Page 12 of Alarm Fatigue

That is why it should be no surprise at all, that I walked into to the hospital to find there were no fewer than six patients waiting for admission. And now it is less than an hour later as I am attempting to place a central line in a one of these patients, while they are intermittently having seizures. Further adding to the complexity of this current situation, is that this particularly unfortunate individual is completely edematous, making my chances of successfully placing the line marginal, even without the seizures.

The cherry on top is that Mark Levy, MD is the attending tonight.

He is standing at the bedside calmly giving out instructions while I am on the other side of the patient’s stretcher from him, struggling and rethinking my life choices. “Lauren, give diazepam 10 mg IM now.”

“Diazepam 10 mg IM, got it Dr. Levy.”

“His blood alcohol level is less than 10 and last week it was 475.” He then turns his attention to the other side of the bed and I hear him bellow. “Lazarus, where is my line?”

I feel his eyes burning like lasers aimed at the top of my head as my hands start to sweat under my gloves. I send a prayer to God for a miracle that Mark either does not notice my nervous hands or if he does, that he at least will not embarrass me about it in front of the team. No matter how long I have been doing this job, my imposter syndrome reappears nearly every time I work. This happens most especially during critical events, and the more stressful the situation, the louder the voices in my head seem to become. Usually, Mark is excellent at echoing those voices aloud.

That is why I almost drop the ultrasound probe when I hear him speak from behind where I am standing. He seems to be centimeters from the back of me when he asks me the most unexpected question I have heard from him, maybe ever.

“What can I do to help?”

This transformation in his demeanor is almost worse than him being rude, as I am so confused by his change in tone, that I almost stop what I am doing to assess him for signs of possession. The patient, meanwhile, has stilled from his seizures as the diazepam seems to be taking effect.

“I’ve got it,” I try not to betray my surprise as I place the line and keep my voice as mechanical as I can, “Just needed him to stop moving.”

“Okay,” he says quietly and he is so close that I feel his breath across the right side of my cheek and erupt in goose bumps. Just as suddenly, Mark is turning back to the rest of the team to continue the process of ordering what the patient will need next. What the hell was that?

Once the patient is stabilized I glance around for Mark’s location and I see that he appears to be in deep conversation with the patient’s nurse and I flee the scene.

∞∞∞

Later in the shift, after completing my last notes from night-rounds as well as my documentation for the new admissions, I decide to head down to the lounge to eat my meal. Rummaging in the pocket of my lunch bag for my phone charger while I am pushing the door open with my back, I feel as though I am falling when the door suddenly lightens its weight. Straight away, I end up rushing forward into the room. To keep from falling, I turn myself around 180 degrees and subsequently face plant directly into the chest and neck of none other than Dr. Levy.

“Rachel.”

He is saying my name in that same alarmingly quiet voice he was using earlier, and I respond by jumping backwards a step to break contact and look directly at him. I have no response for him, all words having escaped me as I am in shock from the physical contact between us, not to mention the effect it is having on me.

Of course, I touch patients all the time, but otherwise, I generally do not touch men, not even to shake hands. I mean, I meet the occasional person who does not know better, and if a man reaches out to shake my hand in a social situation, I would not embarrass him unnecessarily. But the truth is I have not really touched a man in a non-medical way in a very long time. I would not necessarily say I am strictly someone that is a shomer negiah. It just is something I do not do primarily because of the way my life is. The only males I see regularly outside of work are my Orthodox son-in-law and grandson. So it is more environmental in my case than a rule that I live by. And my face was just in Mark’s chest. Filling my sense of smell for a moment was his soap, his laundry detergent and whatever natural scent is emanating from him, and it is all I can do not to lean back towards him and breathe deeply. He smells amazing and the effect this is having on me is as unexpected as it is unsettling.

Nothing could prepare me for what he said next: “I was looking for you.” He surprises me by saying this in that same careful voice he had used earlier, which is not really helping to break the spell of how intoxicating I am finding him.

“Oh, well. Here I am.” Charming. And there go the damn Irish cheeks signaling like a neon sign across my face that reads, ‘I am physically reacting to you’ in bright red letters.

“Could we maybe eat together?”

He is asking me this as I look at my shoes. Oh my God, I think as my cheeks somehow get warmer and all my blood seems to rush to my face and a few other places as well.

“I was just going to heat up my food and…” I am still trying not to look at him, but for some reason he is still blocking the doorway into the lounge. If this keeps up I can just warm my food up with my face and bypass the microwave.

“Rachel.” My name, again. With that one word, I chance a look and see his eyes are searching my face. “I know we do not have any new patients pending and I just co-signed your last note. Are you avoiding me?”

“Okay, we can eat together, fine.” Now I sound more like a petulant child than a grown professional. Be normal, I think desperately.

As I am moving forward into the room, he steps back and I walk past him and head to the sink to wash my hands. All I can hear in my mind is him saying, in that devastating voice, ‘What can I do to help?’ Any number of things are coming to mind that he could help me with that are NSFW. I need to put a stop to this. I do not think I could survive another meal like the one I had with Seth the other day. Now that I have awakened my baser instincts they do not seem to want to go back into hibernation.

Reluctantly, I stop washing my hands and head back to where he is seated at a table. I can just tell him I have some recommendation letters I need to write. That might work, even though it is nowhere near application time. Okay, I have it, I will tell him I need to watch a video for continuing education. I can say I am behind on my education hours and I need to watch a few lectures and I will see him another time. I can actually go and do that too, so it will not be a total lie. I walk up to the table resolved to put a stop to whatever this is. Or at least I want to avoid starting anything that may complicate my emotional life any further.

“Mark.” I am trying to muster anger or something like it because it does help me feel more in control with him, but I seemed to have misplaced my annoyance with him somewhere.

Why is he is being so weirdly and unhelpfully nice? Lacking anger, I find instead fear, loads of it, to draw on. Close enough.

“Mark, what do you want?”

While I was hoping it would come out sounding more like a challenge, in truth as I hear my voice I realize too late that my tone is closer to resembling an invitation. Julia Roberts telling Richard Gere her name could be whatever he wants it to be pops into my mind. Not the tone I was going for, but there is a definite discrepancy between the part of me that craves control and order, and some other part of me that is willing to toss all of that to the side so I could just rebury my face in his chest.

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