, on a farm that had been in their family for several generations.
    They had been driving into town this morning and she had started to rub her chest. Then she complained of indigestion, which she put down to a hastily prepared and consumed breakfast. Her husband didn’t think much of it until he noticed the car was beginning to veer a little toward the curb. He had glanced over at his wife and saw that her head was lolling from side to side. Before he could say or do anything, she had slumped over the steering wheel. The car had swervedcompletely off the road, slowing and gently coming to rest against a street lamp.
    A witness had called EMS, and within a few minutes we had received our call from Medic 2.
    She had apparently suffered a massive heart attack and was flat-line when she arrived in the ER. Despite our efforts, there was nothing we could do to change that. She was pronounced dead twenty minutes later.
    “Mr. Reid is in the family room, Dr. Lesslie,” Lori informed me. “He’s there by himself, but I think some family members have been called.”
    I was finishing my notes on his wife’s chart. “Thanks, Lori. I’ll be one more minute.”
    She didn’t move, but remained standing by my side. “Do you want me to go back there with you?” she asked.
    “No. Thanks, but I’ll be okay. Just send his family back when they get here.”
    I had Mrs. Reid’s clipboard in my hand as I stepped into the small family room. Mr. Reid was sitting on the sofa, his hands folded, his gaze fixed on the floor. He was a tall man, of medium build, with a face and neck wrinkled and weathered by many decades in the sun. He looked up as I entered.
    Fleetingly, the thought occurred that I needed to position myself between this man and the door. It was a protective reflex, Bill Blanchard’s lesson having been indelibly etched into my memory. But this was an eighty-year-old man, hardly a threat.
    I stepped across the small space and sat down beside him on the sofa. I shook his hand, and he somehow managed a faint attempt at a smile.
    “Mr. Reid,” I began. “I need to tell you about your wife.”
    He nodded slightly, his eyes telling me he already knew what I was going to say. He had known from the moment he had seen her slump over in the car.
    We talked for several minutes and then fell silent. He had sobbedfor a moment, and then collected himself. He was calm and somehow at peace.
    His eyes glistened as he said, “You know, she’s had a good life. A good family. Grandchildren that love her. But it hasn’t always been easy, workin’ a farm all these years. But