R.I.P.
R.I.P.
ER used to have these great emotional scenes where one of the doctors would be working on a crashed patient, desperately trying to bring them back.
You would hear them grunt as sweat poured down their face, while their colleagues stood at the bedside sadly listening to the monotone of the flatline.
“Dammit I’m not giving up on you. Turn it up to sixty.” Goes the typical dialogue.
“Clear” Zap. Pump, pump, grunt.
“Turn it up to 70.”
“I’m sorry, she’s been down too long.”
Remember the pregnant woman with preeclampsia, that Mark misdiagnosed? Or Lucy?(Softly mouthing: P.E.?)
“I’m calling it.” Usually Romano, but sometimes Carrie.
“No goddamn it.” Pump Pump.
“Look, we’ve lost her. You did your best. Let’s go tell her husband.”
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
When they were really going for the waterworks, the doctor would stay, alone in the ER, pumping and pumping until the executive producer tags came on.
Killer.
Well, after almost a decade of watching ER, I know when it’s time to call it.
At shortly after ten p.m. Sunday night, the patient expired. Last words “I can promise you, your bristle won’t be getting wet tonight.”
“David E. Kelley, we’ve lost ‘The Practice’.”
The doctors did their best. Sharon Stone was flawless and Spader gave it the old college try, but there’ll be no cooler ‘decapitated head in the office’ story than George Vogelman.
No better, ‘not guilty by reason of automation’ than when Lindsey argued that five bullets fell out of her Professor’s gun killing the stalker at his door.
Sigh.
Those were the days. Res ipsa pipsqueak. Helen Gamble feeling all responsible for the death of those cops in the drug raid. Jimmy the Grunt. Vanessa from the Cosby show yelling at Rebecca for smacking her kid.
Dylan McDermott.
And now it’s gone.
Hmm, maybe it’s doing crossovers with Ally McBeal in TV heaven?
The good news is that now, I’m down to 7 hours.