Hard To Breathe, page 17
part #2 of Drake Cody Series
“Hell, yes. He did it! Secure that tube. Whatever happens, do not lose that tube!” Paramedic's hands supported Drake's.
One medic secured the tube, the other placed a stethoscope on his chest.
“Wheezing but moving air. Blood pressure 100 and pulse 130. Let's roll.”
“Roger that, partner.”
In seconds, Drake lay in the back of the racing ambulance with IV fluids running and the siren screaming.
He could breathe. He had a blood pressure.
The paramedics had him.
He hadn't failed.
Chapter 36
ER, 7:24
Jim Torrins raced down the empty white hospital corridor toward the ER. He swiped his ID card and the automated doors whooshed open. He took a breath, composed himself, then strode toward the main desk. The corridor and Crash Room stood empty and quiet. Dr. Laura Vonser leaned on the central counter with a Styrofoam cup in her hand.
“Laura.”
“Hi, Dr. Torrins.” She raised the cup, swinging it in a “check it out” arc encompassing the near-empty department. “A nice morning.”
“Is Drake still here?”
“No. I got here early and it was quiet like this. He was able to escape on time.”
The “doctor to the radio” signal bleated overhead.
“Dang. I shouldn't have said the 'Q' word.” Laura set down her cup and headed for the radio.
The signal indicated paramedics needed to advise of an incoming critical patient. Laura covered the twenty feet to the radio closet, then hit the microphone's transmit key.
“Dr. Vonser here.”
“Ambulance 725 en route, code 3. Two minutes out. Adult male in anaphylactic shock. Intubated, blood pressure 90, pulse 130s after two doses epinephrine. IV in and saline wide open. Massive facial and airway swelling. Awake, wheezing, sats 90%.”
In Torrins' day-to-day administrative work, it was easy to forget the intensity of the life-or-death challenges the ER staff routinely faced. Just hearing the report made his mouth go dry and swallowing difficult.
“Our patient,” the paramedic's voice sounded strained, “is Doctor Cody. He was pulseless, in respiratory failure, and minimally responsive when we arrived—damn near dead. Giving 3rd epi now.”
“10-4. Crash bay two. Out.” Laura flipped the microphone away and turned toward the secretary, who stood with headphone on and finger poised over the paging line. “Med team stat, Crash Bay 2.”
The secretary's medical team stat call sounded overhead three times in succession as Laura made her way to and entered the Crash Room.
Jim moved to the back of the Crash Room, his throat tight. How could this be happening? Is there no limit to the bad stuff that can happen to Drake? Please don’t let him die.
Nurses, techs, and others appeared as Laura ripped back the curtain, exposing the cart and array of monitors and instruments. Jim watched as she turned on the high intensity lights, then pulled on a gown and gloves. The Life clock above the head of the bed ticked off the seconds since the ambulance call.
Jim stood near the foot of the next bay as the practiced ER professionals prepared. Drake Cody in anaphylactic shock—the lethal extreme of allergic reactions. Unreal.
What had Drake done to deserve the waves of disaster that slammed into his life?
The Crash Room doors banged open as the paramedic team rushed the cart in.
Jim's stomach plunged. My God! Is that him?
Mottled red skin and a hugely swollen face with the white plastic ET tube extending from the mouth atop a massively swollen tongue. It was like nothing Jim had ever seen.
Laura jumped to Drake's side and leaned close, a hand on his shoulder.
“We've got you, Drake. We've got you.”
As horrendous as the scene, as desperate the situation, Jim felt the confidence in the emergency physician’s words.
They had Drake.
The ER would keep Drake alive, but there'd be no way he could react to a warning from Jim about the university's plan to steal his breakthrough research. So unfair. Not enough time. If only...
Jim switched gears in an instant. He pulled out his phone. He knew who to call.
***
“We've got you, Drake. We've got you.”
Dr. Laura Vonser's words were beautiful. Almost as beautiful as the plastic tube jammed down his throat.
