Doctor Love

Chapter 5

KATE’S POV

Time stops when someone's life hangs in the balance—a truth I've learned in countless emergency situations, but never expected to face in the pristine lobby of Meridian Grace.

"He's having a seizure!" I shouted, my body reacting before my brain could fully process what was happening. The guy's limbs jerked violently against the polished marble floor, his eyes rolled back revealing only whites.

"Someone call a doctor!" a man in a business suit yelled, backing away as if seizures were contagious.

I was about to position the man on his side to prevent him from choking when a familiar voice cut through the chaos.

"Step back! I'm a doctor!"

David pushed through the gathering crowd, and he dropped to his knees beside the convulsing man, immediately taking charge of the situation.

"Convulsions. Generalized epileptic seizure," he announced with clinical detachment, checking the man's pulse. "Bring diazepam!"

One of the receptionists—not Rita, thankfully—rushed forward with an emergency medical kit. Another nurse appeared seemingly out of nowhere, probably summoned by the commotion.

David snapped on a pair of gloves with practiced efficiency, his earlier arrogance transformed into professional confidence. "I need five milligrams of diazepam, now!"

The nurse handed him a pre-filled syringe. David uncapped it and moved to inject it into the man's thigh, following standard protocol for status epilepticus.

But something felt wrong. I'd seen hundreds of seizures during my time at Downtown General, and something about this man's presentation wasn't adding up.

"Wait!" I lunged forward, grabbing David's wrist before he could administer the injection. The look of shock on his face would have been comical under different circumstances.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snarled, trying to pull away. "This man is in status epilepticus!"

"No, he's not," I replied, my voice steady with a confidence that surprised even me. I pointed to the man's face. "Look at him. Cold sweat, pale face, something is wrong here. It's not epilepsy."

"I don't have time for amateur diagnostics," David snapped, still trying to free his wrist from my grip. "Every second we delay—"

"Could kill him if your diagnosis is wrong," I cut in. "Just look!"

I grabbed the man's arm and rolled up his sleeve, revealing what I'd suspected might be there, a medical alert bracelet. The stainless steel glinted under the reception area's bright lights, confirming my suspicion: DIABETIC – TYPE 1.

"He's a diabetic!" I announced, looking up at David whose expression had frozen somewhere between anger and realization. "It's hypoglycemia due to a sharp drop in blood sugar. This isn't a seizure, it's a hypoglycemic event mimicking one."

David hesitated, his eyes flicking between the bracelet and the man's face. "Damn it," he muttered, the diazepam syringe now forgotten in his hand.

"We need a 50% dextrose solution, now!" I called the nurse, who was already digging through the medical kit.

"Here," she said, handing me a syringe filled with clear liquid.

I took it, aware that every eye in the reception area was on me. The crowd that had gathered was dead silent now, watching this medical drama unfold before them.

"You're sure about this?" David asked quietly, his cocky demeanor momentarily replaced by genuine concern.

"Positive," I replied, finding a vein in the man's arm. "Diazepam would suppress his central nervous system, potentially making hypoglycemia more dangerous. He doesn't need sedation, he needs glucose."

Without further hesitation, I administered the injection, delivering the glucose directly into his bloodstream where it could quickly raise his dangerously low blood sugar levels.

"Someone get his name," I instructed, monitoring the man's pulse with my fingers pressed against his neck. "We'll need to check his medical records."

"Frank Watkins," the receptionist supplied. "He's a regular patient of Dr. Ellison in endocrinology."

"Call Dr. Ellison," David instructed her, seemingly recovered from his momentary uncertainty. "Tell him we have Frank Watkins in acute hypoglycemic shock in the main reception area."

I kept my focus on Frank, watching for signs of improvement. His convulsions were already beginning to subside, his breathing becoming more regular. Beneath my fingertips, his pulse was stronger, more consistent.

"Frank?" I said gently, leaning closer. "Frank, can you hear me? You're at Meridian Grace Hospital. You've had a hypoglycemic episode, but you're going to be okay."

Frank's eyelids fluttered, and he groaned softly. A good sign he was regaining consciousness.

"Water," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

"Get him some juice instead," I instructed one of the nurses. "He needs to continue raising his blood sugar."

The nurse nodded and rushed off toward the cafeteria.

"Blood glucose monitor," I said to no one in particular, and was impressed when a small device was immediately placed in my outstretched hand. The efficiency at Meridian Grace was impressive, even in crisis.

I quickly tested Frank's blood sugar, relieved to see it climbing back toward normal range. "It's working. He's coming back."

Frank's eyes opened fully now, confusion giving way to recognition as he looked up at me. "You... you're the nurse who was shaking."

I smiled, touched that even in his disoriented state, he remembered our brief interaction. "And you're the patient who decided to give us all a scare."

"Sorry about that," he managed weakly.

The nurse returned with orange juice, and I helped Frank into a semi-sitting position so he could sip it. David, I noticed, had stepped back slightly, allowing me to continue managing the situation.

"Good catch," he said quietly, his tone begrudgingly respectful. "I didn't see the bracelet."

"It happens," I replied neutrally, surprised by his acknowledgment. "Seizures and hypoglycemic events can present similarly."

Frank was becoming more alert by the second, the glucose injection and juice doing their job of raising his blood sugar to safer levels. The color was returning to his face, and his breathing had normalized completely.

I heaved a deep sigh of relief, the adrenaline that had carried me through the emergency beginning to ebb. "He's going to be fine," I announced to the concerned onlookers. "Everything's under control."

That's when I heard it a slow, deliberate clapping sound coming from somewhere behind us. The sound echoed through the now-quiet reception area. Both David and I turned simultaneously, rising to our feet to face the source of the applause.

There, standing at the entrance to the corridor with an unreadable expression on his face, was Dr. Bennett.