I forced myself to take a deep, inaudible breath before beginning.
Speaking slowly, I try to ignore Frank’s gun aimed at my face.
“Frank, okay. If you want me to put Nathan’s sedation back the way it was, then I need to take this little pump here off the IV pole, and put it on his bed. Is that okay, Frank? Is it okay for me to unclamp the pump from the pole so I can put the sedation back the way it was?”
Frank tilts his head and squints eyes, indicating he’s unsure if he believes me. Then he smiles, remembering he still has the gun. He answers confidently,
“Sure, that’s okay, but don’t try anything funny. I will shoot you.”
I nod my head to acknowledge I understand him. Gingerly, I unscrew the pump’s clamp lose, and remove it from the pole. I now have a projectile in my hands, but I’m unsure when or how to use it.
“Okay Frank, now I have to turn off the pump, and slide the syringe of sedation medication out of it. I’m going to give Nathan more of the sedation to make him sleep by pushing the plunger on the syringe.”
I know that if I push too much fentanyl too fast into Nathan, his back will arch stiff as a board from the bed, and he will code. But I’m betting Frank doesn’t know this. Maybe I can stall for time by giving Nathan just a tiny bit at a time.
God, please send someone to rescue us.
Like an answered prayer, the bedside phone rings.
Frank and I stare at it.
“Answer it,” demands Frank.
The phone rings again.