The airway tube. The wonderful, horrible tube.
How did patients stand it? He thought of Jon Malar's days in the ICU. Drake's muscles convulsed as the device triggered another reflex cough. The tube felt like a medieval torture device, but God he loved it. He could breathe!
Dr. Vonser spoke to Mike, one of the ER nurses. “Versed 3 milligrams IV slow.”
Mike leaned forward with a syringe.
Drake covered the IV site with his hand and shook his head. He couldn't be drugged now.
Mike looked at Dr. Vonser.
“Are you thinking clearly, Drake?” she asked. “You know the drill. Are you capable of making informed decisions about your care? Do you understand the risks and benefits and what is happening?”
He nodded.
“Okay then. What's the capital of Nova Scotia?”
Drake flipped up his middle finger.
Dr.Vonser and Mike laughed. “Yeah. He's at baseline,” she said.
She leaned close to Drake.
“You scared the shit out of a lot of folks, Drake Cody.” She nodded toward the hall. A crowd had formed around the Crash Room entry and stretched along its glass wall. She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “No more disasters. Okay?”
The concerned faces of paramedics, nurses, techs, secretaries, housekeeping, and other staff lined the full-length glass partition.
Tears filled his eyes. So lucky to be part of such a special group of people. So lucky to be alive. He wanted to hug the paramedics and everyone else. He raised a hand and gave a thumbs-up.
Smiles flashed and muffled cheers sounded.
***
With each minute, Drake found the act of breathing through the tube easier. He did not have a ventilator. His lungs had opened. The epinephrine and other treatments had reversed the cascade of his deadly allergic reaction.
He could move his tongue now. He put a hand to his face. His skin no longer felt like it was made of vinyl. The swelling was resolving. He'd received steroids, antihistamines, albuterol, and fluids. His blood pressure and thinking had returned to near normal.
Clearer thinking brought awareness. Once again he'd been on the threshold of dying.
What did it mean? Had he thought of his soul? At the critical point he'd felt urgency. He had to fight. Rachelle, the kids, his mother, Rizz, Jon—they needed him. He'd already failed too many people.
He’d been close to dead but he’d not seen a white light. No glimpse of what lay beyond. He’d visited hard memories. Drake had been raised to believe in God but hated much of His handiwork. Why so much horrific suffering? Would Drake have paid for his wavering faith?
Someone stepped from the back of the Crash Room. Jim Torrins pocketed his phone as he approached. Lately the soft-spoken administrator bore nothing but grim news.
Everything had already gone to shit. There couldn't be much more bad news to share. He appreciated that the generally distant Torrins had come to check on him.
Torrins huddled with Laura. Drake overheard parts of their exchange.
“Is he out of the woods?” Torrins asked.
“This should be written up—it’s incredible,” she said. “Before the squad got there he drove an ampule of frozen epi into his arm, then crushed it so it could be absorbed. Even with that, he had no blood pressure when they got to him. He was unconscious with minimal pulse. They say his swelling was even worse.”
“Worse?” Torrins said.
“The paramedics hit him with more epi. His consciousness improved but his airway failed. He was blue and dying. His tongue and tissues were so swollen they had no way to get an airway tube in.” She shook her head. “Drake was purple. He grabbed the tube and jammed it through. He blind intubated himself.”
“Good God.”
“Without the epinephrine ampule or the self-intubation, he'd have died. Heck, now with some luck, we might be able to get the tube out in a few hours,” Laura said.
Their talk became background as Drake tried to get his mind right. He'd had a thought before the allergic reaction started but it eluded him now. He almost had it but then it slipped away again—like a word he knew but could not retrieve. What had it been? Something important.
D-44. That was it. A way he could take care of everyone.
Chapter 37
Minneapolis, 7:45 a.m.
The Metro Mobility van turned onto Washington Avenue. Rizz had nearly completed the Courage Center modified vehicle driving course. If necessary, soon he could get his own specially equipped transport. For now, the metro van service worked well, getting him where he needed to go. His transport to the hospital would take less than ten minutes.
