FOOD FOR THOUGHT
A series of articles in The Toronto Star cited unsanitary conditions and unreported cases of food poisoning at several Toronto restaurants (unlike a few American cities, Canadian cities do not grade restaurants for cleanliness). The following story is based on this series of articles, as well as the deaths of four children who ate undercooked hamburgers at Jack in the Box restaurants in the mid-1990s. It contains subject matter that may be disconcerting to some readers, so the author advises discretion.
"Girls suck," shouted Christopher DeSoto.
"Boys stink," countered his sister Jennifer.
"Girls cry every time they scratch their knees at a baseball game!"
"And boys leave dirty underwear lying around the living room. I told daddy all about it, and he got so mad."
"Tattle tale!"
"Pig!"
Christopher and Jennifer quarreled loudly in the back seat of their mother's 1970 Chevrolet Impala. The car looked as though it needed a new paint job, and the kids were left unrestrained in their seats because there were no seat belts - carmakers had only installed them in every vehicle they manufactured for the last couple of years. And the car wasn't a late-model one.
Joanne was paying more attention to the road than to her kids, who probably had argued since Jennifer began to talk. But her patience began wearing thin after a person who was driving a station wagon failed to stop at a red light, nearly crashing into her car. Joanne slammed on her brakes, stopping only inches from the speeding station wagon. Joanne's heart skipped a few beats, and her body grew cold before she shouted, "You jackass!" Only inches away from a serious accident, she thought, before driving cautiously away from the intersection. There might be others who earned their drivers' licenses through a mail-order catalog.
"Kids, argue when we get home," cried Joanne. "I almost got into an accident."
"An accident? Neat-do," cheered Christopher.
Joanne knew that her son referred to Smash-Up Derby, a toy featuring junky old cars that were supposed to crash together during a demolition derby. Still, there were big differences between a toy car crash and a real-life accident: "Chris, accidents aren't funny."
"Yeah, but they look like fun," her son remarked.
"To you, dummy," Jennifer said. Even at six, Jennifer knew about the dangers of real-life car accidents.
"Just because you and Jeremy play with that silly Smash-Up Derby thing doesn't mean that people have fun after their cars smash into each other," Joanne continued. "If you don't know this by now, you will if you have to go to the hospital."
"Yuck! I hate hospitals," commented Jennifer.
"I wish mom and dad left you at the hospital," her brother said. "You stink!"
"Enough!" Joanne turned left on Redwood Avenue, which came to a dead end by the Carson Ravine, a favorite hangout for big kids looking for their first opportunities to make out. A modestly sized bungalow house fashioned in red brick and white stucco was located next to a wooden barrier that marked the end of the road. In the middle of that barrier, there was a wooden pole, topped by a yellow and black road sign that read simply END.
The Impala stopped next to a pathway leading to an arched red door. It was opened by a petite woman with cropped dark hair and chiseled facial features. She looked like Joanne, except that she was at least 10 pounds heavier. She was carrying a young girl of no more than four in her right arm.
"Hi, Aunt Teresa," greeted Jennifer DeSoto, before Teresa Shoemaker patted her shoulder. Mrs. Shoemaker was at least two years older than Joanne, but didn't have her child until soon after she graduated from law school in 1971. She was taking time off her civil law practice to take care of her daughter, who would start kindergarten in the fall.
Joanne took the preschooler into her arm. She cooed, "It looks like little Katie is growing up so fast. You must be big enough for a big meal now."
"Joanne," advised Mrs. Shoemaker, "I wouldn't recommend feeding Katie hamburgers right now. She's still too young."
"Oh, don't be silly," smiled Joanne. "Roy and I took Chris and Jenny to Clown Burger when they were this small." She lowered her hand to two feet above the ground.
"Fine," said Mrs. Shoemaker, "fine. Just don't give Katie those awful Jumbos. Only Roy and that wild partner of his should eat that stuff. Even then, that's pushing it will all the fat and calories that are in those things." Mrs. Shoemaker was one person who preferred to eat dried figs rather than Almond Joy anytime. Then, she continued: "Scott and I are going on a business trip to New York tonight. He's going to a convention for restaurant executives at Madison Square Garden."
