The woman burst through the emergency room doors shouting: “Where’s my son?”
“Over here,” I blurted, startled by her entrance. Short and wiry, she flew past the paramedics to her motionless, well-built 25-year-old son, Doug. Then, turning to me, she rose on the balls of her feet and hissed, “I told those doctors he needed an MRI!”
“Does he have epilepsy, ma’am?” I asked carefully. “Any type of seizure disorder?”
“He did this once before,” she continued, as if not listening. “Those idiots upstate couldn’t tell me what was wrong. Three months ago he had this … event. Same as today. They told us to see a neurologist. But the damn insurance company wouldn’t approve the MRI.”
Trying to take control of the situation, I pulled aside the lead paramedic. “Tell me again—why did you intubate him?”