His wheelchair was locked down and a restraint ran over his waist area. He was the only passenger.
His head felt fuzzy and his eyes a bit irritated. Unless he got flaming-piss hammered, this was as much of a “hangover” as he ever experienced.
The driver wore a parka and a thick wool hat and mittens. He'd looked to be freezing as he'd loaded Rizz into the van.
“What's your name?”
“My name is Vang.” The driver smiled, then looked over his shoulder for an opening in traffic.
“You're Hmong. I'm guessing you came to Minnesota in 1975. Just a kid then, right?”
“How did you know that?” Vang halted his effort to pull into traffic.
“ER doctor magic.” Rizz shrugged. “You look Hmong. Your hat and scarf is Hmong weave and color. You seem just a bit too old to be U.S. born. Most people don't remember that the reason the Hmong people had to leave their homeland was because they were fierce U.S. allies. They fought alongside American soldiers. 1975 is when most Hmong families made it to Minnesota.”
Vang turned, nodding. “You're pretty smart.”
“No argument there.” Rizz laughed.
Vang smiled, then turned back to look for an opening. Rizz's cell phone sounded. He retrieved it from his lap bag. “Michael Rizzini here.”
“Dr. Rizzini, er, Rizz, Jim Torrins here.”
“Jim. What can I do for you?” Rizz made it a point to call all administrators and department heads by their first name. He avoided titles showing deference to any in a position of presumed or actual authority. Why is Torrins calling me?
“I'm standing in the Crash Room. Drake Cody is being treated for anaphylactic shock. He—”
“What the—”
“He's stable. But he's intubated.”
“Shit! Is—”
“Just listen.” Torrins sounded nothing like his usual laid-back self. “Dr. Vonser says he's out of the woods. There's something important you need to know right away.”
“Laura's got him? Good.” What's as important as Drake intubated?
“The university filed an ownership claim on the D-44 research. They're going to seize the contents of your lab.” Rizz heard disgust in Torrins' voice.
“Any idea when?” Rizz said. The greedy, sleazy shitheads!
“Right now—this morning. Have you got an attorney?”
As of yesterday, they had an attorney. S. Lloyd Anderson had been out last night with Rizz. They'd talked some strategy and had a number of cocktails. Lloyd had speculated about the university claiming the research.
“Jim, if Laura says Drake is good, I'm headed for the lab.” The university chemical storehouse building was in north Minneapolis, no more than fifteen minutes away. “Don't mention any of this to Drake. He doesn't need this now.”
Rizz stretched forward, his finger just reaching the driver's shoulder.
“Change in plans, Vang. An emergency. Turn left here.”
The driver shook his head. “I may get in trouble. I need this job.”
“There's $100 in it for you, and I'll take the blame for you going off schedule. It's not far. Turn left here.”
The van swung left as Rizz entered the number.
He held the phone to his ear and prayed he got an answer. It had been a late night and they'd enjoyed lots of quality alcohol.
“S. Lloyd Anderson.” The attorney sounded bright and alert.
“Lloyd. It's Rizz. Get to 2114 Jander Avenue right now. I'll meet you there. The university is cleaning out our lab. They're trying to steal D-44.”
Chapter 38
Townhouse, 7:38 a.m.
The kitchen wall phone rang. Rachelle set the bowls of cereal in front of the kids, pivoted, and grabbed the receiver. Probably another of Drake’s “I'll be late” calls.
“Hello.”
“Rachelle, this is Laura Vonser. One of the ER residents. I don't know if you remember me. Drake asked me to call.”
Let me guess. He's real busy and won't be home forever. “I remember you. How long?” Rachelle said.
“Excuse me?”
“How long is Drake going to be tied up?” Stop it, Rachelle. You sound like the b-word.
“I'm not sure what you know, but Drake had an allergic reaction this morning. A bad one. He can't talk right now and we'll need to keep him for a while. He didn't want you to worry.”
