The most stressful day of my life.

It was my weekend off. After a long night of work, I was at my grandparents. My grandfather had left some time ago to run errands, and I was in his room sitting on the computer about to write an opinion piece for the local newspaper. The phone behind me rang. My grandmother answered it and then told me that it was my father. I took the phone from her and said hello. The voice on the other end was not my father's, but rather the voice of a person I had never met before. He told me his name, and that my grandfather had just been hit by a car outside of Wal-Mart. He further told me that my grandfather specifically told him not to inform my grandmother, but rather to inform me. I thanked him and hung up the phone, and I got ready. I went out the door en route to Wal-Mart. I picked up my cell phone and called the non-emergency line to the county communications center, told them who I was and asked if the ambulance was on scene yet. They informed me that it had just arrived. I thanked them and hung up. I got there in about three minutes, basically just in time to see them close the doors to the ambulance. They informed me of what hospital he was going to.

As I was racing down the interstate I called my uncle, an RN who works in an ER, and informed him of what happened. I thought he would come to the hospital. I think he just went back to sleep. I got there and spoke with the receptionist, but there was no information. She directed me to the two volunteer chaplains. My heart sank. That the was man who had taught me more than any other person on this planet. I looked up to him as long as I'd known him, and now I feared the worst. It's funny the things you can think in a split second. How much info can pass through your mind in really no time at all. I worried for no reason. The chaplains act as intermediaries between the medical staff and those souls in the waiting room. There was no information. I waited. Still nothing. I figured, "fuck this", and I sneaked my way into the emergency room and asked the charge nurse for information. I was promptly escorted back to the waiting room. I waited longer. Nothing. And then I waited some more. My grandmother must have called me a thousand times asking about my grandfather and letting me know she was worried that he hadn't returned home. I told her that he was just probably out running a lot of errands and that he should be home shortly. My cousin who worked at the McDonald's in that Wal-Mart figured it out pretty quick. How many old guys buy three bags of cat food? I made sure she wouldn't tell my grandmother, which she didn't like, but she kept her word. I made small talk with the receptionists. I found out my grandfather was going to radiology. I had them call there to ask if my aunt, who worked in the radiology department of that hospital, was in today. Nope. I had them call the medical photography department to see if my uncle, the medical photographer for that hospital, was working today. No luck. The story was the same for my aunt who works in the Cardiology department. Three relatives who work in that very same damned hospital, and not a one was working that day. Of course, who works on a fucking Saturday these days? Still nothing. I called my mother and informed her. I got a call from a cousin who was frantic, to whom I gave a few minor details. Then a volunteer chaplain came out to talk to me, informing me that I could speak to the doctor in a few moments. He led me back to a small and empty waiting room. He left and returned with two doctors and they all sat there with me. The doctor laid it out. My grandfather had five broken ribs, posterior and anterior. His fibula was broken. His hips were broken in three places. His urethra was torn. I asked as many questions as I could, soaking up the information. No major hemorrhaging, no brain damage, except for the bones all was well. I went back to see my grandfather. They were getting him ready for surgery to repair his urethra. I left. I called a cousin and asked for my aunt's cell phone number. I told her. I called my aunt and told her. I initiated the motion for circling the wagons.

I sat my grandmother down on the couch and told her, briefly, what had happened. I let my aunt, another RN, know what had happened, only her version had much more detail than the one presented to my grandmother. We went to the hospital.

I sat my grandmother down in a waiting room while I searched for answers. Eventually I had determined that no one could determine where my grandfather was, but that he was eventually going to the ICU. Fan fucking tastic. I took my grandmother to the ICU waiting room where there were other members of my family. We learned he was in surgery. Later that night we found out what happened. Just before they were going to put him under and fix his urethra, his BP dropped. Massive bleeding. It took them three hours to stop it. The trauma surgeon, standing there in his once-white now bloodstained lab coat, explained it. The doctor said that he had stopped counting at seven pints of blood. Seven fucking pints. He would probably make it. Probably? What the fuck kind of odds is 'probably'? Long story short, he made it out ok. He's walking now. Pissing into a bag for the rest of his life. I stayed up for over 50 hours that weekend. I told three people that their father, four people that their grandfather, and one woman that her husband of sixty-two years got hit by a car. I almost lost my mentor that night. It was a rough one.