Joanne was jubilant. In eighteen short years, Scott Shoemaker rose from a lowly 14-year-old burger flipper to vice-president of West Coast operations for Clown Burger, a large chain of fast-food restaurants. Back in the early 1960s, Roy DeSoto was his weekend manager - another hard-working young man who the boss thought had a future in the business end of the fast-food industry. Roy, of course, had another plan for his life - to become a firefighter. Scott realized that fast-food restaurants were the way of the future, so he declined his Harvard scholarship to move up Clown Burger's ranks.
On the other hand, Joanne was cautious. Was little Katie going to stay at her place for the next few days? The only spare bed in the DeSoto household was a rusting, ancient hide-a-bed that was reserved for Joanne and Teresa's mother or John Gage. But it was either giving Katie a decent place to stay or leaving her with her crazy Uncle Lloyd - not that Lloyd was a shoe-in for the Shady Acres Psychiatric Hospital. He had too much fun living at his beach shack, never working a day in his life, his unruly long hair in need of a good haircut, his scraggly beard in need of a good trim, and his body in need of a good bath. Even Roy did his best to avoid him.
"Alright," agreed Joanne, rocking Katie in her arms. Katie rested her head on her aunt's shoulder and fell asleep, sucking her thumb. Then, she turned to Christopher and Jennifer, who were standing restlessly on one spot: "Chris, Jenny, your cousin's going to be with us for a little while."
Christopher protested, "Why? Katie wets the bed!"
"So, do you," cried his sister.
"No, I don't!"
"Yes, you do!"
"Kids," cried Joanne, "no more arguing, or we're not going to Clown Burger today. Is that clear?"
Jennifer nodded, "Yes, mommy."
"Yeah." Christopher lowered his eyes to the ground. He didn't really mean what he said.
"Well, at least something," said Joanne, smiling at her daughter. She carried Katie gingerly to the waiting car. Christopher and Jennifer opened the car doors and let themselves in. Katie joined Jennifer in the back seat.
Joanne drove her three musketeers to Clown Burger, a joyful-looking restaurant located near the Alameda freeway, on Carson Street. The exterior of the building was painted conspicuously in primary colors - red, yellow and blue. Even the children's playground located in front of the restaurant was painted in these colors. And since it was a warm summer's day all the swings, slides, manual merry-go-round and monkey bars were occupied by happy, carefree children. Most were either Christopher's or Jennifer's age.
"Can we go on the swings, mommy," cried Jennifer.
"Can I go on the monkey bars," Christopher shouted at the same time.
"Yeah, but not until after lunch," Joanne replied, parking her car in one of the few vacant parking spaces at the restaurant. Turning towards the back seat, she extended her arm over the backrest and gently shook Katie out of her slumber, whispering, "Katie, wake up. We're at Clown Burger."
"I'm sleepy," the preschooler yawned.
Jennifer listened to her little cousin. "Maybe we could come back here tomorrow," she said. "Katie's taking a nap."
"Well, I'm hungry," cried Christopher, racing wildly to the front door of Clown Burger. Good thing the glass door was immediately in front of the parked car.
"So, am I," said Joanne, who normally became exasperated by Christopher's rambunctious behavior. Katie was now wide awake and, after noticing that she was, indeed, at Clown Burger, enthusiastically took Joanne's hand and allowed herself to be led to the front door.
Jennifer followed her family through the glass doors. "Mommy," she asked, "are you going to buy lunch for daddy and Uncle Johnny? They’re hungry, too."
"That's what we're here for."
The kids raced to their seats, immediately behind the plate-glass window bearing Clown Burger's name and logo. Joanne stayed behind a queue of people waiting to get their orders filled by one of the 15- and 16-year-old kids who worked at the restaurant for the summer.
