Page 68 of Asystole

As a first-year resident, it’s rare that we get to be involved with the Life Flight crew at all. Time is of the essence; there is limited space—even on the ground—and every set of hands is a liability. But here at Boston Memorial, they believe in trial by fire. So, when that call comes in, you’d better be ready to roll because we first-years aren’t exempt.

There are four of us charged with transporting the patient to the OR and providing any care needed to ensure he stays alive on the journey.

I’m totally in the zone, prepared to jump in where needed. Dr. Porter is on as our team lead, and we’ll all take our orders from him.

It’s this kid’s lucky day because Dr. Porter is definitely his best chance for survival.

As we push through the door to the roof, the winds threaten to whip the gurney out of our grasp. The two of us on the left side of the rolling bed brace with our hips to keep it steady.

The guy in front of me yells what I’m pretty sure is an expletive as he pulls the collar of his jacket up higher.

Talking isn’t permitted except by the team leader so that everyone can clearly hear the instructions, but no one can clearly hear anything over the roar of the wind.

My head is bowed, and I’m squinting to prevent the snow from pelting me in the eye when I hear the faint sound of the helicopter’s approach.

It’s barely visible through the dense fog up here, but when I see it, my eyes widen, snow be damned.

“What is he doing?” Dr. Porter shouts, sending my heart into a chaotic rhythm. “He’s going to hit the south tower!”

No. No. Please don’t, I silently plead to anyone listening.

We all watch in panic as Logan fights to control the chopper as the wind batters it from all sides.

“How the fuck is he gonna land that thing?” the woman across from me asks to no one in particular, but I feel the need to offer an answer in Logan’s defense.

“I’ve seen him fly in worse. He’s going to be just fine,” I yell.

“Looks like he’s going to hit those power lines if you ask me,” she hollers back.

“He won’t.”

Dr. Porter looks over his shoulder at us.

“Silence. The only words spoken from now until the OR will be mine.”

Those of us in the back nod once before returning our attention to the helicopter.

Logan ends up angling his approach to stay facing the wind, which means he sets the bird down perpendicular to us, but he does set the bird down without getting tangled in the power lines or getting thrown into one of the nearby buildings.

Once he’s on the roof, our team takes over, rushing toward the side door. Dr. Porter is talking to the flight nurse who is preparing the patient to be transferred to the gurney.

Knowing my role here is purely backup, I allow myself a glance at Logan, who has hopped out of the cockpit and is struggling with what appears to be a tie-down strap.

A gust of wind pushes the chopper forward an inch, and Dr. Porter’s voice breaks me out of my reverie.

“Dr. Matthews! Help secure the chopper.”

I’m not sure if he asked me because I’m the grunt, I’m the biggest, or because he knows Logan is a friend of mine, but I’m grateful for the order.

“Yes, sir!” I yell to his back as the rest of my team and the flight nurse quickly strap the patient down and head for the door.

“HERE!” Logan yells.

I barely have time to register the metal end of the strap flying at me before the wind tries to take it away. Reaching out, I catch the tail and run backward toward the steel hook embedded in the concrete.

I get the first hook clipped and reinforced with a trucker hitch, thankful knots are an essential part of my surgical knowledge.

When I look back to tell Logan I’m ready for the next strap, he’s nowhere to be found.