Party Boys Don't Get Hurt

The smell of human grief gets particularly stronger in the hospital at night. An ambulance radio reported the young patient in critical condition. I ran through the hospital corridors to the emergency room to be on time for the arrival of the ambulance. If the patient was with an accompanying person, he should be immediately taken aside, so as not to interfere with the medical staff. I should talk to him and try to calm him down, to call other family members to maximize the circle of support. My shift was coming to an end, and I was seriously considering whether to call my colleague Vickie, who was supposed to replace me. An ambulance stretcher drove through the swinging doors of the emergency room. Among the flashing backs of the three EMTs who surrounded it, I saw a very young, deathly pale guy with frighteningly pointed features. There were no family members with him. “Upon arrival, the pupils were dilated. The pulse was not felt…” The red-haired EMT reported on the run to immediately inform the doctors. They listened to his explanations with that expression on their faces that did not bode any good news. “Standard protocol. Cardiopulmonary resuscitation... BVM... Adrenaline...” Every doctor, nurse, and social worker has their own deeply engraved in memory cases that they encountered throughout their professional experience. And I returned, in my memories, to Ian Gallagher, again and again. He had such a special place among all other patients that I did not even use his case for the occasional case studies conducted by the social service, although it was instructive in many ways. I was confused when I first saw Ian wearing an EMT uniform. When you accidentally meet a former patient, Chicago no longer seems like such a big city. And I came across them all the time: in stores, in cafés, in bars, or just on the street. I never said "hello" first; it would be at least tactless, and would put the person in an extremely unpleasant position. Sometimes, I joke bitterly that when I was working at the snack-bar, clients would happily return to me, and now, none of the patients would like to see me again. Apparently, then, I looked at Ian a little longer than is considered polite, and he, intercepting my gaze, nodded slightly, like a colleague in the hospital. Now, Ian and I just nodded at each other every time we met, occasionally tossing a meaningless, "How are you?" After the very first meeting with Ian, I used to think about how his fate could have been. And now, I must admit, I was surprised by the profession he chose. I even wondered if it was him, conjuring up his image in the uniform. But meeting him again and again, I was already sure that it was Ian Gallagher in front of me. The young patient was taken to the emergency room, and a matte door closed behind him. Talking with each other, two EMTs moved toward the exit of the emergency room, back to their ambulance. Only Ian remained standing in front of the frosted door, turning away, and looking at it again. Noticing me standing on the opposite side of the corridor, he tried to smile, but didn't succeed. “They won't save him,” Ian didn’t even ask. "We don't know yet. But even such an outcome is possible." We usually say something like this to families of severe patients. I omitted the part about “doctors are doing their best” this time. Ian must have done his best as well. "This is Fly! Did you know? This is Fly!" Now, it became clear why Ian was reacting this badly. We all knew Fly. He was barely an adult, and lived on the street, earning money with prostitution, and of course, he was a drug addict. He visited our Sexual Assault Crisis Center seven times if my memory serves me well, and this is in addition to the countless hits in the emergency room with overdoses. "Let’s go!" Ian obediently followed me. He should not be left alone with the burden of responsibility for a patient's unsaved life. I wanted to take Ian to a quiet, peaceful place, but only when I approached the room with the large number "four" on the door, I realized that I had chosen the most inappropriate place of all. However, starting to rush now in search of a new place would be completely awkward. Moreover, there was no other suitable place in the emergency room, and dragging Ian through the hospital floor to the main office of social services would not have been at all right. "Come in!" I said, turning on the light. "Would you like some coffee?" "You only have soluble? Still no capsules for the coffee machine?" Out of the corner of my mind, I noted how amazingly Ian still remembered about the lack of capsules. But I didn't react. I was focused on the urgent need to talk to the emergency room. "The young patient in the intensive care unit's name is Isaac Chaim Smotrich," I said to the head nurse