This is a continuation of the story featured in The Accident, an article I published on August 1, 2019.

It got cut from the original article, mainly, in an effort to distill rather than amplify the piece. It was a painful casualty of the creative process, but since I heard from so many people about the accident I figure it would be cool to resuscitate it. Plus, I thought it might be good enough to warrant its own day in the sun. But you’ll be a better judge than me.

Oh, and I decided to leave it in the buff and totally untouched from when I first wrote it. Yes, there are typos, tense problems, grammar flubs, and battle wounds. C’mon, if I edited the outtake, how much fun would that be. Enjoy!

Inside the Ambulance

With every bump in the road I can feel a shooting pain zap my foot like a bolt of lightning, reminding this ride isn’t going to be as quiet as expected. Liam’s reassurance feels comforting but not enough to numb the pain. Every minute, the noise starts to build, more and more, and before I know it there’s a full on orchestra playing the world’s greatest symphony. Or maybe that’s just a thunderstorm. He offers me some magic potion but I don’t want to be cast under that spell. Not now, not ever. I know there will be some important decisions to make in my very near future.

You see, magic potion screws you up. Sure, it would make me forget about the tear-pulling pain coming from my left foot, but it also alters your state of consciousness. This is the same stuff I’ve seen at least five kids that I graduated high school die from using. Or at least it was the catalyst. The same shit that kills kids everyday. But right now, I don’t have time to be altruistic. My decision was more selfish. I was fully functioning on a cognitive level and that was not something I was willing to give up. Not quickly at least. I was about to enter a war and my current mental state would be an ally.

While huffing and puffing trying to thwart the pain, I ask Liam, “What surgeon is on call at the hospital?” He has no clue. Honestly, how would he know that anyway. It was a dumb question given the context, but give me a break my foot is falling off. Precisely why he’s only half-listening to me, probably thinking I’m delusional. But what I know, that even Liam might not, is somebody drew the short stick. I know nobody wants to be at the hospital right now. Not the physicians, nurses, or technicians. Nobody. They’re people, just like you and I. Well-intended, certainly. But let me ask you...Do you like working on the holidays? I have a slightly different perspective into this whole situation because I work behind the curtain in orthopaedics. Not in the ER, but in the operating room with the surgeons, nurses, and technicians. Something that would later be a saving grace for me.

The one thing the general public either doesn’t want to believe or just doesn’t know is the amount of gray area that exists in medicine. We have a systematic blanket trust in doctors, nurses, and hospital staff. We hang on their every word and assume they can’t be prone to error. I’m not suggesting you don’t trust their expertise, quite the contrary, you absolutely have too. But you can ask three doctors the same question and you’ll get three slightly different answers. Nevermind the amount of variations of answers you’d get from the staff. For every solution A there’s a B and C. Unless, I’m about to die and we don’t have time, I want to know all my options. This might just be another day at work for them, but for me, I’m living forever with these decisions.

My heart skips a beat as I feel a huge tumble–bada boom–we’re finally lumbering into the hospital.

No longer than thirty seconds later, Liam lifts his head up, “You ready?”

I look up, “Let’s do it.”

As I get rolled out of the back of the ambulance, I see a familiar face, another AMR, a distant connection. But there’s no distance too far, when you’re on the table, every familiar face feels like your favorite lounge chair. And I need all the comfort I can get. Each face takes you back to that blue sky, even if it’s only temporary, a different kind of magic.

I yell out from the gurney, “Hey, I know you.” He snaps back, “Who’s that!?”

“Vigliotti...Doug,” I yell.

“Oh damn! Doug, what the heck happened?”

“Jet ski accident,” I shout. His voice begins to fade as I get rushed into the ER, but I faintly hear him murmur the words, “Good luck.”