So chin up, put your shoulders back, strut a little. Don’t lick your wounds, celebrate them. The scars you bear are the sign of a competitor. You’re in a lion fight. Just because you didn’t win doesn’t mean you don’t know how to roar.
Prompt: Miscarriage Day. Day 2 of @omeliaweek‘s Family Week.
The page came in like any other, a 911 to the trauma bay. Robbins and Riggs were already waiting anxiously when Owen exited the sliding doors.
“What have we got?” he asked carefully, trying to clear his mind and focus.
“MVC,” Riggs supplied quickly.
Owen nodded before quirking an eyebrow at Arizona, silently asking why she was there. She nodded grimly, “Driver is about 30 weeks pregnant.”
The trauma surgeon’s mouth formed a tight line, sighing slowly as he tried to calm his emotions. This was not the time for personal connections. The moment was short lived as the blaring of sirens drew closer. The rig stopped a few feet in front of them before the back door was flung open, the gurney behind hauled out of the back.
“Jane Doe. Suspected to be in her mid-thirties. Roughly 30 weeks pregnant. Apparently she got T-boned while driving through an intersection. Some facial lacerations and disfiguration. Potential broken collarbone and ribs. Suspected internal bleeding.” The paramedic recalled factually.