A Harrowing Tale (New Amsterdam)

Lauren- Part One

Ever since I was little, I was led to believe nothing good happens in the back of an ambulance. When my dad got sick, he had been wheeled into one and I never saw him again. My mom had her share of riding in them when she passed out or tried to overdose. Years later, my sister overdosed four times or more and had to be wheeled into one every single time she relapsed. I worried every time they wouldn't come back from their stint on the merry-go-round, but they still went on living.

When I chose to become a doctor and started working at New Amsterdam, I began seeing the inside of an ambulance more times than I could count after doing rounds. How strange it felt I wasn't with my mom or sister being transported to the hospital, or watching my mom convince doctors that she was going to work harder to give up drinking and everything was going to be okay.

Oh, how I lived with that lie for so many years. Years of toying around with the idea of leaving, I finally decided I had enough, tucked my twelve-year-old Vanessa into bed one last time, wrote a note, and walked out the front door of my very posh apartment building I had grown up in. At the age of sixteen, I wanted to pursue a better life for myself, not just be known for being some rich woman's daughter who had a serious drinking problem. Even with everything they had, I convinced myself they would be okay without me. The days passed, I never saw my sister again, for every time I visited her in rehab, she would decline or make up some lame excuse why she couldn't see me.

The guilt of leaving ate away at me every time she pushed me away, so I eventually stopped trying. She had every right to be angry with me. I had left her with a horrible alcoholic mother who was no good for either of us. While I had been able to escape and become a doctor, my sister had succumbed to drugs and alcohol.

That's what I thought until I was diagnosed with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder and was prescribed Adderall despite me talking about my family history. I should have declined and found another option, but I was young and stupid. I used my medication as my crutch to drown out the sorrows of a broken childhood. The fact I felt on top of the world while taking more pills than I needed was one of the biggest warning signs I had ignored until it was brought to my attention that I was endangering my patients. As I was working more hours than my body and mind were capable of, which made me realize I was now on the same merry-go-round my mom and sister had been on. The only difference was I wanted to get off.

Thankfully I had Helen to help me, as well as the support of the rest of the team to show me life could be different than the one I was choosing. I knew in the back of my mind I was digging myself into a deep hole. Now I just had to work on pulling myself out of it. I took some time off work with a pure desire to figure things out. By the time Max got better, I was in some false lull that everything was okay again, then one he dragged me upstairs where a "very important patient" was waiting. Turns out that patient was me. I was left with Iggy, hashing out the very childhood I was trying to forget. Not like I had much of a choice, for if I walked out that door I would be fired from the career I had worked so hard to become.

That was the moment I started to find myself again. I begrudgingly talked about my childhood, the guilt of leaving my family, and when I had gotten addicted to the one thing that helped me focus so I could become a doctor. Yet, as I entered rehab, I couldn't help but be angry at Helen, Max, Iggy, and mostly for letting myself get this far under the bus. I had turned destructive, just about to the point where I could never turn back without help.

I spent my days in rehab dealing with my feelings, no longer being in control of the emergency department at New Amsterdam and my ability to be a doctor and help people. Without warning Floyd showed up I was housing in, sending me through a new flood of anger and shock all over again. I sent him away, foolishly thinking he and everyone else thought I was on some happy much-needed vacation. I quickly realized I was being foolish and welcomed him back, rather focusing on how he had shown up for me when it mattered most.

After that, I began opening up more in group therapy, and making strides, progressively getting better each day. I even helped a patient who overdosed during a crazy New York snowstorm, further regaining why I had become a doctor, throwing back my doubts about continuing at New Amsterdam.

Actually, that's why I went to see Max in the first place. Despite his promise I had still had a place there before I left for rehab, I was still struggling to go back to the place I had royally screwed up. Even though I couldn't find a new place to live or work, I was hoping to take a little time off anyway. So I went to the hospital, ran into Floyd who filled me in about how things had gotten worse for our medical director, and how Helen had sent him home. I flagged down another taxi, hoping to pay my dues and sleep in my bed for the first time in almost a month.

He didn't respond to the first knock. First thought was that I may have missed him again. The second thought was he was either asleep, out doing something or he was busy with Georgia and the baby. I decided to try one last time for good measure. At first, his presence was relieving as he appeared behind the door. The third thought was something I never thought I'd have to think about. His expression was full of worry, face pale, hands shaking and shirt covered in blood. Not his blood, but Georgia's blood.

He could hardly get the words out as I pushed inside to see what was going on, if there was any way possible I could help. As we walked towards their bedroom, Georgia was laying on the bed, lifeless, barely hanging in there.

Max could only just get out enough words to explain her placenta had ruptured. He was scared. I was scared for Max knowing Georgia and the baby were in trouble, that there was a possibility he could lose both of them. All I knew was if this baby girl lived, she was going to have one heck of a story when she grew up.

Time we didn't have was ticking away. I had finally talked Max into letting me help. I ligated the artery causing the bleeding in her placenta. I knew it wasn't enough. Georgia was still having contractions which was squeezing the umbilical cord and causing distress to the baby. Even with the ambulance on the way, she was losing way too much blood to live. Max didn't want to deliver the baby here, he wanted a miracle to save them both. I didn't blame him. If it were me in her place, I would have wanted my baby to live.

It was a risky surgery anyway because we weren't actually in a hospital, we were in Max's apartment. We didn't have the proper tools, sterilization, access to blood transfusions, no supplies other than the crude ones we had nearby. There were so many things that could go wrong if we did deliver his baby into the world right here, right now. However, I had walked up to his door, Georgia and the baby probably would have died, regardless. Max was in shock, not thinking straight. No matter what angle you looked at the situation, the outcome was still not a good one.

So I pleaded with him to let me do the surgery knowing I may only be able to save one of them. At least there was the chance I could give him the family he had worked so hard to keep in the first place. After several moments, both of us were in tears as he gave me the meager okay to proceed with cutting his wife open. I wanted to prepare him for the reality of how hard this might be to watch, but I didn't have the heart to tell him. What was so crazy with that scenario was I was cutting his wife with a kitchen knife and unwrapping the crimped umbilical cord, choking the life out of his daughter after pulling her from the womb.

The newborn stirred as I cleared out her airway and passed her over to Max who was talking to Georgia as if she were awake and enjoying the moment of having a newborn baby. It was a heartbreaking scene as I continued packing Georgia's stomach with gauze Max he stashed away in his apartment.

As I looked Georgia over, I noticed her skin was a sickly blanched color from the loss of blood. I was running out of options to keep her alive. We both knew things didn't look good. For whatever it was worth, I told him I would take responsibility for this. I could tell even though he was trying to be brave, he was losing hope as he put his head against hers.

Her heart rate was falling at rapid speed, head falling side to side as she lost consciousness. I forced him to move aside as I climbed on the bed to start compressions and willed her to keep hanging on, even for a little bit longer. Thankfully I didn't have to go at it for long. Sharpe and two paramedics rushed through the front door, setting up all the things we didn't have before, like a blood transfusion, defibrillator, and medications that would start stabilizing her for good.

One shock was administered to her, then another. Georgia was weak but her heart rate was evening out to a more normal range. It was a relief to everyone in the room. Once they were sure she was okay and EMT checked over the baby, who was surprisingly in good shape for a traumatic birth, breathing on her own as she slept soundly in her daddy's arms.