Though the restaurant appeared busy, it wasn't long before Joanne brought two trays of hamburgers, French fries and cartons of milk to the table. All the kids practically ripped the wax paper wrappers away from their child-sized cheeseburgers and began chewing wildly into them. Joanne, who ordered the larger Half-Pound endorsed by the star quarterback of the Los Angeles Rams, took one bite. Soon, she took her napkin, placed it atop her mouth, and spit something into it.
"Mom, what's wrong with your hamburger," asked Christopher.
"It looks pink inside," concluded Jennifer, investigating the scarcely chewed meat sandwiched in Joanne's sesame seed bun.
"Well, it doesn't taste funny," her brother said. Katie was wolfing her cheeseburger into her mouth.
Joanne fussed, "The trouble with those kids here. This thing is supposed to be well-done, not half-raw." She began picking the pink meat out of her sandwich, putting it in her Styrofoam carton, then ate the few pieces of properly cooked meat. Seventy-five cents down the drain, Joanne thought.
"Well, the fries taste good," said Jennifer, dripping more ketchup onto her small order of fries.
"I only wish the food I bought for your dad and Uncle Johnny won't be as pink inside."
After another half-hour of lunch and 15 minutes of playtime in Clown Burger's outdoor wonderland, the DeSotos drove to Station 51.
Joanne expected John and Roy to be out on a run. Instead, they were in the apparatus bay, lying underneath the squad truck. They must be changing the oil or something:
"John? Roy?"
Roy recognized Joanne's voice. Startled yet excited, he rolled quickly out of his job and sat up. He looked at a large bag in Joanne's arms. Hamburgers, fries and milkshakes for two hungry paramedics, he thought. Chet Kelly was on another health food kick, broiling rather than deep-frying the chicken he bought at the local supermarket. Roy didn’t greet Joanne with a kiss, for he was that preoccupied.
John soon joined his partner. He stood up at the opposite side of the squad truck, facing Roy and Joanne.
"Oh, hi, Joanne." Gage's crooked grin became obvious. So were the grease stains on his pale blue uniform shirt.
Joanne DeSoto looked attentively at John’s dirty uniform. John Gage walked around the front of the squad truck, joining her and Roy. “I hope that Captain Stanley gave you an extra shirt,” she smiled, nudging him on the right arm as if he was an old friend she knew from high school.
Behind the three adults, Christopher and Jennifer were running around the apparatus bay, playing tag. “You’re it,” cried Christopher, after tapping his sister on the small of her back.
Jennifer tapped him back. “No, you’re it,” she retorted, before running into Station 51’s living quarters.
“No touchbacks, dum-dum!”
Joanne turned around, shouting, “Kids, no playing tag at the fire station!”
“Oh, it’s okay,” said John, giving both Roy and Joanne his crooked grin. “Chet and the rest of the guys won’t mind kids running around the station.”
From the kitchen, Captain Stanley’s loud disapproving voice boomed:
“DE SOTO! GET THOSE DOGGONE KIDS OUT OF HERE! THIS ISN’T A PLAYGROUND!”
A loud clatter of pots and pans was also heard from the kitchen. “You stupid brats,” shouted Chet Kelly, “do you want your dad to starve to death?”
Leaving the large bags of take-out food on the hood of the squad Joanne, Johnny and Roy raced through the doorway that separated the kitchen from the apparatus bay. They were stopped cold when their eyes focused on Christopher and Jennifer, who were sitting on the floor, lightly coated in curry powder and sneezing loudly. Chet was splayed next to them, wearing a saucepan on his head. Six pieces of chicken breasts were lying raw on the floor. Mounds of rice were lying atop his legs and the floor. His pants were soaked in what might have been a few tons of Crisco. And, so, Chet was supposed to be on a health-food kick?
“Well, Gage, DeSoto,” smirked Chet, raising his arms in mock despair, “no lunch for you.”
