Twelve Men in the Huddle, page 18
“Look out,” shouted Eugene as he hustled away from the group.
Pete jumped straight up as the rotating frame of Kelly slid beneath him in counter clockwise fashion, directly into Dr. Harper. The older physician was unable to avoid the contact and was taken down in an instant. Their combined forward motion took down a ball boy, three intertwined bodies now rotating in unison away from the field.
“Ohhh,” went the crowd.
It was then Pete heard the scream of pain.
“Ahhh!”
At first, in all the commotion, he couldn’t tell where the cry came from.
“My leg!”
As Connor Kelly stood up all eyes looked back towards the playing field where Beef was writhing in pain. Several referees and players were already gathering in a circle around the fallen warrior. Pete knew the injury was bad, as several of them began to wave their arms frantically in his direction. He bolted towards the player.
The immediate visual of the injury was grotesque. The lineman’s ankle was rotated in a non-anatomic ninety-degree direction. The center axis of his body pointed south, but his toes veered west. Pete immediately knew he incurred some type of an ankle fracture-dislocation from the contact. Beef was on his back, screaming in pain. As Pete knelt down to examine the leg, Lance and Piper appeared. The rain continued to fall directly into the lineman’s face, as he looked straight up to the sky.
“Ahh! My leg! It’s broken,” shouted the lineman. “I heard the crack.”
“It’s O.K.,” said Pete. “Do you hurt anywhere else Beef?” While talking, Pete glanced back to try and visualize Dr. Harper, whose body was also supine on the turf. Two assistant trainers were tending to his needs.
“No!” shouted Beef. “It’s over. The year is over.” He began to cry.
“It’s all right Beef, we’ll take care of you,” said Pete. “Just take some slow deep breaths.” He looked at Lance. “We need a splint of some sort, any type of splint, even an air cast – stat!”
“Right,” said Lance as he bolted back towards the sidelines.
“Holy Jesus!” yelled Hayes upon visualizing his lineman’s leg. The coach knelt down next to his player and patted him on the shoulder pad. “You’ll be O.K. son. Stay strong. We’re going to get you off this field.” He kept his hand on the player.
“Call the ambulance,” said Pete to the official. “Now.”
“Are you sure?” asked the head referee. “We’re on national TV.” He was listening to a voice in his earpiece. “There are time constraints.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” shouted Pete. “He can’t get up! Get an ambulance out here now!”
“Get an ambulance out here for my player!” screamed Hayes as he stood up. “Are you stupid or something?” Some chewing tobacco flew from his mouth. “The boy is hurt! Hurt bad!”
The outburst prompted the official to signal for an ambulance, causing the stadium to hush. Pete gently applied a long leg air splint to Beef’s mangled extremity, as the EMT squad brought out a gurney. Once the extremity was stabilized, Pete directed the medical team to log roll the massive lineman onto the gurney and place a blanket over his frame. While rolling his body towards the ambulance door a roar of appreciation arose from the crowd, prompting Beef to raise his hand. After sliding the gurney into the rear of the vehicle, Pete jumped in.
“Where’s the nearest hospital?” asked Piper to the emergency medical tech. She was at Pete’s side with a cell phone in her hand, communicating with Lance.
“Right across the street,” said Pete. “The Philadelphia General Hospital. My old stomping grounds.”
The ambulance slowly pulled out of the stadium between a set of brick archways, and turned right onto South Street. After one city block they were at the hospital’s emergency room bay, where a muscular male nurse came out to assist with the transfer. Beef was escorted directly towards a trauma bay, into the arms of the PGH staff. A junior resident from the emergency department began the assessment.
“What do we have here?” asked the resident, wearing a set of surgical scrubs and a stethoscope wrapped around his neck.
“Hey look who it is!” said a surprised young nurse. “Pete Wagner! Welcome back!”
“Thanks Madison,” said Pete while taking his rain gear off. “We’ve got a fracture dislocated ankle here. How about a stat x-ray?”
“I’m in charge here,” said the resident. “Who are you?”
“This is Dr. Peter Wagner,” said Madison. “He was a chief orthopedic resident last year – one of the good ones.”
