Post by Deep Figure Value on Feb 28, 2012 14:46:27 GMT -5
The Death Of David Brennan
The sights around him swirl in a whirlwind of seemingly organized chaos. He tries to clear through the fog to get an honest grip on what exactly is going on. Eyes are shut. Almost forced. Struggling to crack his lids just a pinch, he catches a brief glimpse of a white ceiling - fiberglass? A few talking heads staring down at him. They can't seem to stay still either - or is that his head? Yep, definitely the head. For whatever reason, he's on his back, and his head is bobbing back and forth, rather violently. The commotion swells. Almost immediately, the place is filled with what sounds like a thousand voices shooting off at once. He takes a quick inventory. It's hard to tell the way his head can't stay put, but he couldn't have put his eyes on more than four faces, tops. Four faces. Looking down at him. Running off from the mouth in a state of near panic. Fiberglass. And what was that wailing. It was faint, but constant. Not a child, not a woman. Mechanical. Constant. Siren? Yes, definitely a siren. There we are. At least, for the time being, he could be certain he wasn't under arrest. Otherwise, he wouldn't be on his back, and he'd likely be garnering a lot less panicked attention. Still, it's not a very good situation. No one likes being in an ambulance. Kids, maybe, but from the state of their voices, this was more than a recreational visit. Still can't make out a word they're saying. Slow down. It's not English. Not Spanish. He can't recognize the dialect. Something of the Orient? Don't they level the patient's head in Asia? Suddenly, amid all the noise around him, he's able to pick out a voice. Clear as day. Male. English, perfect diction. May as well be the god damned Superman.
"He's coming to!"
Miraculosuly, all the talking heads of the golden Orient seem to understand as well as he did. Their state of panic becomes a state of calm reserve - for whatever reason, they know now what to do. It's only then, when they spring into action, that he can first take stock of exactly the state he's in. It's kind of like floating. Looking back, it's even a small miracle he was even able to crack an eyelid the way he did. He can faintly make out the talking heads on either side of him, struggling amid the bounce of the ride to fit him to any number of machines and doo-dads. The thought crosses his mind to raise an arm, lift a sleeve, help them in any way he can - after all, if what he comprehends is accurate, then these talking heads are doing their damndest to save his life. That's worth helping, isn't it? Still, the struggle is fruitless. He's like a stone slab, laid out, going nowhere. And yet, they manage. No sooner has one of the faces on left finished strapping some degree of measure around his forearm, does he feel the violent screech of the rolling medical center dive into a halt. That's a bit much. He feels his eyes roll into the back of his head again, slipping away, but he can still make out the faintest idea of what's happening. The back door swinging open. The drop from ambulatory level to ground level. Dripping on his face - is it raining? The swish of the air on his face as he's whisked away from the ambulance to...well, elsewhere. He tries to take in the cool air. No dice. Has it always been this hard to breathe? What he manages instead is a sort of gasp, followed by a sickening gargle. The back of his throat fills up with something acidic and vile, and he finds himself once more drifting out of conciousness.
"Jesus Christ! Tilt his head!"
Almost immediately, the world comes rushing back. A firm hand meets the side of his face, forcing head into a complete about face, and it all comes back. He's able to open his mouth enough to let the violent rush of sick pour out. His head meets the pillow once more. In the history of violent regurgitations, that had to be the single most pleasant violent regurgitation he's ever had the pleasure of experiencing. What a rush. The feeling is intensely calming, and invigorating. So much, in fact, that he might just get up. He could take it from here. Not so much. The weight is still there. It seems, for the time being, that he's stuck here.
"What have you got?"
"Contents of the patient's pockets ID him as David Brennan. 29. Textbook alcohol poisoning. BAC is through the roof. All signs show that this guy may have just as well been on a drip for the past month."
Going on two, bunghole. Wait, that's not nice. Guy's just trying to do his job. Not exactly making it easy on him, given that his job is to save lives. Guy dedicates his life to others, and here we are putting one that ain't even really worth saving to begin with on his slab, and then to boot, we pump it to the eyeballs full of toxins and Miller and ask the poor bastard to do his thing. It's always interesting to see how people go about these things, these obstacles life throws in their way.
"We've got five cleared out. Roll him in!"
"He's been unresponsive for the last five, short of that episode in the hall just now. We're gonna have to pump him before we can go any further."
That's one way of doing it.
"Get him on his side. Endotracheal is going in..."
