#whumpy dumpy

Frustrated, Dr. Mitch Ripley, kicked a nearby trashcan. It bangs loudly in the hospital's empty parking lot, the clock nearing midnight.

Pawel, a disgruntled previous patient who sued Ripley a few week prior came rolling into the ED. He states he was beaten by Ripley, his sister also points fingers directly to him.

Shit. Ripley feels all eyes on him. His coworkers, friends, even the police all- accusingly- veer their eyes toward him. 

I mean it makes sense, Ripley thinks. He knows his past and his current situation combine for a recipe of disaster. Why wouldn’t they think it was me? Ripley thinks once more. 

His unsteady confidence, his anger, the lack of support he’s felt his entire life come tumbling at the forefront of his thoughts. He knows he doesn’t have many strong arguments for believing in him and that he thoroughly makes it difficult for anyone to get close. But despite all this he still wants to be believed. To be trusted and supported and fought for.

Ripley, hands on his hips, paces back and forth. The thoughts of the past few hours, and even weeks, play over and over in his mind. He struggles to compose himself. 

In the distance he can see Pawel’s sister, Liliana, talking to a few men in the parking lot. They all glance at Ripley. He shakes his head mumbles a “great,” under his breathe. 

The group talks more, of what Ripley is not aware of. They are too far to hear their conversation but all eyes are on him. Again. 

Liliana points at him. Ripley stops in his tracks. He is a dear in headlights. Caught between escape and brute force that feels inescapable. Where can he go?

Don’t run, Ripley thinks. The men approach him.

“Hey!” One man shouts. Ripley shakes his head, irritated that his night continues to get worse. He rubs the back of his neck. His other hand firmly stays in his pants pocket. 

He begins pacing again.

Once the men reach him Ripley turns his back to them. 

“Hey! You’re the one beating Pawel?” The man asks in a thick Russian accent. Ripley bites his tongue. He bounces his leg, unable to contain his disproval. 

“Look. I don’t know what she’s told you,” he sneers at Liliana, “but I have nothing to do with what happened to Pawel.” He locks eyes on the one who first approached Ripley. The leader.

The man returns the stare, he squares up Ripley. 

“Liliana says you do this,” his prominent frown furrows in his anger, “and I believe her.” 

“I don’t care. I’ve done nothing. I’ve had a terrible day. So you don’t want to mess with me,” Ripley firmly says.

The men laugh. Ripley bites his lip. His fists ball up. He can feel the nails dig into his skin. He feels his heart thump. 

“Poydem,” he hears Liliana say, “come now,” she gestures for the men to follow her. But they don’t.

“You think you tough guy?” The big Russian man taunts. Ripley stands his ground. The grip of his hands tighten. His knuckles crack. He grinds his teeth. 

“I’d walk away if I were you,” Ripley cooly says.

“And if we do not?” The leader once more taunts. He cocks his head to the side, he inches toward Ripley. A sly smile creeps across his lips, the other men sneer and smile and snarl at Ripley.

Beside the leader that speaks, there are two on his left and two on his right. Five men total. Ripley takes count. He takes a stance. White knuckles shake as he readies himself. 

“You’re weak,” the leader softly says. He spits at Ripley’s feet.

Ripley looks down at the gross gob of spit at his feet. He pushes his tongue around his mouth. He fails to find words and thinks, hell, why not?

And takes a swing. But a man on his right catches his fist. The men laugh, Ripley tries to push through, but the man is too strong. He takes a swing at Ripley and it lands square on his left eye. Ripley staggers back.

He grabs his face, but quickly tries to return another swing. The leader dodges it as Ripley falters toward them. The two men on his left push Ripley toward their leader. 

The leader grabs him by his shirt collar and throws a punch to his gut. Ripley loudly moans and folds forward. The air knocks right out of him. Other men throw punches to his face, head, one to his stomach, and another upper cuts his jaw and his head whips back. 

Ripley stands there, arms outstretched. Eyes focusing on the stars above him. 

“Hey,” one of the men says. He nods toward a group of people walking out of the hospital entrance. They are too exposed out here in the open parking lot. 

The leader demands for the men to grab Ripley. They roughly tug at his arms as they drag him around to the back of the building, out of sight.

They throw him against the brick wall, his head knocks against it with a sickening thud. He whips back again and the men push him against the wall and pound him, repeatedly. 

Ripley takes each punch and tries to return some, but none land and he can feel his head spin. 

He takes a swing, but one man catches his wrist and does a spin move, his foot landing right on his temple. 

Ripley lands on the ground, hard. The five men stomp on his chest, stomach, back, legs and head. No mercy. 

He can feel his shoulder dislocate. He screams out in pain. He feels the blood oozing down his face coming from his hairline, his temple, his eyebrow, his mouth. 

A deep, sharp pain stings in his stomach. His ribs scream in agony. He can’t take in a deep breath, he can feel his lungs scream as if the were on fire. 

Crack! He feels someone kick his left wrist as the bones shatter. He growls in pain. He grits his teeth unsure of how long he’s been down. 

