The sad thing is, I hardly remember the patient. Everything about her is just an overhead pediatric trauma alert followed by the flurry of cutting clothes off, throwing IV lines, and calling out our primary and secondary survey — “blown right pupil,” “unequal breath sounds,” “gross deformity to left ankle,” and then, “no pulses” — followed by the age-old barbaric resuscitation efforts that are now muscle memory to us, as we compressed her sternum still with bits of her Forever 21 bra on it and shoved a MAC blade past her pink braces.
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