Free Weekends at Bellevue by Julie Holland Page B

pulled the phone out of the wall while she was trying to call the cops, beat her up, and choked her until she was blue, all the while telling her that he was going to kill her because he loved her. She explains how all of this happened because she went out with some other guy and told my patient they were through. Her father had to pull him off of her and hold him down until the police came and arrested him. He was eventually released from custody, and by then she had gotten the order of protection. She thinks this will protect her, but here’s another thing I’ve learned at Bellevue: An order of protection does not actually protect you. It’s a court order, not a magical shield around your apartment. (I always abbreviate it as OOPs! when I take notes during a sign-out.)
    She goes on to explain that he’s been harassing her by phone and threatening her life every time he contacts her, so … no, she does not feel safe if he is discharged. As a matter of fact, he’s been calling her from our ER, telling her that he’s on his way over there to finish the job as soon as he’s released.
    I document his exact words in the chart: “You’re dead. You are dead when I get there, do you hear me? I am coming over there to kill you. I don’t care: I’ll do the twenty-five to life.”
    Honestly, I marvel at this guy’s balls. He’s in a hospital ER, talking on the patient phone in a public area, steps away from the hospital policeman sitting at his desk, and he’s threatening his ex-girlfriend’s life. The HP on tonight, Rocky, is collapsed in the corner as usual, reading his body-building magazine, oblivious. I call the local police precinct and explain the situation, and they ask me to detain the patient until they can arrive. It is a felony to violate an order of protection.
    I call the girlfriend back and let her know that the patient will be locked up, first at Bellevue in our ER, and then downtown at central booking, so she is safe for now. She is crying and thanking me and telling me I have saved her life, which is very sweet. And possibly true.
    I sit at the desk in the nurses’ station for a moment, feeling relieved that this story will have a happy ending, sort of. (There’s no white knight and swooning princess, but at least no one gets killed.) I came pretty close to discharging this guy without calling anyone. He was initially held because he told someone he was suicidal. Once the drugsleft his system, he denied suicidal ideation, and typically that would be enough to get the ball rolling on a discharge.
    The thing is … it isn’t just the issue of danger to self, it is also the possibility of danger to others that allows me—and compels me, even as I’m trying to “clean up the area”—to retain a patient against his will. I need to cover all the bases. He denies suicidality, fine, but what else? If I had let this guy go, I have no doubt he would have gone back over to her apartment and killed his girlfriend, or attempted to. And it would have been because I thought he was fine to leave, and was in too much of a hurry to bother with due diligence.
    I go into the holding area to tell the patient that the police are coming to get him.
    “How can you believe her over me?” he whines. “I just love her so much.”
    To which I reply, “You’ve got a funny way of showing your love, pal.” I spin around, thus ending our conversation with a bit of dramatic flair. I am a couple of steps away from the nurses’ station when I hear a WHUMP!
    I turn to see Chuck, the large male nurse who is a dead ringer for Kenny Rogers. He is kneeling on the floor with his elbow poised over Mr. DiCarlo’s Adam’s apple.
    “I told you I had a bad feeling about this guy,” Chuck grunts. Seeing the patient following me into the doorway of the nurses’ station and assuming he was about to attack me, Chuck put his arm around the guy’s torso and flipped him onto the ground quick as a flash.
    “Chuck, you are my hero, ya