“But you’re not on staff now? Correct?” asked the resident. “So, you can’t give any orders.”
“Right,” said Pete. “But please, get a stat x-ray and alert the orthopedic trauma team.”
“What’s your name young man?” asked the resident while looking down at Beef. A painful scowl was on the lineman’s face. “Do you have any allergies?”
“Ahhh!” screamed the mammoth patient. “My ankle! Do something!”
The scream of pain prompted several additional emergency room personnel to approach the bedside.
“Sir,” said the resident. “I can’t help you if you don’t answer my questions. Do you have any allergies?”
“Ahhhh…”
“Well look what the storm blew in,” said a familiar voice from behind Pete. “Do my eyes deceive me?”
Pete turned around to see his old friend, Dr. Phil Drummer, an attending surgeon from the Department of Surgery. The two knew each other well, having spent many hours together in the operating room. Pete was relieved to see the staff surgeon.
“Phil! Glad to see you,” said Pete. They shook hands.
“What’s going on?” asked Drummer as he surveyed Beef’s extremity.
“A lower extremity injury Dr. Drummer,” squeaked the resident. “He’s a football player. I’m just trying to get a history, but he won’t cooperate.”
“He has no allergies,” said Piper while viewing Beef’s medical profile on her cell phone. “He takes no meds.”
“Put in an I.V. stat,” said Drummer to a nurse at the head of the table. “Madison, push four milligrams of morphine and two of Ativan.”
“Yes doctor.”
“Get the orthopedic cast cart in here,” said Dr. Drummer. A flurry of activity broke out in the room, pushing the resident aside.
“Whose service is he going to be on?” asked a representative from the hospital admission office, holding a clipboard in her hand.
“Put the young man on my service,” said Drummer. “It would be an honor to take care of a Tulsa Valley Tarpon.” While speaking he patted Pete on the shoulder. “Pete Wagner, my old friend.”
“Thanks Phil,” said Pete. “Let’s check the x-ray and get this reduced ASAP.” While speaking he carefully removed the shoe from the player and cut off his sock. The skin envelope was intact, as were the distal pulses. However, the jagged edge of the broken bone tented the skin, making the need for a speedy closed reduction imperative. Within a minute, two ankle x-rays appeared on a computer screen behind the surgeons.
“Dislocated,” said Pete.
“A trimalleolar fracture dislocation,” added Phil. He pointed out the three fracture lines to a group of medical students, trying to be a part of the action. “See the three fracture lines?”
“Very good,” said Pete. “Not bad for a general surgeon.”
“I’ve had some orthopedic training,” said Phil proudly. “Actually it was quite memorable.”
“Beef, we need to emergently set your ankle,” said Pete. The morphine had already taken effect, rendering the lineman semi-conscious. “Beef, can you hear me?”
No response.
“Let’s do it,” said Pete as he walked down towards the ankle, his wet shoes squeaking on the floor.
“Dr. Drummer, can you spare me a medical student?” asked Wagner.
“Sure,” said Drummer. “How about Bart here? He even looks like an orthopod.”
The attending physician directed a stout, hirsute male to hold Beef’s upper calf. Although burly, the medical student struggled to maintain a grip on the lineman’s massive limb.
“The key to setting any fracture is to manipulate the extremity in the opposite direction of the deforming force,” said Pete. He was looking at the medical student in front of him. “This is a classic pronation-external rotation injury, so we have to first apply traction, and then supinate and internally rotate the foot.”
“Right,” said the medical student, having no idea what the surgeon just said.
Pete rapidly manipulated the deformed limb, bringing it back into anatomic alignment. The maneuver elicited a muted moan from the patient.
“Looks better,” said Drummer.
“Agree,” said Pete. He quickly applied a new splint wrap on the leg. “Another stat x-ray please. Thank you Bart.”
“Yes sir, you’re welcome,” replied the furry medical student, suddenly wanting to become an orthopedic surgeon.
While waiting for the repeat x-rays Piper informed Pete that Dr. Harper had suffered a concussion on the field, and was being treated back at the stadium. He would be unavailable until further notice. She also notified everyone the Tarpons won, by four points.
