It’s a part of life in the ER, dealing with those who are mentally challenged, often beyond repair
The sound of the fire alarm cutting through the hum of hospital life is shattering.
Even more shattering? When security hauls the culprit back into the ER, his wrists bound in restraints, and I recognize the slight teenager as my patient.
He’d watched me suspiciously as I entered the room. I noted the pale, clammy skin, the lank, unwashed hair.
“What are your symptoms?” I asked.
“Well,” he said slowly, stretching each syllable like two kids fighting over the same taffy, “my head is hurting. And my leg.” He points. “You know, I was walking to the store yesterday, when I saw someone who was holding an apple by the place, you know, where they put the fruits.” He stops. Frowns. “But carrots are better. They have this shape, I can’t explain it. Orange is a nice color.”
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