F*CK ME BLIND, THAT'S UNPLEASANT!
"We've got a reaction!"
Have you ever been given the opportunity to violently regurgitate everything you've possibly consumed in your known lifetime? Have you ever done it in a state of complete and utter unconciousness? It doesn't tend to be very pretty. Still, like a our little episode moments ago, it's something of a liberating experience. There comes with it a brief, almost escapable moment of clear release, and then............
"Not breathing!"
"Oxygen, quick!"
.......................
"....he's stable.
The tubes don't go in easy. His rough exterior makes finding a vein for the IV something of a challenge. But those two words say it all. He's stable. Speaking of experiences - have you ever had a series of tubes stuffed into your cold, rigid body every which direction, snaking across an immaculate white room, hooked up to a machine that effectively, eats, breathes, and circulates for you? Sure hope the weather's nice tonight. Wouldn't that be an ill placed strike of lightning?
There's nothing for the mind to do but sit. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Sit in it's shell and think. By day three, clarity sets in. Cogniscent thoughts begin occuring at five. At seven, we could run a marathon. Climb a mountain. Win a fight.
A fight.
F*ck.
...and in the green corner, "Captain Vegetable" David Brennan.
This is how a losing streak ends?
Kyzer and Drakz would sure have a laugh at the state of him now. Hey breathing machine, get you a drink?
This his how a losing streak ends, how Mak Cross and Tabitha Owens win matches. Does it count as a win if one of your opponents has all the fighting drive of a stalk of celery?
What if he's dead?
If this is death, it's not so bad. At least he doesn't have to do anything. The machine is doing all the work. Say a storm does comne along. The power goes, and he just drifts into a sleep - well, a deeper one, that is. Everything's done now anyway - nerves, lungs, stomach are all shut down. Mind shuts down, and all's well that ends well. Say someone just trips along a stray cord. No one's fault. Just an accident.
If this is dying, it's not so bad.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP, BEEP.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP.
"Doctor? Doctor?!"
"He's crashing!"
"Get the defib!"
"...3....CLEAR!!!"
"He's not coming down!"
"Clear!
Settle down guys. You're making this out to be more than it needs to be. It's not your fault. And really, that jolt is just a tad unpleasant, really. This here, it's not so bad. Dying. Death.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
It's not so bad.
The sights around him swirl in a whirlwind of seemingly organized chaos. He tries to clear through the fog to get an honest grip on what exactly is going on. Eyes are shut. Almost forced. Struggling to crack his lids just a pinch, he catches a brief glimpse of a white ceiling - fiberglass? A few talking heads staring down at him. They can't seem to stay still either - or is that his head? Yep, definitely the head. For whatever reason, he's on his back, and his head is bobbing back and forth, rather violently. The commotion swells. Almost immediately, the place is filled with what sounds like a thousand voices shooting off at once. He takes a quick inventory. It's hard to tell the way his head can't stay put, but he couldn't have put his eyes on more than four faces, tops. Four faces. Looking down at him. Running off from the mouth in a state of near panic. Fiberglass. And what was that wailing. It was faint, but constant. Not a child, not a woman. Mechanical. Constant. Siren? Yes, definitely a siren. There we are. At least, for the time being, he could be certain he wasn't under arrest. Otherwise, he wouldn't be on his back, and he'd likely be garnering a lot less panicked attention. Still, it's not a very good situation. No one likes being in an ambulance. Kids, maybe, but from the state of their voices, this was more than a recreational visit. Still can't make out a word they're saying. Slow down. It's not English. Not Spanish. He can't recognize the dialect. Something of the Orient? Don't they level the patient's head in Asia? Suddenly, amid all the noise around him, he's able to pick out a voice. Clear as day. Male. English, perfect diction. May as well be the god damned Superman.
"He's coming to!"