Her gut clenched and her hands went cold. Drake had almost died years back from a reaction to an antibiotic. It had been terrifying.
“Oh my God. Is he okay?” Who can watch the kids? “I'm coming right down.”
Her tone had risen and she knew she'd talked rapid-fire. The kids looked to her with worry on their faces. I need to be calm.
“Rachelle. He's doing well. Everything is getting better. I've got him and won't let him get into trouble. He can't talk right now, but he gave me three messages for you: stay home, let the kids know he's okay, and know he loves you all.”
“He's okay? Are you sure?” She fought to keep her breathing in check.
“He's looking better by the minute. I, or maybe even Drake, will call you in a few hours. Okay?”
“Okay... And Laura—thank you and the others for taking care of him. Tell him we love him.”
She hung up and faced the two lost faces. “Daddy is okay. He was a little sick but now he's better. He says he loves you.”
The kids came to her and they all hugged.
“Scary but it's all going to be okay,” she said. Shane and Kristin nodded.
They'd handled the news without tears or panic. That was a good thing.
Perhaps we're getting better.
Chapter 39
University Chemical Storehouse, research lab, 8:10 a.m.
“Vang, pull over right here,” Rizz said.
The Project Mobility van pulled to the curb just outside the fenced-in parking lot.
Rizz viewed the pre-World War Two brick structure. The lower level now housed little-used university offices. For the past four years, Drake, Rizz, and Jon had rented a small section of the otherwise deserted second floor as their research lab. At times Drake had practically lived there.
It was here that Drake had developed and tested the drug that looked to be a breakthrough. Rizz had updated S. Lloyd Anderson on what had occurred after.
Greed and D-44's potential had led to betrayal, murder, and violence. Rizz had been left paralyzed, Jon nearly dead, and Drake and his family had been subjected to a nightmare from which they had not fully recovered.
Rizz scanned the lot. Two trucks and a car that didn’t belong. The loading dock doors were closed. Nothing had been loaded yet. They had to be stopped!
Rizz checked the time and entered Lloyd’s number again.
He rested his other hand on his lap—he felt nothing. His legs might as well be wood. From his chest down, dead weight, like a sandbag fused to his trunk. D-44's promise had led Rizz to inject the experimental, untried-in-humans drug into his own body. He hadn’t shared that with Lloyd. No one but he and Drake knew they’d taken that risk.
“S. Lloyd Anderson, attorney.”
“Lloyd, I'm here. How long for you?”
“I'm less than ten minutes away and driving like a mad man. What have you got?”
“I see two trucks near the loading dock. Doesn’t look like they’ve loaded yet. I'm just outside the lot. They must be inside.”
“Any police or government vehicles?”
“The trucks are probably university. There's a black Lincoln. It's right alongside the trucks. Could be a university vehicle. What do you think?”
“Just watch until I get there. Think about what you want most from the lab. When I get there I'm going to try and stonewall them, but they're probably prepared for that. Realistically, we'll be lucky to lay hands on a few personal things, but even that may be tough. Follow me?”
“We can't let them take the drug.” Rizz's hand had slipped into his lap bag and he felt the steely weight of the 38-caliber pistol. Bastards!
D-44 and the research might be the only things of value Drake would have left if he lost his license and his ability to practice as a doctor. Rizz gripped the gun's knurled handle. For him, another dose of D-44 might be the difference between being stuck in this damn chair forever or getting another chance at life.
“Listen to me, Rizz. We do nothing illegal.” Lloyd sounded calm. Rizz wasn’t. “We salvage what we can today and set up for the legal fight to come.”
Rizz disconnected. They were trying to steal Rizz's best chance for recovery. What wouldn't he do to stop that?
Vang had been listening. He turned and faced Rizz.
“These trucks are here to steal from you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need to fight them?”
“The guys in the trucks are just working guys. They're just doing what they're told. It's the assholes who sent them who are the real thieves.” Rizz let go of the gun. It was true. The workers were surely just regular employees just doing their jobs with no idea what was going down.