Althea, who answered me. "Look in the computer system, there are several social reports about him. In short, the patient has long been out of touch with his family, who lives far outside of Chicago. I think the best thing to do would be to involve the police. But Vickie will make her decision. She starts her shift in half an hour." “I didn't even know that it was his name.” This time, Ian didn’t sit in the comfortable patient armchair. He perched on the edge of a chair, and turned his back to the kitchenette and that very ugly picture. "And his family doesn't live in Chicago. I didn’t know he even had a family... Do you know where they are?” “I know that his father lives in Brooklyn." Of course, there was medical confidentiality, but Ian was now also a health worker. "We tried to contact him during one of Fly’s visits here," the poor guy chose this name by himself, and I continued to call him this way, “but he seems to be very religious, and has no modern means of communication. A colleague from the Department of Children and Family Service told me Fly ran away from home after his mother died. And when he was found, he refused to return. He was placed with a foster family, but he escaped from there also. I heard he lived in Times Square, but apparently feared that he could be found again and returned home, and somehow managed to get to Chicago. The rest, you know…” "He's not the first one…" Ian swallowed. "Fly is not the first one I couldn't save." his Adam's apple twitched again under his clean-shaven fair skin, "but I could be in his place!" Ian leaned forward, hands on the tabletop. "I remember how I got here. I never told you, but I remember." I was stunned by his words. Although, naturally, Ian could not forget his visit to our hospital at that time, he never clearly showed that he remember me. I was even almost certain that he did not recognize me. Although unlike him, who has noticeably matured, I have not changed much; even my hairstyle remained the same. Truly said my hairstyle changed, but having made a full circle, it returned to its previous appearance. Sometimes, remembering Ian, I imagined what I would say to him if I happened to meet with him again. I couldn't shake off that feeling that I had let him down then. "I scolded myself then! I failed to observe, I had done something wrong." I didn’t want to make Ian feel guilty in any way, I just wanted to tell him how damn sorry I was that I couldn’t do enough to get him out of the hospital door into a slightly better reality than the one from which he came. "I really appreciate!" Ian answered me. "Everything you did! Both you and that handsome doctor. Especially you. Not a lot of people were so kind to me, especially then.” Perhaps this was for that special feeling that it was worth working without knowing neither nights nor days off, trying to help people in the most difficult moments of their lives, and sometimes serve as a lightning rod for their most difficult emotions. Obviously, Ian was now doing the same thing. "I appreciate what you appreciate!" Ian blinked and nodded while he pursed his lips, so familiarly. It was no longer appropriate to return to our conversation about Fly. And in all honesty, Ian interested me more. "I was worried about you, you know, then. I was checking the news, I was waiting and thinking, 'maybe I'll see that that club was closed by the police!'" "Yes, the club was really a piece of shit! But I had a really dark period. If there were no club, I would have gone to work on the street, like Fly. And there was food after every shift, I could take a shower, and sometimes even sleep in the backroom…" "It is still damn wrong…" "You know what is damn wrong? Fly’s death today!" Ian took a deep breath. Fly's death made me feel bitter too. But still, I was happy for Ian, that he not only did not sink when he was in Fly's place, but also managed to get out of the pit, get a commendable profession, and a decent job. And although I had no merit for this, I felt an exciting pride for Ian. "The Jews have a beautiful wish, 'Will we always be among those who provide assistance, and not among those in need.' I'm glad we're on the same side." In response, Ian pulled my hand across the table, and I reached out and squeezed his fingers. A distorted female voice then came from the suddenly crackling radio, “Ian? Ian! Where are you? Our shift is ending soon! We want to go!" "I'm giving the social worker some data about the patient,” Ian replied, pressing the radio button. "Drive without me. I will not go back to the station. After, I'll note that I finished my shift here." “I'm finishing up too,” I said, still not letting go of his hand. "Do you want to get breakfast? In the mall across the street, there is a cool café, and breakfast is served 24 hours a day." "I would like to!"