The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [45]
David motioned the resident away. Then he quickly pressed one paddle along the inside of Charlotte’s left breast and the other one six inches below her left armpit.
“Everyone away from the bed,” he called out. “Ready? Now!”
He depressed the red button on the top of the right-hand paddle. A dull thunk sounded as 400 joules of electricity shot through Charlotte’s chest and on through the rest of her body. Like a marionette’s, her arms flipped toward the ceiling, then dropped limply to the bed. Her body arched rigidly for an instant, then was still. The cardiograph tracing showed no change.
The resident resumed his pumping, but soon motioned to the medical student standing nearby that he was tiring. The two made a smooth change.
Immediately David began ordering medications to be given through Charlotte’s intravenous lines. Bicarbonate to counteract the mounting lactic acid in her blood and tissues, Adrenalin to stimulate cardiac activity, even glucose on the chance that her sugar may have dropped too low for some reason. No change. Another Adrenalin injection followed closely by two more 400-joule countershocks. Still nothing. Calcium, more bicarbonate, a fourth shock. The cardiogram now showed a straight line. Even the fine fibrillation was gone. The resident again took his place over from the student and the pumping continued. At the head of the bed, the mountainous anesthesiologist stood implacably squeezing the Ambu bag, which seemed like little more than a pliant black Softball in his thick hands.
“Hook an amp of Adrenalin to a cardiac needle, please,” David ordered. Although an injection through the subclavian intravenous line should end up in the heart, perhaps the tip had somehow become dislodged. He put his hand along the left side of Charlotte’s breastbone and used his fingers to count down four rib spaces. Holding the ampule of Adrenalin in his other hand, he plunged the four-and-one-half-inch needle attached to it straight down into Charlotte’s chest. Almost immediately, a plume of dark blood jetted into the ampule. A direct hit. The needle was lodged in some part of the heart. Behind him, Christine held her breath and looked away.
David shot in the Adrenalin, For a moment the cardiograph needle began jumping, and with it his own pulse. Then he noticed that the medical student was rocking back and forth, inadvertently bumping into Charlotte’s left arm each time. He motioned the student away from the bed. Instantly the tracing was again a flat line.
Christine felt the tension in the room begin to dissolve. She stared at the floor. It was almost over.
David looked at the anesthesiologist with a shrug that asked, “Any ideas?”
Dr, Kim stared back placidly and said, “Will you open her chest?”
For a few seconds David actually entertained the thought. “How are her pupils?” He was stalling, he knew it.
“Fixed and dilated,” Kim replied.
David gazed off into one corner of the room. His eyes closed tightly, then opened. Finally he reached over and flicked off the cardiograph. “That’s it. Thank you, everybody.” It was all he could manage.
The room began to empty. David stood there for a time looking down at Charlotte’s lifeless form. Despite the tubes and the bruises and the circular electrical burns on her chest, there was something beautifully peaceful about the woman.
At last, peaceful.
All at once, some of the impact of what had happened began to register. His hands and armpits became cold and damp with sweat.
As he walked out of Room 412 to call Wallace Huttner, David was shaking. Deep inside him was the chilly feeling that somehow he had just struck the tip of a nightmare. He glanced at the wall clock. How long had they worked on her? Forty-five minutes? An hour? “What the hell difference does it make,” he muttered as he sat down at the nurses’ station to write a death note in Charlotte Thomas’s chart.
“You all right?” Christine asked softly