Roy turned towards the door. Turning his head back at Chet, he smiled, “Forget it, Chet.” He walked out the door, followed by Johnny, who added, “Joanne’s brought us some cheeseburgers and fries.”
Suddenly, Chet’s health food kick was forgotten. As the other A-shift firefighters clamored loudly about the merits of a junk food lunch, Chet asked, “Gage, do you have a triple cheeseburger with the works for me?”
“Sorry,” shouted back John Gage, “Joanne didn’t think you’d be interested.”
Christopher and Jennifer slowly stood up. “Me and stupid over here went to Clown Burger for lunch,” proclaimed Christopher. Of course, the "stupid" remark was aimed at Jennifer.
Alarmed, Joanne raced towards her children, who looked like they were being prepared for an East Indian feast. “Christopher and Jennifer, what in the world are you doing here bothering Chet and these other nice men,” she cried, brushing curry powder off her children’s T-shirts. “You were supposed to be taking care of Katie in the car. And, Christopher, what did I say about calling your sister names?”
“Well, she started it,” he replied. “Jennifer got bored and wanted to play tag.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire, hanging by the telephone wire,” rebutted Jennifer angrily. “You said you wanted to play tag.”
Joanne roughly took Christopher and Jennifer’s hands and led them out the door. But before she did, Captain Stanley said, “Joanne, I’ll not have these two kids bother anyone on my shift again. If I see them here once more, I’m going to speak to Roy about it.”
“I’m sorry,” Joanne smiled nervously, “these guys are a little out of sorts. Now, will you excuse me?” She led the kids out the opened back garage doorway, continuing, “Now, I’m not letting you watch TV for the night, kapish?”
Christopher and Jennifer continued sneezing. John and Roy looked on, with the former chewing his lunch atop the makeshift picnic table - the squad hood. The latter lifted the crown of his hamburger bun, and grimaced at the condiments on his meat. There were pickles on his cheeseburger, and Roy didn't like pickles. He picked them off the sandwich before biting into his sandwich.
John lowered his sandwich and investigated the half-cooked meat on the bun. But he didn't seem concerned about the potential safety risks of eating undercooked ground beef.
“Medium rare,” he smiled. “I just love my meat medium rare.”
Roy put his sandwich on the wax paper wrapper. “I don’t like it,” he said. “I had a bite of this stuff, and I’d tell you. There’s something not right about the way it was cooked.”
“Oh, Roy! A hamburger isn’t a hamburger without a little pink inside.”
“Maybe to you,” argued his partner. “But people get sick because of it. And what this place doesn’t need are two A-shift paramedics suffering from food poisoning. Two guys from B-shift are on vacation, the C-shift guys are working double shifts at 18 and 127, and one of the D-shift guys broke his leg last week during a run. If we get sick, Squad 51 will be understaffed, and that's not good. And if you get sick - oh, God! None of us wants to work with that Brice again.”
Without heeding Roy’s cautionary remarks, Johnny continued chewing into his hamburger. “Well, it is good,” he commented, as he bit into the last morsel of his sandwich and started into his French fries.
Roy didn't want to insult Joanne, but he wasn't about to eat his cheeseburger further. The meat wasn’t cooked properly and Station 51 risked being short-staffed in the event that somebody got sick. Joanne only meant well by bringing the food to two hungry paramedics, but what was unfit for human consumption was. Roy re-wrapped his sandwich and carried it into the kitchen. At the stove, Chet was cooking something else: wieners and beans. Still, he was alert.
"Hey, you got me a Clown Burger after all," cheered Chet.
"Not quite," his paramedic colleague replied, putting the wrapped-up sandwich into the refrigerator. "And, Chet, don't let anybody, even Johnny or you, touch that thing I just put into the fridge. The meat's undercooked, and I'm not about to treat another Code Nine." He closed the refrigerator door, took a couple of Fudge Stripes out of the cookie jar, and strode back into the apparatus bay. Roy needed to go back to work.
