Heart Beat: A short story

"Fuck!" exclaimed Peterson sucking air between his teeth and waving his hand in the air as if trying to put out a fire.

"What's up Mac?" asked his roommate Philip suddenly rushing into the small dorm room at the sound of the shout.

"I just smashed my god damn finger with a hammer!" he said, giving the hammer a kick for good measure.

"Well, if you hadn't broken the bed in the first place..." Philip trailed off.

"What can I say?" Peterson blushed slightly, "I'm that good."

"No, you just have a cheap bed."

"Med School's expensive, you gotta cut corners somewhere."

"Dude," said Peterson an hour later while trying to tie his shoes, "I can still feel my heart beat in my finger."

"You really did a number on that thing.  Let me take a look at it," Philip said, grabbing hold of the red, swollen tip of Peterson's right index finger.  "Severe contusion.  I reccomend keeping it elevated, alternating cold and hot compresses and high dose NSAIDS, failing that, drink ethyl alcohol until it stops hurting."

"It'll be okay, I think I just need to give it a little while.  I'm going for a run, see ya in a bit." 

"Hey Phil, check this out!"  Peterson ran through the door, sweat soaked and panting.

"What now Mac?" said Philip, looking up from the thick text on the table before him.

"I was taking my pulse after the run and it's really elevated."

"Elevated heart rate should result from intense physical activity, what's the big mystery?"

"It's my finger," Peterson said, holding out his hand and pointing his finger skyward. "My heartbeat isn't elevated in my finger."

"Um... afraid that's not possible Mac," said Philip as he got to his feet and walked to the closet.

"No really, check it out," Peterson said, putting two fingers to his neck and checking his pulse.

Philip returned from the cluttered depths of the closet with a stethoscope in hand.

"Here," Philip pressed his stethoscope to Peterson's chest and listened intently.  Then he used the stethoscope on Peterson's finger and listened as well.  He then placed his fingers on Peterson's neck, continuing to listen to the stethoscope.

"Honestly man," he said after a minute, "I can't hear a thing."

"Well, just take my word for it."

"It's not medically possible, quite jerking around."

Peterson learned to live with the strange pulsing in his finger.  It kept him company during Med School, it lulled him to sleep like a metronome.  Sometimes it would race or flutter, never for any reason he could determine, but he knew why his own heart did that, when a beautiful woman walked by or during the throes of passion.  Since completing his internship, he had begun working in an Emergency Room.

"We're losing her!" shouted the attending Nurse, with a backwards glance at the heart monitor.

"Push point five milligrams Atropine every three minutes!" returned Doctor Peterson.  "What happened here?"

"Hit and run.  Major contusions on right thigh, possible fractured femur.  Cardiac tamponade seems to be causing severe dysrythmia.  When they found her she was in cardiac arrest but they were able to bring her back after CPR."

"Okay, set up an Ultrasound, I need to drain the fluid from her Paricardium," he paused a moment to look down at the beautiful battered woman who lay on the table.  Something was wrong.  His finger wasn't pulsing right.  It was like the sudden silence after a gunshot when everything seems dimmed down.

"She's crashing!  Get the paddles ready!"  Peterson yelled before the monitor had even shown the fibrillating heart beat.

"Erica," he said grabbing the nearest nurse by her arm.  "Get me a Pericardiocentesis needle.  Now!" he said, pushing her slightly as he let go.  She ran off and Doctor Peterson turned around to attend to the patient who was spasming as she was shocked repeatedly.  Every time, Peterson could feel his finger flutter slightly and then cease again.

"We can't establish a stable pulse!" yelled nurse Brockton who had paddles in his hands.

Nurse Erica returned with a large imposing needle.  Peterson snatched it and forced the crash cart out of the way.  He thrust the needle between her fifth and sixth ribs, then slowed to avoid going too deep.  Peterson pulled a syringe out of his coat and attached it to the needle.

He withdrew the plunger, filling the syringe with dark red blood, then slowly pulled the needle out.

"Clear!" he said grabbing the defibrillator paddles and placing them on her chest.  He hit her once, twice, three times in those first few minutes.  Each time, he felt in his finger that she was slipping.  Then he had an idea, he placed his fingers beneath one of the paddles and yelled, "Clear!"

He awoke the next day with burns on his hand and a bandage on his head.  Next to him was a sweet smelling woman with long dark hair and fine features.  She had a cast on her elevated leg, and she wore her bruises and cuts like jewelry.

"Hello," said Peterson, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and taking a few steps toward her.  He extended his right hand, "I need to show you something."

He took her hand, she offered no resistance.

"You're the doctor that saved me right?" she said softly.

Peterson nodded but didn't say a thing, he took her hand and placed it on the table beside the bed and opened a drawer.

"What are you doing?" she said, still not withdrawing her hand, but with a little fear in her voice.

Peterson placed her hand just right, and slammed the drawer on her finger.

They were married within a year.