There is ringing in his ears, he can no longer see out his right eye. His right cheek is being pined down on the pavement it scrapes against the small rocks and they dig into his skin. 

Then, nothing. 

He hears nothing.

He feels nothing.

He stays there, curled in a ball laying on his right side. He wants to roll onto his back, but he cannot muster any strength to do so. So he stays laying there. 

Suddenly he can hear someone in the distance. He opens his eyes- not even realizing they were closed- and sees through teary eyes a man running to him in a long white coat. Ripley doesn’t recognize who it is, but knows it’s one of the Chicago Med doctors.

The five men scramble and leave Ripley there. 

The leader leans down into Ripley’s eyesight as he whispers, “this is for Pawel.” 

He stands and with one quick stride stomps onto Ripley’s right knee, shattering it.

Ripley screams out in pain. He takes a deep breathe before another guttural scream leaves his body. He sees black and white stars dance in his vision. He can feel his body shake in distress. Shock settles into his bones, he knows he will pass out, and soon.

The doctor shouts at the man and sprints as fast as he can toward Ripley. 

He arrives quickly, but Ripley is already swaying in and out of consciousness. 

“Hey, hey!” He shakes Ripley. He moans in pain as sleep tries to overcome him. “Stay with me, Ripley,” he hears the doctor yell at him. 

“I need help over here!” Yells the doctor. 

A herd of medical staff along with a gurney rush out to him. 

Ripley can hear ringing in his ears. The doctors barking orders sounds muffled and his eyelids feel too heavy. But his body screams in pain. His ribs, wrist and knee all broken feels as though the bones shift and scatter inside him as shards float through his body freely. He doesn’t feel intact. And this overwhelming pain takes hold on his thoughts. 

This is it, he thinks. 

God just take me, he thinks.

Hands grab and pull him as they lift him onto the gurney and whisk him into the ED. 

- - - - - -  -  —  — 

As doctors wheel Ripley’s unconscious body into the ED, they start an IV line directly into his left arm. Another places an oxygen mask over his face, loosely. 

Scissors go to ripping off his shirt. Hands assess his abdomen as an Xray scan captures images of his torso. The picture displays on the screen. They see fractures line six of his ribs.

Someone takes a wand and ultrasound his stomach. Free fluid is found in the scan. Blood. Kidney is damaged. Most likely his spleen as well.

Another Xray of his wrist, broken in three places. Someone wraps it in the meantime. Pain meds are administered. 

One more image is taken of his right knee. It does not look good. The patella is dislocated and the ligaments are snapped as if they were rubber bands. 

Surgery is immediately needed. 

“What the hell happened?!” Demands Goodwin. She stands at the foot of the gurney looking between monitors, images and the doctors tending to Ripley. 

“He was attacked,” Dr. Marcel cooly says.

He maneuvers Ripley’s shoulder back in place. Marcel asks the technician for another scan of the shoulder. It clicks, they watch the screen and sees it’s back in place.

“Okay, enough gawking, we need to get him to the OR,” Dr. Archer says, arms crossed. 

“Alright let’s hang the O-Neg,” he tells one nurse.

“Another unit of fentanyl, please,” he orders another nurse.

“His O2 sats are at 92. BP at 89 over 56 and falling,” a nurse reads.

"We’ll need to intubate,” Archer says. The nurse nods and she preps the tools for him to intubate. He swiftly places the bougie down his throat and attaches it to the bag as a nurse pumps air into his lungs for him.

“Okay, he’s as stable as he’s going to get. Send him up,” Archer directs.

They nod and begin wheeling him to the elevators.

- — - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

In the operating room surgeons, Dr. Marcel and Dr. Tanaka-Reed cut him open to fix his spleen and place screws in his rib, they repair a flailing lung, but could not salvage the kidney and remove it.

Other surgeons fix his knee and place screws there too. Meanwhile a nurse wraps his wrist in a cast and together they sew Ripley back up.

- — - - - - - - - — - - - - - — 

They wheel Ripley into the ICU and hook him up to machines and monitors. They add another bag of blood, more IV fluids and pain medication. 

Pale and weak, dried blood sticking to his hair and beard. His nails dirty, sweat pooling and drying under his armpits and back and chest as he lay unconscious in bed. 

 The sun slowly crawls back up, another day lulls around. In the night, Ripley woke as the anesthesia wore off. A night nurse was there to greet him. Explained to him where he was and what happened and how his surgery went. None of it stuck. It went in one ear and out the other. Sleep took him.

He woke in the early hours, he saw nurses and doctors, patients and family members walk around the ICU. None take notice that he is awake. He tries to reach for the tube down his throat. 

His left wrist, heavy from the cast can barely move, his shoulder screams in pain. He winces. The right arm takes over and reaches the rest of the way to the tube.

Just do it, he thinks. He tugs at the tube and pulls with all his might and it scrapes through his throat. Tears welt up and his throat burns. He tugs more and gags in the process. 

“No, no, don’t do that!” A nurse rushes to his aid. 

He ignores her and pulls the tube the rest of the way out. He gasps for air and none fully enter his lungs. He chokes and sputters air that never reaches as a full cycle in and out. He panics.