“Doc Gaultieri,” is on his way over,” said Madison. Gaultieri was the Sports Medicine expert on the PGH staff. “He said he would be able to assist you in the operating room.”
“Great,” said Pete. He and Phil Drummer stepped out in the hallway for a private discussion.
“Good to see you,” said Drummer. “How’s it going down south?”
“Super,” said Pete. “It’s been an amazing experience so far. I’m glad I took the fellowship.”
“Well, keep us in mind when you are done,” said Phil. “We can always use another good bone doctor in town.”
“Dr. Drummer, the O.R. is calling,” said a nurse. “They’re waiting for you in room three.”
“Thank you Thelma. Tell them I’ll be right up.”
“Thanks again for the help,” said Pete. “What good timing.”
“Yea, it was good to see you Peter Wagner. Keep in touch old friend.”
“Will do.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” said Drummer quietly. He looked around to assure privacy. “As you know, Jenna’s a big sports fan, and she is like in love with Connor Kelly.”
“Who isn’t?”
“Is there anyway you can get him to sign a photo, with a short note to her? You know, ‘To Jenna’… she would absolutely adore it.”
“Yea, no problem,” said Pete. “Connor’s a great kid. I’ll get it out in the mail as soon as we get back.”
“Thanks Pete,” said Drummer with a firm handshake. “Keep the faith.” He turned and walked away.
Pete stepped back towards the trauma bay, but heard Dr. Drummer shout.
“Hey Pete! How’s Chloe doing?”
“Fantastic,” replied Pete.
“Let’s get together sometime.”
“Will do,” said Pete. “Thanks again.”
Within thirty minutes the massive body of Beef Bartley was hoisted onto the operating table. Pete and Dr. Gaultieri performed an open reduction and internal fixation of the injury, which required placing a screw and plate on the outer fibula, and two separate screws in the tibia. The procedure went off without a hitch.
“Nice job kid,” said Gaulteiri. “I couldn’t have done it better. Someone trained you well.”
“You most certainly did Dr. G. Thanks for the help.”
That night Pete and his parents sat in a hotel room across the street from the hospital. It would be at least three days before Beef would be able to travel, during which time Pete would stay in Philadelphia. Dr. Harper was admitted to the hospital overnight for precautionary measures, and planned on flying home tomorrow morning.
“I’m so proud of you,” said Mrs. Wagner. “Everyone back home saw you on television, helping that poor boy off the field.”
“It was a bad injury mom.”
“I hope you didn’t catch cold out in that rainstorm,” said his mother. “Why don’t they give you better rain gear? I mean for all the money the team makes, you think they would take care of their doctors.”
“Mom, they flew me up here for free, and this is like a five star hotel.”
“Well I hope they pay for your meals. What are you going to do for breakfast? Oh, you look so thin. Are you eating well down there?”
“Yes, mom. I’m O.K.”
“Oh, I’m so proud of you. Grandma would have loved to see you on TV if she were still alive. So would your grandfather.”
“I ran into Doc Schmeckle in the grocery store the other day,” said Mr. Wagner. He was reading the Philadelphia Chronicle. “He spoke highly of you.”
“Tell him I said hello.”
“He took good care of Connor when he was back in town. Told me he had a bad cold.”
“Yea, he did dad.”
“Was really sick.”
“Old Doc Schmeckle,” said Mrs. Wagner. “What would we all do without him?”
“He said some virus shot his testosterone levels up really high,” said Mr. Wagner. “He’s never seen anything like it.”
“What did you say dad?” Pete stood up.
“Doc Schmeckle. He took really good care of the Kelly boy. Sent him back to school healthy as a horse.”
“Yea. I heard that part,” said Pete, his heart racing. “But after that, what did Doc Schmeckle say, exactly?”
“Oh, yea. His testosterone level or something, he said it was through the roof. I guess some rare reaction to a fever.”
“No dad. It wasn’t a rare reaction,” said Pete in anger. “That’s personal information which should never be discussed in public. Doesn’t Dr. Schmeckle understand that?”
