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Farooq looked around the sterile room, torn away from his computer by the sound of a gurney in the adjacent hallway, wondering just what was going on out in the city to bring him so many bodies in just one night. The sound gets closer and he looks up at the doorway, a bespectacled man coming in looking not only out of breath, but a bit out of place as well.
"Third one tonight; must be a full moon."
He glances at his computer and brings up the body-receiving screen when the man steps forward, pulling the sheet off of what is a barely alive white male. Farooq's face remains unfazed; working the night shift for so many years in a County morgue has jaded him.
"Your name is Farooq Madan and you were the best surgeon in Najaf, but you can't afford a license in the States because you send all your money home to family."
The man in the white coat suddenly looks at bit more at ease, more in control. He rounds the gurney, pulling the bag off of his shoulder. With a glance up, he unzips the bag, dumping enough cash to put half a dozen students through medical school, much less Farooq's license in the States.
"Stitch him up. No questions asked, and you can be a doctor again."
Normally Farooq would trigger an alarm causing security to show up, or simply call the police. But there was something in the man's eyes; he wasn't focused on Farooq, or even the money. It was focused on the man laying between them, fighting for his life. And the look in that man's eyes told him all he needed to know.
Crossing, Farooq immediately begins cataloging the injured man's situation, figuring the abdominal wound would have to be dealt with first. He instructs the man, wearing a badge that just says 'Harold Housemartin' to, "Go to the cabinet and get on a gown; you're going to have to assist." He puts pressure on the wounded man's abdomen, using the sheet to hold back the bleeding. When 'Harold' comes back, he says, "Hold this," indicating the sheet, and then heads over to the supply cabinet.
Morgues are places where live patient care isn't usually needed. But after a slew of collapsing family members over the years, as well as a few medical students, all morgues in the New York area were outfitted with makeshift crash carts. It didn't have everything necessary for a surgery, but it would do. Farooq grabs a bag of ringers lactate and an IV set, setting them on top of the cart. He pulls out a few more things, then dons a pair of gloves. "Let's get him on the table," he says, then slides the injured man as carefully as possible.
Even with the gentle movement from gurney to autopsy table, the injured man winces, his face turning even paler than before. "Okay, Mister..."
"John," Harold says. "His name is John."
"Okay, John. I don't have much in the way of pain medications, but I do have a couple of things that should help you sleep. Do you understand?" he asks.
John just nods, though he never takes his eyes off of Harold. "Yeah," he says, voice gravelly and quiet.
"Okay, Harold," he says, pointing to the badge when Harold throws him a confusing look. "I need you to go get an oxygen tank from that closet," he points to an area near where he got the crash cart, "and bring it here. There should be a set of tubing with it. Hook it up, turn on the oxygen until the little ball floats level with the number 2 on the dial, and then put the tube under his nose. Do you understand?"
Harold nods, so Farooq turns his attention to the midazolam, drawing up a dose that should help sedate the man. He puts it down on the cart, then goes back to the IV. He cuts John's right sleeve off at the shoulder, slipping off the fabric and nodding as Harold comes back with the oxygen. "This may sting a little," he says as he wipes John's now bare arm down with alcohol, then slips the 18 gauge needle under the skin with a practiced ease. The bloodflow looks good, so he caps the IV site, then turns his attention to spiking and then hanging the liter of fluid, letting the air flow out of the tubing before hooking it up to John's IV. When he's sure he has a good flow, and Harold is finished placing the nasal cannula, he picks up the syringe of midazolam. "Okay, John. I want you to count backwards for me from 100. Can you do that?"
Farooq slowly pushes the medication into an access port of the IV as John's low voice counts back, "One hundred. Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Ninety...seven... Nine..."
"Good," he says as John's eyes flutter closed. It's then that he looks at Harold, genuine concern for the sedated man painted plainly on the man's face. "Harold?" he says, grasping the man's shoulder. "He's going to be okay. But I need you to help me with this; I can't do this alone, alright?"
It takes Harold a few seconds to tear his eyes away from John, but when he does, he quietly responds, "Okay." Daring another look at the now sedated man, Harold uses the tips of his fingers to brush the hair out of John's face, a muted, "Please, John..." passing his lips.
Farooq gives the man another second before clearing his throat, saying, "Okay, let's begin."
~*~*~
The makeshift surgery takes just seventy-five minutes, Farooq making sure that the bullet in John's gut had done minimal damage before removing the slug in John's leg, stitching it and a graze-wound on the man's shoulder. Removing his gloves, he looks through the crash cart, realizing he's got absolutely nothing in the way of antibiotics, so he pulls out a clean piece of paper and starts making a list of things that Harold and John will need post "discharge".
The task keeps him deep in thought for a few minutes. He turns to present the list to the pair when he finds Harold sitting calmly by John's side, talking to the man in a soothing voice, their hands sitting close enough to touch. It's almost as if Farooq has intruded on something so private, so sacred, that he doesn't realize that he's staring at the pair until Harold stiffens just a bit and says, "Yes, Doctor Madan?"
Nodding, Farooq presents Harold with the paper. "These are some supplies you will need. I'm afraid I won't be able to write you a prescription myself-"
"That won't be necessary, Doctor Madan," Harold says. "We can manage." Looking over the list, he questions, "IV antibiotics?"
"Yes," Farooq replies. "Any GI wound should ideally be treated with a four day course of antibiotics. Besides, they'll be much easier on his system than taking oral medications - which I've written out as well. He should stay NPO - that's 'nothing by mouth' - for two more days. Then, you can start introducing him back to soft foods, and then more solid foods within the week."
"Harold?" comes John's voice. At Harold's concerned look, John smirks. "No lime Jell-O, okay?"
Harold smiles, bringing a sense of relief to Farooq since the pair entered the morgue two hours previous. "And before you go," Farooq says," let me show you how to maintain the IV site and administer the antibiotics, and flush the port."
John nods, and Harold looks to Farooq. "Thank you, Doctor Madan. For everything."
Farooq nods, then smiles as he considers not only the much brighter future he now faces in America, but also the lives of two people who very much care for each other, and how they've change his life forever.