At around half past eleven that night Joanne awoke from her slumber, her stomach suddenly churning with a sickening, sour feeling. Her head didn’t feel rested from her two hours’ sleep, either. It felt heavy, as if she felt something blunt pounding inside the front of her skull. Joanne pulled the bed sheets off her body, slowly rising from her bed. She walked out of the darkened bedroom and into the hall, which was only lit by a set of lights beaming from somewhere in the house.
It was from the bathroom, where the door was left ajar. A thin but awful gargling sound could be heard behind that door. The voice accompanying it sounded like it came from a child, and crashing water was heard coming from the toilet. It was followed by a cough, then flushing water. The child's voice was heard again. This time, it was a sobbing voice.
Joanne recognized the voice. It came from Jennifer, who was kneeling over the toilet, throwing up. Little pieces of meat, vegetables, bread and nauseating yellowish-brown stomach acid were floating in the water, and Jennifer lifted her clammy arm to flush the contents down - only to throw up again a few moments later.
Joanne had to slip behind the bathroom door. She squatted beside her daughter, putting her arm around her slumping shoulder. Jennifer was running a fever as well, her body feeling that hot even underneath her thin, normally comfy summer pajamas.
"Mommy, my tummy hurts," sobbed Jennifer, before her stomach churned violently again. She threw up into the toilet.
Joanne knew that Jennifer also ate an undercooked hamburger. She turned around, and Chris was standing at the doorway. He also looked lethargic and clammy.
"Mom, I feel sick," he said weakly. "My head hurts, my stomach hurts, and I feel bad."
I only hope that Roy was not as sick as Christopher and Jennifer, thought Joanne, looking on helplessly as Christopher threw up into the basin. Joanne needed her aspirin, so she opened the medicine cabinet and took out a bottle of Bayer. She popped two pills into her mouth, hoping for relief to come soon. Joanne had a low tolerance for illness, losing her patience and even crying in pain whenever a headache, stomach ache or even muscle strain got the better of her.
"I'll be back," assured Joanne, before starting out into the hall. But as she walked away, Jennifer cried weakly, "Mommy, Katie's really sick." She tried to throw up once more, but all she managed to do was cough into the toilet.
Alarmed, Joanne ran into Jennifer's bedroom, where the old hide-a-bed was lying next to Jennifer's white canopy bed. But next to it, Katie was lying weakly on the floor, in a fetal position, her chestnut brown head lying atop a large, drying pool of meaty vomit. She was crying weakly: "Mommy." Her blue pajama pants were stained with foul-smelling brown-black diarrhea.
Joanne bent next to her niece, her body growing cold again. But this time, it trembled in fear, then became paralyzed with helplessness. She was about to scream and cry at the same time.
"Squad 51, what's your status?"
"Squad 51, available," Roy responded through his pager. Then, he told John, "I hope it's not another one."
It had been a busy night for Squad 51, which went on no fewer than six runs since 3:25 that afternoon. All those runs involved youngsters who contracted food poisoning after eating fast-food hamburgers. Two of the children were treated for relatively minor headaches and nausea and were released from Rampart General Hospital that night. But at least eight - including four kids from the same family - were kept overnight for more serious ailments. Three of them were in critical condition, and one wasn't expected to live through the night. The child only recently celebrated her second birthday.
"I'm getting tired," said the usually energetic John Gage. "I don't need to go on another run."
The dispatcher couldn't promise Gage and DeSoto that. Another beep was heard through Roy's pager, followed by the following dispatch: "Squad 51. Children down. 11072 Elm Street. Cross street Mullholland. Time out: 11:34."
Roy felt sick. 11072 Elm Street was his house! So, he and John walked quickly through the busy hospital hall and found their ways back to the squad truck.
"I bet it has something to do with the hamburgers," he cried, racing his truck through busy Mullholland Street. "Good thing I'm keeping the specimen in the fridge - I'll give those bozos over at Clown Burger a few things to think about."
"I don't know, Roy," said his partner and friend. "Chet ate the stuff for snack before we went on our first run."