“Peter, Peter,” said Mrs. Wagner. “Doc Schmeckle knows what he is doing. I remember the time he saved your life…”
“Dad, was anyone else around? I mean when he was talking about the testosterone, was anyone else in earshot?”
“You had a fever of 105˚,” continued Mrs. Wagner. “He told us to put you in an alcohol bath to bring down the fever quickly. And it did!”
“You could have gone into a seizure if we didn’t,” said Pete’s father. “I remember filling up the tub with rubbing alcohol. We had to run to the pharmacy to get more. Grandma was saying the rosary.”
“Old Doc Schmeckle, he’s a saint,” said Mrs. Wagner. “I don’t know what Scranton is going to do when he retires.”
“Oh my god,” said Pete while putting his hands to his forehead. “Listen, mom and dad. An alcohol bath should never be given to an infant with a high temperature. It can actually cause seizures.”
“I don’t think so Peter,” replied his mom in a matter of fact fashion. “That’s not what Dr. Schmeckle told us.”
Pete shook his head to recalibrate, allowing a few seconds to pass. His father continued to read the newspaper as if nothing of magnitude had happened.
“What a view,” said his mother. “The city lights are so pretty.” She was staring out the window, onto center city.
“Dad, concentrate,” said Pete. “Please, try and recall. Was anyone else made aware of Connor Kelly’s blood work?”
“Yea, Dr. Falcone was there. Right next to me.”
“Dr. Falcone. Your dentist, that Dr. Falcone?”
“Yep.”
“Dr. Falcone? The man who’s crazy about Keystone State football? The fanatic who hasn’t missed a Keystone State game in over twenty years? That Dr. Falcone? He was standing next to you? The president of the local Keystone State Booster Club?”
“You bet,” said Mr. Wagner. “Actually he was in on the conversation. Do you know he’s still upset about Connor going to Tulsa Valley? He said it was an insult to the entire state.”
“Honey, what’s that building out there? With the man on top?”
Just then Pete’s cell phone rang. It was Chloe.
“City Hall dear,” replied his father. “Uncle Frank helped put in the footers for it when it was retrofitted a few decades ago. He was a rebar specialist.”
“Uncle Frank? Our Uncle Frank? They brought him all the way down to do that?”
“You bet.”
“Oh my, what a small world.”
Pete walked towards the door and stepped into the hall to take the call, allowing the door to slowly close behind him.
“Dear, who is that man on top of the building, and what’s he holding in his hand? Oh my God.”
“I have my reading glasses on, but it must be Ben Franklin. Everything in this town is named after him.”
“Harold, it looks like he’s holding his…”
“Clunk, clunk,” went the door, followed by quiet in the hotel hallway.
Over the next thirty minutes Pete spoke to Chloe Brown. She adamantly wanted to drive down to Philadelphia, but Pete wouldn’t allow it. He spoke of Beef’s injury and the need to closely monitor him. Tactfully he mentioned the possibility of leaving town on a moment’s notice, depending upon the status of his mentor. Although upset, she understood, telling Pete how proud she was of him. She missed him dearly, and ended the call with ‘I love you’.
After re-entering the room, Pete swore his parents to secrecy regarding Connor Kelly’s blood work. The revelation meant absolutely nothing to them, however they agreed not to discuss the matter any further. A city cab took them back to their hotel, with plans to meet for breakfast in the morning.
For the next hour Pete sat alone, staring out at William Penn. He was distraught over the disclosure of Connor’s blood work, especially to Dr. Falcone. In his mind he rehearsed a conversation, which needed to occur with Dr. Harper. What was happening? Why was his very own testosterone level so markedly elevated? And why did Beef’s testicles look so small in the operating room today? Just then a text prompted his cell phone to purr.
“Love you. Good night. – Chloe,” read the text.
Pete picked up the phone and paused. He dialed a number.
“Hi,” said the welcoming voice on the other end of the line.
“Hey Heather,” said Pete. “I hope you weren’t asleep.”
“No, I’m wide awake. I’m so glad you called. What a game. Sorry I had to miss it.”