Miraculosuly, all the talking heads of the golden Orient seem to understand as well as he did. Their state of panic becomes a state of calm reserve - for whatever reason, they know now what to do. It's only then, when they spring into action, that he can first take stock of exactly the state he's in. It's kind of like floating. Looking back, it's even a small miracle he was even able to crack an eyelid the way he did. He can faintly make out the talking heads on either side of him, struggling amid the bounce of the ride to fit him to any number of machines and doo-dads. The thought crosses his mind to raise an arm, lift a sleeve, help them in any way he can - after all, if what he comprehends is accurate, then these talking heads are doing their damndest to save his life. That's worth helping, isn't it? Still, the struggle is fruitless. He's like a stone slab, laid out, going nowhere. And yet, they manage. No sooner has one of the faces on left finished strapping some degree of measure around his forearm, does he feel the violent screech of the rolling medical center dive into a halt. That's a bit much. He feels his eyes roll into the back of his head again, slipping away, but he can still make out the faintest idea of what's happening. The back door swinging open. The drop from ambulatory level to ground level. Dripping on his face - is it raining? The swish of the air on his face as he's whisked away from the ambulance to...well, elsewhere. He tries to take in the cool air. No dice. Has it always been this hard to breathe? What he manages instead is a sort of gasp, followed by a sickening gargle. The back of his throat fills up with something acidic and vile, and he finds himself once more drifting out of conciousness.
"Jesus Christ! Tilt his head!"
Almost immediately, the world comes rushing back. A firm hand meets the side of his face, forcing head into a complete about face, and it all comes back. He's able to open his mouth enough to let the violent rush of sick pour out. His head meets the pillow once more. In the history of violent regurgitations, that had to be the single most pleasant violent regurgitation he's ever had the pleasure of experiencing. What a rush. The feeling is intensely calming, and invigorating. So much, in fact, that he might just get up. He could take it from here. Not so much. The weight is still there. It seems, for the time being, that he's stuck here.
"What have you got?"
"Contents of the patient's pockets ID him as David Brennan. 29. Textbook alcohol poisoning. BAC is through the roof. All signs show that this guy may have just as well been on a drip for the past month."
Going on two, bunghole. Wait, that's not nice. Guy's just trying to do his job. Not exactly making it easy on him, given that his job is to save lives. Guy dedicates his life to others, and here we are putting one that ain't even really worth saving to begin with on his slab, and then to boot, we pump it to the eyeballs full of toxins and Miller and ask the poor bastard to do his thing. It's always interesting to see how people go about these things, these obstacles life throws in their way.
"We've got five cleared out. Roll him in!"
"He's been unresponsive for the last five, short of that episode in the hall just now. We're gonna have to pump him before we can go any further."
That's one way of doing it.
"Get him on his side. Endotracheal is going in..."
F*CK ME BLIND, THAT'S UNPLEASANT!
"We've got a reaction!"
Have you ever been given the opportunity to violently regurgitate everything you've possibly consumed in your known lifetime? Have you ever done it in a state of complete and utter unconciousness? It doesn't tend to be very pretty. Still, like a our little episode moments ago, it's something of a liberating experience. There comes with it a brief, almost escapable moment of clear release, and then............
"Not breathing!"
"Oxygen, quick!"
.......................
"....he's stable.
The tubes don't go in easy. His rough exterior makes finding a vein for the IV something of a challenge. But those two words say it all. He's stable. Speaking of experiences - have you ever had a series of tubes stuffed into your cold, rigid body every which direction, snaking across an immaculate white room, hooked up to a machine that effectively, eats, breathes, and circulates for you? Sure hope the weather's nice tonight. Wouldn't that be an ill placed strike of lightning?
There's nothing for the mind to do but sit. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Sit in it's shell and think. By day three, clarity sets in. Cogniscent thoughts begin occuring at five. At seven, we could run a marathon. Climb a mountain. Win a fight.
A fight.
F*ck.
...and in the green corner, "Captain Vegetable" David Brennan.
This is how a losing streak ends?
Kyzer and Drakz would sure have a laugh at the state of him now. Hey breathing machine, get you a drink?
This his how a losing streak ends, how Mak Cross and Tabitha Owens win matches. Does it count as a win if one of your opponents has all the fighting drive of a stalk of celery?
What if he's dead?
If this is death, it's not so bad. At least he doesn't have to do anything. The machine is doing all the work. Say a storm does comne along. The power goes, and he just drifts into a sleep - well, a deeper one, that is. Everything's done now anyway - nerves, lungs, stomach are all shut down. Mind shuts down, and all's well that ends well. Say someone just trips along a stray cord. No one's fault. Just an accident.
If this is dying, it's not so bad.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP, BEEP.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP.
"Doctor? Doctor?!"
"He's crashing!"
"Get the defib!"
"...3....CLEAR!!!"
"He's not coming down!"
"Clear!
Settle down guys. You're making this out to be more than it needs to be. It's not your fault. And really, that jolt is just a tad unpleasant, really. This here, it's not so bad. Dying. Death.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
It's not so bad.
I dont know good luck 