Roy pounded his fist on the dashboard. "I told that guy not to touch the stuff," he cried, before turning left on Elm Street. "But Chet never listens."
"It'll be a very long night," John concluded.
The Squad truck stopped in front of 11072 Elm Street, a red brick bungalow built about 20 years earlier. The DeSotos only moved into the smallish 1950s dream home six months earlier, finally being able to afford a house - and separate rooms for Christopher and Jennifer, who shared a tiny room when they lived in an apartment.
The front porch light was lit, and Joanne stood frantically at the doorway: Katie's lying on the floor and she's not moving. Please hurry!" Joanne sounded panicky and upset.
John and Roy passed her, carrying the dispatch unit and drug box. Joanne followed them into Jennifer's bedroom, which was still dimly lit by a small table lamp sitting on the night table. Katie was still lying on the floor, and the stench coming from vomit, urine and feces was unbearable. Even the normally unflappable paramedics expressed disgust with the foul odor through their grimacing facial expressions.
Roy kneeled beside the semi-conscious, limply sobbing child and touched her forehead. It was sweating profusely, and its temperature was dangerously hot.
"She's running a temperature of 107," Roy reported to John, who opened the dispatch unit case. Then, he turned to Joanne: "How long has she been like this?"
"I only came into her room about 10 minutes ago," his wife replied, emotion wavering into her usually collected voice. "She was very tired before she went to bed - but she was tired all day, Roy."
Joanne turned on the overhead bedroom lights. She and the two paramedics were shocked after noticing that the vomit and feces caked on the carpet were laced with blood. For Joanne, getting the stains off the carpet was the least of her concerns for now. She was worried about getting Katie Shoemaker the help she needed. So were John and Roy.
"The kid's bleeding," cried the younger paramedic, who dispatched Rampart: "Rampart, this is Squad 51. Could you read me?"
Over at Rampart General Hospital, Joe Early was growing weary. Three more children had been admitted for food poisoning, and Nurse Dixie McCall was on the emergency line, answering parental concerns about hamburgers served at Clown Burger that day. As much as she tried to be polite, Dixie was also growing tired, and her voice sounded collected but impatient.
Mike Morton walked to Dixie's reception desk: "Dix, the Sanchez girl's just died."
Dixie knew the Sanchez toddler - the two-year-old girl who Johnny and Roy treated earlier, along with her three siblings. Dixie looked at the waiting area, and saw two olive-skinned, sable-haired people sobbing in front of Kelly Brackett. Dr. Brackett looked down at these people helplessly, then squatted forward to comfort a soft-bodied, somber-looking woman wearing a short-sleeved red T-shirt and a beige polyester knee-length skirt.
Dr. Early leaned forward in the dispatch area. Johnny's voice was heard through the speakers.
"Rampart, we have three victims," he said, with urgency reflected in his voice. "The first victim is female, four years of age. She is suffering from salmonella poisoning. Her temperature's running at 107 degrees, and she's badly dehydrated. She has lost a large amount of blood through her vomit and feces. The child is now unconscious. Pulse is 50 and very weak. Respiration is 10 and shallow. VP is 50 over 30 and falling - "
Through the speakers, Joanne's voice uttered a shrill, fearful scream. Roy was trying to calm her down: "Joanne, please relax. We're doing all we could for Katie."
"That's easy for you to say," screamed Joanne, "but Scott and Teresa are in New York right now and I can't get a hold of them. Oh, God," she fell into Roy's arms, "what kind of aunt am I? A murderer?"
"It wasn't your fault," assured Roy. "You did everything a good aunt would do for her."
"Teresa was right. I should never have taken Katie to Clown Burger. But Chris and Jenny wanted to go." Joanne sobbed painfully, ignoring her blinding headache and violent nausea. "Oh, God!"
Joanne looked on as Roy returned to his duties as a paramedic. Chris and Jennifer soon sat on the carpet, allowing the paramedics to check on their conditions.
"Are you feeling lousy, Chris," asked John.
