The Mná Feasa
An old doctor, his bald head reflecting the lights above, rushed to a patient’s side, eyes quickly surveying her state. The flesh of her whole body was charred except for her face, which remained pristine and pale, the skin soft and shining in the fluorescent light. The charcoal skin crinkled in on itself, burns going deep through her body. He could see the shine of white bone deep beneath the layers.
“Third degree burns,” he announced to the room full of ER staff. Their group made eight in total: two surgeons, four nurses, an anesthesiologist, and Dr. Coolidge.
“Heart rate?” he shouted out as a mousy looking nurse pressed a stethoscope against the victim’s chest.
“140!” she called.
“Breathing?”
“Irregular!”
Cold washed over Dr. Coolidge. He snapped his finger, grabbing the attention of the two closest nurses. “You two,” he demanded loudly, “go get Nurse Ó Súilleabháin in here! Now!”
“Third degree burns,” he announced to the room full of ER staff. Their group made eight in total: two surgeons, four nurses, an anesthesiologist, and Dr. Coolidge.
“Heart rate?” he shouted out as a mousy looking nurse pressed a stethoscope against the victim’s chest.
“140!” she called.
“Breathing?”
“Irregular!”
Cold washed over Dr. Coolidge. He snapped his finger, grabbing the attention of the two closest nurses. “You two,” he demanded loudly, “go get Nurse Ó Súilleabháin in here! Now!”