I can’t see; the smoke is filling the room. I don’t see fire, only pinkish smoke that wafts all around me. “Are you both OK?” I hear Chief Errington; he sounds very close.
“Yeah, I’m good, just can’t see very well,” I hear Officer Lopez.
“I can barely see, and my eyes are burning,” I manage to say.
“It’s a smoke grenade. Stay down to the ground as much as possible and cover your mouth. We are going to need to crawl out, but we can go out back. Follow my voice,” Chief Errington says.
I’m on my hands and knees, and I try to feel my way, but with one hand covering my mouth and the other on the ground, it’s difficult to balance myself, and it’s so smoky. “I can’t see anything,” I say, panicking.
I hear Officer Lopez’s voice get closer. “I’m right here. Just follow my voice.” I barely see a shadow before me, so I follow it, but I have to use both hands, or I will fall. “We’re nearly there,” she says, and I keep crawling until I hear her say, “Stop.” Suddenly, a door flies open, and I can breathe fresh air. Officer Lopez helps me up as we stagger outside.
“Are you two all right?” Chief Errington says. We both nod, and I cough, trying to get the smoke I likely inhaled out of my lungs. He grabs the small, rectangular radio attached to his shirt and pushes a button telling dispatch what happened. “Follow me, ladies.”
I do as instructed, and by now, he’s drawn his gun, slowly walking. Officer Lopez also takes her gun out of her holster and follows. “Okay, stay here while I go around the perimeter and ensure there’s no threat.” He ducks around the corner while I wait with Officer Lopez. I’m still shaking, my heart racing as if I’m running fast. Fight or flight is in overdrive, but I have to think clearly.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” Officer Lopez places her hand on my shoulder. I want to say that I’m not and let loose the tears I’ve had to bottle up for days, but right now is not the time.
“Yes, just a lot of smoke, and my eyes burn, and my arms are a little itchy.”
“Yeah, that’s normal. We're heading to the ER as soon as all is clear.”
“Oh, we don’t have to do that, do we?”
“Yes, it’s protocol. We need to make sure everything is OK. Depending on the material used in the smoke grenade, it can cause injury. We need to have you checked out.”
“What about you and the Chief?”
“Believe me; this isn’t the first time we’ve dealt with smoke grenades. We’re used to it, but we still will get checked out.”
A few minutes later, I hear “All clear,” and I can breathe a little easier. Chief Errington comes back around. “Whoever it was is long gone. They wanted to send a message, just not sure why. In any case, I’ve got back up coming any minute, and the ambulance and fire truck is on their way too.”
Sure enough, I hear sirens blaring our way. Within a minute or so, we are surrounded by help. I’m loaded onto a stretcher and wheeled into the ambulance. Once inside, they put an oxygen mask around my mouth and nose, and I breathe it in. I see a scurry of activity as they apply a blood pressure cuff around my arm and have me hold an oxygen meter on my index finger. I then feel a cold stethoscope being placed within my blouse as the EMT listens to my heartbeat. “Blood pressure 100/140, a little high, but that’s to be expected - heart rate is 102. Oxygen is 90%.” He jots down the information.
“Is everything OK?” I hear my voice muffled.
“Yes, we just need to run some tests and get you oxygen therapy at the hospital. You inhaled the smoke, and you’ve got some rashes developing on your arms and face, an effect of the smoke.”
I turn and look down at my arms and see blotchy red spots and realize that’s why I was starting to itch. “Oh, yeah, they are itchy.”
I had only ever been in an ambulance once before, and that was after a car accident 20 years prior. It wasn’t bad, but I had a concussion and bruised ribs. I look around and see it looks like a min hospital clinic with carts bolted to the floor. Six drawers, in two rows, are probably carrying medical supplies. An IV with a bag attached stands next to the EMT. He looks to be about forty, give or take, and his short, blonde hair contrasts with his tanned skin. His olive eyes look kind, and when he smiles, there are two perfect dimples on each side of his mouth. His jawline looks slender, and no wonder since he has no fat but plenty of muscle that fills out his navy blue uniform, which reads PARAMEDIC across his chest.
“Thank you for your help,” I say, even though I know he’s just doing his job.
“That’s what I’m here for, ma’am.” He feels my forehead. “No fever, that’s good.”
We arrive at the hospital, and they wheel me into the ER and a pure white room. A flurry of activity surrounds me. The white curtain has been drawn. I’m hooked up to an IV, blood has been drawn, another oxygen mask is placed over my mouth and nose, and I’m being asked questions. I’m trying hard to focus, but I’m tired and want to sleep.
A while later, the doctor then comes in with a toothy grin and says, “How’s my favorite patient right now?” He’s tall, I mean, really tall, as I glance up at his happy, shiny face. His deep blue eyes are flecked with a bit of green, and his dark hair is sprinkled gray. He looks like he could be my younger brother’s age, about 62, except for not quite as chunky in the middle.
“I’m Ok, just a little itchy,” I say, really wanting to scratch.
