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By Bonnie Bartel Latino

Columnist

On a bright sunny day, as I walked into the base hospital to volunteer, my thoughts first wandered to the day I over-accessorized my Red Cross uniform. Odd, sometimes strict rules, regulations, and jargon filled this lieutenant’s wife’s life. Adjusting to them all presented endless challenges, but I was determined to adjust, even if I found some of them tedious. I smiled at the nondescript, comfortable shoes and simple Timex watch I now wore with my uniform. When I checked-in at the front desk, I was told to report to the Emergency Room. I hadn’t yet volunteered there, so I asked if there were special instructions. I was told to check in with the head nurse. “She’ll tell you everything.” I gave the female clerk my sunniest smile and a perky “Okey-Dokey.” Why me, Lord? I wondered, as I composed myself for an afternoon I could in no way have expected.
Walking confidently through the ER’s double-doors and to their front desk, I introduced myself to the clerk and asked, “Where can I find the head nurse?” The male airman looked around the front part of the ER, an over-sized room that teemed with medical personnel changing shifts. “There she is. The tall lady over there.” For good measure, he pointed. “Thanks!” She was hard to miss. I walked briskly toward her. Our eyes met as she stated the obvious, “I bet you’re here to see me.” I replied, “I am. My name is Bonnie Latino. How can I help today, ma’am?” If she told me her name, I have erased it from my brain. With Clorox.
“You just need to answer our phone until 5 p.m.” Obviously, a no-nonsense woman with no time for pleasantries. Fine with me, except a bit too vague. A lot too vague.
“Yes, ma’am. Which phone?”
She had already started to walk away but turned to reply. “Our emergency line — for ambulances. It’s on that wall, over there.” I saw it as she pointed. When I turned back to her, she was gone. Okayyy.
As I recall, a brown bar stool stood by the phone. I knew I wouldn’t so much as run outside of the ER to the nearby ladies room. I sat on the stool waiting for the phone to ring, praying it wouldn’t.
The afternoon slid by fairly quickly. A few medical staff smiled or said hello as they walked by. I was grateful for their friendliness. Around four o’clock, the phone rang. Loudly! It rang twice before I composed myself and said, “March AFB Emergency Room. How can I help you?”
A woman’s voice very calmly said. “We have a worker down at the base commissary. We think it’s his heart. He’s about 45. Send an ambulance.” She didn’t waste time and neither did I. “I’ll report it, right away. Is there anything else?” As soon as she said, “No,” I was off my stool and searching for the head nurse. I soon found her and gave her the message.
“Well, you did get the caller’s name,” she replied indignantly, “and the number she called from, didn’t you?”
My heart sunk. All I could do was tell the truth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know … I was supposed to.”
Snippily, she ordered, “Call them back. We cannot send an ambulance until we have that information.”
“But ma’am, a 45-year-old man has probably had a heart attack!”
“Call back and get that information!” She didn’t have to tell me again. I almost ran back to the phone. Her number? Bile rose in my throat. I swallowed hard as I reached for the base phone book on a nearby shelf. C- for Commissary, I muttered aloud as I searched the pages. There it was! Now … what department? The woman hadn’t said. I called the main number then quickly wrote it on the back cover of the small phone book.
By the time I dialed about 3 minutes had passed. Damn! The line was busy. Busy. Busy. Busy. I kept dialing. Get her name and phone number became my mantra. Still busy. Although the room wasn’t hot, sweat beaded at my temples. I called several more times. Busy. Again, and again, and again.
Leaving the phone, I went to find the head nurse. As soon as I saw her, our eyes met, and I waved my arm frantically over my head. “What now?” She asked. You did get the name and number? Didn’t you!” It wasn’t a question.
“The main number for the commissary is still busy. I’ve been dialing every 10 seconds or so.”
“Go back. Keep dialing! Name and number, please!”
Never once did she tell me to dial the operator, give her the info, and ask her to break into that conversation. I’m sure of that. Nor, honestly, did it occur to me. In 1971, I don’t think I had any idea you could even do that. Nor did phones back then light up with the name or the number of the incoming caller. I kept dialing, dialing, dialing. Fifteen minutes must have passed. Finally, a woman’s voice answered. “March Commissary. Can I help you?”
“Yes. I need the name and number of the woman, who called the base hospital for an ambulance, 15 or 20 minutes ago. She said a man may have had a heart attack at the commissary.” My own heart raced even faster than my words.
“Oh.” Silence.
“Ma’am, did you hear me?”
Matter-of-factly she said, “He’s dead.”
I gasped. “Excuse me, what did you say?”
But she had hung up.