Living Dead (an ER parking lot story)

Dear Chris,
You asked me if I saved any one's life on Sunday. I always get nervous when you ask me that question. Because, if I claim credit for the resurrections I have to be responsible for the deaths too. And since I am only one, and my coworkers are so clever and knowledgeable. I am hesitant to feel heroic. I told you that no one was deathly ill, but I had forgotten the walking dead.

"We need a wheel chair."
Sounds like a benign statement, and usually it is. Meant for an elderly person with arthritis of the hips; a younger person with a sprained ankle.
"He's out there." the wife says, "He's trying to walk. He's been vomiting."
I take the wheel chair out the doors.

A zombie!

Over six feet tall, more than two hundred and fifty pounds. Arms dangling listlessly from the shoulders. One labored step at a time making his way toward me! A moment of horror movie terror grips me and I swallow hard. Then take a deep breath and wheel the chair toward the pale and expressionless human form.

"You need a wheel chair, sir?"
The zombie sits in the chair.

(Three days of vomiting alone does not explain this presentation.)
"Do you have any chronic problems?"
The wife appears at our side. "Stage four colon cancer"she chirps.
(Oh dear.)
"Doc, this guy looks like death warmed over. Colon cancer, chronic anemia, and vomiting for 3 days."

A little IV fluid, narcotic pain meds, something for nausea, and the zombie became a human again, with pink skin, freckles, and a sense of humor.

It's hard to say that we saved a life. The cancer will likely claim him in the end. Maybe we just saved him for now. But it was good to see the former president of the bus drivers' union smile as he slipped on his bi-focaled glasses, and left me for nurses in the city on a hired ambulance.

Sarah