The nurse grabs a face mask and places the oxygen mask over his face, he tries to take deeps breaths.

“That’s it just breathe,” the nurse soothes. She calls for backup as he hears people running into the room.

Dr. Archer and Dr. Hannah Asher enter. Asher takes a deep breath, sighs in relief. She stands at the doorway.

Archer goes in and assesses Ripley.

“Welcome back,” he smiles down at him.

“He pulled out the tube himself,” the nurse reports.

“No,” Ripley croaks out. He coughs against the words he’s trying to get out.

“Don’t speak,” Archer says.

“No. DNR,” Ripley stubbornly whispers.

But going unheard Archer reports back to Ripley that he will need to re-intubate as he can’t hold his own O2 sats himself. 

“Look, Mitch, you’re still weak from surgery,” Asher walks over to him. She places a hand on his leg. 

Ripley reached out and grabs Archer's coat. 

“No,” he pleads.

“Can’t buddy. If you don’t go back on the vent your O2 sats will just keep getting worse. You won’t be able to breathe on your own,” Archer explains.

Ripley nods. 

“It’s for the best,” Asher adds.

“No. DNR,” he says as he pulls the oxygen mask down his face. Archer furrows his eyebrows. 

“What?” Asher says.

“Ripley.” Archer sternly says.

“No! DNR.” He repeats. 

Archer and Asher share a look. Ripley coughs and wheezes, he squeezes his eyes in pain. He grips at his chest as his O2 sats plummet even further.

“No, Mitch, no, you’re down to 87. You get any further down and you’ll…” Asher can’t finish her sentence.

“Hannah, step outside please,” Archer says.

“What?! No! Archer, no! He’s—,” she tries, Archer holds out a hand. He commands her to stop speaking. To hold her breath.

She stomps out of his room.

Archer follows.

“We can’t ignore his wishes,” he states.

“He’s not in his right mind, Dean!” Asher retorts.

“Hannah—,” he tries.

“No! He hasn’t signed anything yet. I’m not making him sign anything. As far as any of us are concerned it’s just hearsay.” She says trying to compose herself.

“Hannah we can’t do that,” Archer sighs. He pockets his frustrated fists into his white coat.

“No. I’m not letting him die, Dean. I won’t.” She pleas. “I am going to fight for him. I will fight for his life. If he doesn’t want to do it, I will do it for him. And I will not let him give up, Dean. I am not going to watch and participate in this. So don’t ask me to.” 

She walks away. 

Archer stands as he watches her re-enter Ripley’s room.

Just then Goodwin walks in.

“What’s going on?” She asks.

Archer takes a long pause. He shrugs his shoulders. But he watches as Hannah sits beside Ripley’s beside. She takes his hand into hers. He can see she is about to cry, but holds strong for Ripley. 

“Nothing.” Archer says. 

He too will save Ripley. He won’t give up on him.

“He’s off the ventilator already?” Goodwin asks.

“Yeah, but we’re just testing his lungs out, might put him back on this afternoon.” He says.

She nods her approval. “Keep me updated please. I will need to talk to him but I’ll come back later, when he’s stronger,” she says as she heads out the ICU. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Ripley’s lip shutters as tears spill uncontrollably down his cheeks. Along with the pain in his chest from the ribs, a new searing hot pain surfaces as his lungs ache to breathe.

His O2 lingers at 86% and Asher sits starring at him as they stand-off, each trying to be the victor in the fight for his life. 

“Why?” Hannah finally says.

He shakes his head.

“Why are you trying so hard to punish yourself, Mitch? Because if you think for one second that you deserve any of this then you’re wrong. I hope you know that I am not giving up on you. I will fight for you to live.” She stands and leans over him in his bed. She stares into his eyes.

He cries out again in pain. The oxygen mask fogging and clearing with each pull of his breath.

“Please,” he croaks. “Let me go.”

“No. I know you. I know this isn’t what you really want. You want to punish yourself, but you don’t want to die.” She says calmly.

He bites his lip. Suddenly he has the urge to kiss her. But it could be the oxygen deprivation. 

Stars dance in his vision again. His head floats above his body. 

“Come on, Mitch. If you really wanted to be dead you would have done something by now,” she provokes. 

Tears spill as Ripley writhes in pain.

“Please stop this and let me intubate you,” she says. 

She takes hold of his hand. She brings it up to her mouth and she softly kisses he fingers and palm and back to his fingers. She places gentle soft kisses all over his hand and holds them steady on her lips. She breathes in his scent. 

“Please, please, please, please, please, please,” she repeats as she presses his fingers to her lips. She squeezes. Tears spill. She continues pleading for his life.

Ripley tries to fight. But against his own will he can’t stand the pain anymore and he nods a yes. 

Asher smiles and lets out a sigh of relief. She presses the call button as she asks for assistance in re-intubating Ripley. 

It slides down his throat and a sweet relief settles over his body. The discomfort of the tube lodged in his throat quickly overlaps the pain he experienced from the oxygen deprivation.