The Attack

The Victim: Chapter Three

23:56 CST August 15th

Casey Jones, Soccer Mom and Tea Party Activist

UAB Hospital, Level 1 Trauma Center

"We may have to amputate the leg!"

"Get some morphine ready!"

"Police report fifteen to twenty more patients in the next ten minutes-"

"Send them to St. Vincent's."

"MY ARMS GOD D*** IT-"

I woke up to the sound of tell elderly man screaming in pain about his arms, which I saw were bleeding profusely.

"Oh dear lord," an African-American male nurse said to me in a sassy voice. He was wearing flowered scrubs and smelled of Old Spice. "Honey, we gon take real good care of ya!"

"I'm-" I was in shock, "in severe pain."

He walked out of the area I was lying. I heard him talking to a woman named Jenny. "Jenny, we have a patient in 204. She's in severe pain, I need something for her. She's so cute."

I blushed slightly.

"We're rationing morphine, so I will have some up very soon with some Demerol."

"Thanks! You gonna be working night shift, I bet." I could hear the smile in his voice.

"Yes, boy," she chuckled, "and even if I wasn't I would stay here in help."

The conversation faded away with the noise of ambulances outside. What happened, I wondered.

I looked around me. I think the injury I had sustained was in my leg, because I felt a sharp, pulsating pain deep within my muscles. With my keen eyesight, I looked over at my patient record hanging on the curtain.

SHRAPNEL REMOVED FROM LEG. PATIENT IDENTIFIED AS A WHITE FEMALE NAMED CASEY.

Why would they need to identify me, I wondered.

Just as my eyes wondered a vase full of dying flowers, my nurse opened the curtain. "Do you have any questions," he said with a look of pity in his eyes.

"What's you name?" I asked.

"Sheldon."

"What happened?"

"You were injured in an explosion at the Reagan Memorial theater."

Memories came flooding back to me as if a dam had broken inside of me. I had gone to celebrate my ten-year anniversary with Martin. We had dinner at this little locally-owned Thai restaurant and then went to go see a play.

Martin...

"Is my husband okay?"

"We don't know, they are still recovering people from the wreckage. He might be at another hospital. Most of the critically injured people came here, with the more minor injuries sent to St. Vincent's."

I sighed, relieved. "Can you check that for me? Martin Jones is his name."

"Yes ma'am."

"Thank you, Sheldon."

"Would you like anything else, Casey?"

"Water, please."

He nodded and left.

I tried to fall asleep, but every few minutes more screams or crying would echo down the hallway. I ended up staring at the curtain, which had a continued pattern of blue and green stripes. A couple of times I had to call for someone because air got in my line. It was fixed easy, and I was ignored again.

An orthopedic surgeon came at around five in the morning.

"Hello," he said cheerfully, "I'm Dr. Morrison. We are going to be moving you to a room short-"

"But-"

"I know you have a lot of questions," he continued, "but right now we are going to be prepping you for surgery. You are going to have your patella replaced. Your husband, Martin Jones, is in a coma in the ICU. We are going to take you to see him shortly before your surgery. First, we are going to get you something to eat."

He left before I could ask any questions. Sheldon, bags under his eyes and a frown on his face, came with a wheelchair to escort me to the cafeteria. It took about thirty minutes just to get there because the wheelchair worked as if it had been built in 1845 and the cafeteria was located in another building.

Sheldon got both of us some granola cereal, an orange, and some strange Japanese energy drink to "get me bouncing."

Sheldon took a bite of his orange. "Dr. Morrison's plan is to have you visit Martin from eight to ten. Then, at four this afternoon, you are going to go into surgery so he can remove your kneecap and replace it. It's a virtually-no risk surgery, sugar."

"Okay," I said, handing my place to him, "Can I call my son?"

"The twelve year old named Noah?"

"Yes," I said, confused, "how did you know his name?"

"A Noah Jones and his grandmother Rose came to visit last night while you were still knocked out. They are staying at 2376 Sterling Way, which is what my medical records say is your house."

"Goodness, I'm so glad he is okay." I said. "Sheldon, lets go visit Martin."

"Yes, sugar, lets go."