"And how!" Despite his headache and stomach pain, Christopher practically shouted out his answer. John and Roy knew better. Chris was still in a cold sweat. So was Jennifer, who held on to Mr. Peeples for dear life. Christopher looked at his sister. "Why do you always carry that stupid doll around," he cried. Jennifer used Mr. Peeples to smack him in the arm, but she was unable to hit her brother very hard. She still felt sick to her stomach.
"I need to go to the bathroom," Jennifer said suddenly. She slowly stood up and walked slowly out of her room.
Roy cuffed the blood pressure meter around his son's arm. John was back on the phone.
"The second victim is male, seven years old. He is suffering from severe stomach cramps, severe headaches and severe nausea. He's fully conscious."
Roy spoke: "VP is 100 over 80."
"Rampart, the boy's VP is 100 over 80. Pulse is 70. Respiration is 20 and normal -"
From the bathroom, Joanne screamed: "John! Roy! Jennifer's not breathing!"
Two ambulances sped along Elm Street, turning right on Mullholland. The squad truck followed closely behind, its sirens doing their best to alert area residents that something happened in the normally quiet neighborhood.
One of the ambulances carried Katie Shoemaker and Jennifer DeSoto, who were lying on separate gurneys. They were both hooked onto needles connected to IV bags. Both were unconscious.
Roy was monitoring the vital signs of both food poisoning victims. Deep down, he never thought that something like this would happen to him or Joanne. Every time he fired up the backyard barbecue, he made sure that the meat he served was fully cooked. Long before most of us knew about the dangers of undercooked meat and e-coli bacteria, Roy DeSoto always insisted that all ground meat he served was never pink in the middle. Of course, John Gage always insisted on medium-rare hamburger patties for dinner, but Roy DeSoto never listened to him. Roy would rather risk losing a friend than be hit with a lawsuit in case John got sick as a result of eating undercooked meat.
Roy's cautious attitude was also reflected during his weekly trips to the burger joint with his family. On a recent trip to McDonald's, he brought back Quarter Pounders after he and Joanne noticed pink meat in the middle of the patties. Christopher and Jennifer's tiny cheeseburgers were fully cooked, thank goodness, but the bigger hamburgers were simply inedible - at least, to Roy. Fortunately, neither he nor Joanne got sick after ingesting a few bites of the Quarter Pounders. But, of course, eating all of them would had meant calling in sick for the next shift. The kids at McDonald's simply replaced the hamburgers with fully cooked ones for free.
Roy was particularly concerned about Katie because of her young age and current medical condition. Her blood pressure continued to drop, and her bodily water count was getting dangerously low.
"We need to step on it, fast," shouted Roy. The ambulance driver pushed the accelerator pedal. The ambulance was already driving at 50 miles an hour because it needed to transport the victims immediately. But could it go 55 or even 60? It was worth a try.
It was only a half-block from Rampart General Hospital when Katie’s vital signs went into V-fib. The ambulance was riding along quickly, but Roy still showed steed urgency. “The toddler’s on V-fib,” he shouted, quickly picking up the cradle of the dispatch unit. “Rampart,” he shouted through the phone, “the four-year-old’s on V-fib! I need to administer CPR!” Roy knew that Katie was too small and young to be zapped. If he did, he would have killed the child, and he didn’t want to risk a lawsuit or the paramedic program because of it.
Joe Early replied, “Administer CPR, 51.” Roy DeSoto heeded his advice.
The two ambulances arrived in tandem at Rampart General Hospital, where the Squad 51 truck was already parked. John Gage was waiting patiently at the ambulance entrance as the Mayfair cruisers backed up. Four men stepped out of the cruisers, swung the back doors open, and allowed Roy to step out, still administering CPR on his little niece.
Kelly Brackett raced to the paramedics’ side. John was dangling two IV bags between his teeth. He pulled one out, so he could carry it with his right hand.
