Weekends at Bellevue
Chapter One
Mother Nature’s Son
On a warm day in early spring, two New York City cops and two EMS workers roll a gurney down the hallway, escorting a man to the entrance of Bellevue’s psychiatric emergency room, where I work. Lying on the stretcher underneath a white sheet, with a head of dirty blond hair beaded and dreadlocked, he is naked, sunburned, and screaming. I walk out to greet my new patient as the drivers hand me his paperwork to sign.
“What’d you bring me?” I ask eagerly. I can see he’s a live one. I love the live ones.
Over the shrieking, one of the EMS guys gives me “the bullet,” the few pieces of relevant information when introducing a patient to a doctor: age, chief complaint, pertinent history. “This is Joshua Silver. Twenty-three. No significant medical history, no allergies, no meds. Also, he denies a psych history,” he says archly, shooting me a look.
“And how’d he get to you guys? Who called 911?”
“NYPD called in an EDP.” This is cop-talk for a psychiatric patient: ...
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