“Yeah, that’s to be expected. I’m Doctor Wagstaff. I’m sure you met Nurse Beckstead. I’ve had her give you something to counter the effects.” He flips the papers over in my chart. “Did some blood work. I don’t like your liver enzymes, and your blood pressure is a little high for my liking. Let's get your oxygen again." The nurse puts the oxygen meter back on my finger.
“93, coming back up,” the nurse says.
"Oh good, levels are better now than when you first were checked. Most everything looks okay for your age.” My age? Okay, yeah, I’m up there somewhat, but it’s not like I’m 80. Still, I know he’s being cautious, and I appreciate it. “However, I would like to keep you overnight for observation to see if the pressure comes down and the enzymes have stabilized.” He stops, looks at the chart, and then back at me with a concerned look. “There is one thing I saw that I want to talk to you about.” I start to panic a little. What did he see? Do I have some kind of disease? “I did notice you have elevated levels of a drug in your system that I wouldn’t think a woman of your age should have.” Again with the “your age.”
“Oh?” I struggle to remember anything I have taken since I haven’t taken the meds my nephew had my doctor prescribe me.
“I mean, it’s necessary if you have issues with your heart, blood pressure or have migraines. And although your blood pressure is a little high, that’s more to do with what just happened to you. But still, have you been told you have high blood pressure and been prescribed Propranolol Hydrochloride? It’s a beta-blocker used to treat the conditions I mentioned. What I’m concerned about is 1. How much is in your system, and 2. The combination with the smoke you just inhaled.”
I give him a puzzled look. “I do remember being prescribed something for anxiety I had a while ago.” I go back to the small dark blue capsule my nephew gave me, the ones I stuff under my mattress. Could that be it? But he told me it was for dementia. But, if I haven’t been taking it, then … does my nephew know I’m not taking them, and he’s been putting them in my juice?
“Hmmmm … I need to get a hold of your doctor and straighten this out.” He’s going to find out what my nephew did. I can’t have that happen.
“It’s Ok. My nephew took me to the doctor, and they prescribed it to me for panic attacks I get sometimes. He gives me three capsules a day.”
The doctor’s eyebrows shoot up. “Three times a day? You should only take it once in the morning, as it’s a time-release dose.” He flips the papers back down. “I’ll be back. I need to check on something.” He leaves, but not before whispering to the nurse who was taking my vitals, and she rushes out of the room.
Every thought imaginable floods me. How did my nephew not know I wasn’t taking the meds, and I thought they were for dementia? A beta blocker is to slow down blood pressure and heartbeat, but I’ve always been told I have lower-than-normal blood pressure.
As a teenager, I had something called POTS, Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, a blood circulation disorder where your heartbeat goes sky high when standing, but the blood stays mainly in the lower body. Running up the stairs, my heart would beat so fast, but I felt lightheaded, as the blood wasn't circulating up to my head correctly, and the fast heartbeat was to get blood to my brain. Most of the time, I would nearly pass out.
But that was decades ago, and I grew out of it in my 20s. It mainly affects slender, tall girls. That was me, nearly 5’9, but now, I’m barely 5’7 on a good day. Doctors attributed it to my car accident when the curvature of my spine was affected. I hunch over more now as a result.
I come back to reality when the doctor comes back in. “Well, darling, I called and talked to your doctor, who said he did prescribe the capsules for a panic disorder a year ago but told your nephew only to give you one a day." He takes my hand and then says something I thought I'd never hear about a family member. "He's been giving you way more than you need, and I believe he's been trying to overdose you." He lets out a deep sigh and then continues. "Your doctor prescribed only 10 milligrams, but your blood showed elevations equal to 30 milligrams. Now, that's not necessarily bad if you need it, but you only needed 10 milligrams because of your age and medical history of low blood pressure.
"The higher dosage could result in hypoxia, meaning too low blood pressure, which for you could cause you to pass out or have trouble breathing. With really high doses, you could have symptoms of tachycardia, leading to a heart attack. Now, couple that with your exposure to this smoke, which can be dangerous in and of itself, and you have a recipe for disaster, so to speak.
"So I’m going to give you some charcoal through your IV and some electrolytes and keep you on oxygen for a while. Nurse Beckstead will be here if needed.” The shortish woman with long red hair pulled into a ponytail and wearing baby blue scrubs smiled, her hazel eyes sparkling. She had a touch of makeup on, some light brown eyeliner, a touch of pink cheeks, and a subtle pink lipstick that gave her a natural look. She starts ripping into a package.
“Okay, thanks, doctor,“ I mumble. Right now, I don't know how or what to feel. Was my nephew trying to kill me, or was this all part of the "dementia" plan, and when I got so bad or even died, they would attribute it to the disease, not him overdosing me?
“I need to contact Chief Errington as well. Your nephew has some explaining to do.” No! Inside, I'm panicking. If he finds out he’s been caught; my family will pay the price. But I can’t stop the doctor when he pulls out his phone, and I watch him punch in the number.
What have I done?
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