“Taking Katie to treatment room #2,” Brackett cried as Katie’s gurney was wheeled into the busy aisle. To Mike Morgan, he added, “Take Jennifer to #3. Christopher, to #5.” Brackett’s raspy but resonant voice sounded tired and impatient. After all, he treated no fewer than five young salmonella cases in less than two hours – and the hall was cluttered with more pale, clammy, sickly-looking children. Most looked well enough to be treated and released, but a sizable number needed hospitalization. It was the ugliest sight that Brackett beheld since coming to Rampart from medical school 10 years earlier. He was sure that even the infirmaries on M*A*S*H didn’t look half as bad.
Roy DeSoto also worked on his most difficult case since becoming a paramedic. Sure he had treated children before, but never did Roy dream of treating three family members. Katie wasn’t his daughter, but he had known her father since high school. Roy and Scott were best men at each other’s weddings, were godfathers to each others’ offspring, and celebrated Christmas and Easter together each year – until John Gage entered the picture. Scott Shoemaker didn’t like Johnny very much, dismissing him as a bad influence on Christopher, Jennifer and Katie because he brought along a new girlfriend each time. But Roy remained a good friend to Johnny, so Scott relented.
Dr. Brackett huddled over Katie's sickly little body. Next to him, two nurses were turning on the respirator and EKG machine. One of them placed four electrodes on Katie's chest. Roy was still administering CPR. The EKG monitor indicated that Katie was still on V-fib.
"We're losing her," Roy shouted. "We can't induce vomiting now. We'll only kill her!"
Dr. Brackett said, "She's lost a lot of blood." Turning to one of the nurses, he said urgently, "Nancy, we need a pint of Type AB negative and some fluids."
It was too late.
Joanne was sitting on one of the uncomfortable plastic molded seats in the waiting room. She watched the American flag wave against the clear blue sky. The music accompanying this patriotic scene was the instrumental version of The Star Spangled Banner. The final notes of the anthem boomed with airs of greatness and freedom.
The musical interlude cut immediately to station identification. It had an orange background, with rounded funky letters that were popular in the mid-1970s: "Channel 11. Los Angeles."
"This concludes our broadcast day on KIBO-TV Los Angeles," said the invisible announcer. "Good night." Then, the station cut to white-gray snow.
Dixie McCall walked into the waiting room, carrying another cup of coffee. She placed it on the coffee table, in front of Joanne, then strode to the TV set and turned it off.
"I would had kept it on," solemnly said Joanne. "I need something to keep my mind off everything that's happened today - even if it's a test pattern or snow."
"But it's 2 o'clock in the morning. You should be taking a rest. We can let you stay here for the night."
Then, suddenly, Joanne’s mind focused on Christopher, Jennifer and Katie. She asked sadly, “How is Katie doing?”
Dixie McCall looked at Joanne DeSoto, her doe-like eyes showing much anxiety. How would Joanne react to the bad news she was about to give: “We did everything we could, but Katie died five minutes ago.”
Joanne’s body grew cold once more. She trembled with fear. Katie’s parents were on the plane to New York City, and there was no way to contact them. Teresa gave Joanne the address and phone number of the hotel at which she and Scott would be staying. But they weren’t expected to check in until early daybreak, so Joanne expected another five to six hours of nervous anticipation. How would they react to the horrible news? Only 14 hours earlier, little Katie was tired but healthy. Now, she was about to be another lifeless body in the cold room, waiting for the county coroner’s office to determine the true cause of death.
Joanne knew the answer, but couldn’t find the right words.
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART TWO.
"Food for Thought" ©2000 Irene Majorka. "Emergency!" and its characters © Mark VII Productions, Inc. All rights reserved. No infringement of any copyrights or trademarks is intended or should be inferred. This is a work of fiction, and any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
NOTICE: The layout and graphics on this page are the property of Two Chickies Fan Fiction. They may NOT be used on any other fan fiction site and any such use consitutes HTML theft. We urge you not to support any site that engages in such tactics, and to report any such usage to Marcia or Tangee.