Partly Cloudy, Chance Of Rain

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Partly Cloudy, Chance Of Rain

In Trauma Green, Susan orders someone to page Surgery and take a hemocue. Carter arrives and wonders what happened to complicate Julie's condition. Apparently, she passed out, and now Susan can't see down her throat without a fiber-optic scope; since Mark's bogarting it right now, she has to wait. She and Carter think Julie's suffering from a pulmonary edema, so Carter orders up all kinds of panels -- trauma panels, wood panels, judges' panels, and even a piece of stained glass.

Mark is trying to thaw Joey in Trauma Yellow. The nurses nuke some saline and Mark yells for something called a "bear hugger," which sounds really warm and snuggly, actually. Mia and Dipshit Dad descend upon the scene and complain about how blue precious Joey looks. "Joey, wake up, baby, wake up!" wails Mia. Mark is all, "Piss off," as he tries to bag Joey and suction out his lungs. Sure enough, Joey burps up a quart of yellow creamy mung, which Mark assumes is river water but which I hope is a cruel commentary on Mia's cooking. Because I hate her. Naturally, Mia and the Dipshit squeal, because it's all very disgusting and parents have no place in the middle of a damn trauma room. Mark wants the fiber-optic scope because Joey's cords are closing up; just then, a side door creaks open to reveal a frightened but fascinated Daniel. "Get back to bed," orders Mark. "I'll come get you." Abby struggles to get a line, which prompts Mark to boot Joey's parents from the room and have Lily escort Daniel back to his bed. Because medicine isn't a spectator sport. And neither, thank heavens, is Mark -- at least not for much longer.

Weaver runs in alongside Vicki's gurney, yelling out orders up until the last second. Dr. Robert "Rainy Days and Thursdays Always Get Me Down" Romano greets her icily. "I have an emergency C-section," Weaver pants. "I can see that," Romano sneers. "Coburn called me screaming when she got the page. I thought she must've heard wrong." Weaver champions her cause, saying she had an abrupted, hemorrhaging twenty-eight-year-old trapped in a virtually untouchable ambulance. Romano regurgitates the policy that ER doctors don't perform C-sections until the mother has gone into arrest. "Well, she will, if we don't get her upstairs," Weaver says calmly, refusing to let Romano get under her skin, especially not the way many of us dearly, fervently, frequently pray that he will. Romano waves her away from Vicki, sending Weaver back to the ER to dry off. "I don't want you dying of pneumonia before your public flogging," he notes, following Vicki's gurney into the elevator bound for the OR. Anxious for a little praise or encouragement, Weaver pipes up rather pathetically that it would've been very simple for her to do nothing and let everybody kick off in grand fashion. "Yeah, well, that would've been the safe way," Romano berates her. "Now, if she lives, you're a hero. If she doesn't, I don't know you." The doors close on Romano, but not on our love. Weaver stares absently after him, then bites off a chunk of her Melodrama Cereal Bar and huskily murmurs, "The baby." Purposefully, she flees to find the child.

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