Page 53 of Chase

My shift started an hour ago, and it’s been relatively quiet. At six in the morning, patients are starting to wake up and the day is only just beginning. The routine of getting people woken, fed, and washed is becoming second nature to me. In some ways, it’s my favorite part of the day. The seemingly pointless conversations I have with them become important. When someone chooses to tell me about their life, I take time to listen. Them sharing their stories deserves my time, and beyond the care I can give to their health, simply being interested can be a far better medicine.

“Everything okay?” I ask, wandering up to Bryan’s station.

“Not really,” he mutters back.

“You’re in early today.”

“I need to take some time off later this week. Peter is having some issues, and I need to be there to support him,” he says evasively. “I can’t afford to lose any wages, though. Things are difficult enough.” He doesn’t look up from his screen, but the man I’m looking at is clearly terrified, the fear emanating from him obvious. His body shakes when the temperature in the room is well below sweat level. Every muscle quivers as he pounds on his keyboard.

“Anything I can help with?” I ask, keeping my voice soft. I’m trying to convey sympathy without being condescending.

“No, I don’t want to talk about it,” he states sharply. I take that as my cue to move on. Bryan has never silenced a chat with me before. We’ve become firm friends since January. I see him as my sidekick in the world of Varley Medical, always available with a listening ear and kind words. Today, I will let his reluctance to lean on me go, but whatever the issue, it will be readdressed, and if I can help him I will.

Just then, Dr. Rivera appears as the elevator doors open. Beside her is a young woman, most likely in her twenties, with jet-black hair and wearing clothes that look to have seen better days. She walks across the reception area a few steps behind the doctor, not speaking. Her hands are clasped in front of her, fingers knitted together nervously.

I watch them disappear from view around the corner, toward the doctor’s office. Something doesn’t sit right, and I decide this could be my opportunity to gather some information. Without a word, I follow their path but on arrival at the office, the door is firmly closed, which is unusual. Sensing defeat, I turn and make my way to the next patient I need to see.

An hour later, I’m called to the doctor’s office. When I arrive, she’s sitting in her chair as she does every day—with an air of superiority. The young woman lies on the couch reserved for difficult conversations. Her thin body is huddled in one corner as her head rests on the armrest. I’m unsure if she’s sleeping, as her eyes are closed, but she’s silent. No gentle snores can be heard.

“Nurse Coleman,” Dr. Rivera says professionally as I step into the room. “I need you to undertake some private duties before your shift ends. But please do not discuss them with the other members of staff; it’s highly confidential circumstances.” Unsure what to say, I try to stop my jaw from opening at the unexpected request. Of all the people in the department I thought she would ask for help, the last one would be me. “Do you understand?” she prompts when I don’t answer.

“Yes, doctor.”

“The young lady on my sofa is a last-minute donor for our patient requiring a kidney transplant in room 400. Lord Woodward. As you are aware, our patient is in a critical condition and we’re in the final days of him being suitable for a transplant.” I listen on, confused. I’ve heard this man being talked about between the nurses; he is on palliative care. Until now, there was no indication a transplant was forthcoming, or that he was a candidate for one. “I’ll be conducting the operation within the next few days, once the blood and antibody tests have been completed.”

“Where did she come from?” I ask, perplexed and uncertain. Everything about this screams wrongdoing.

“The girl is the niece of our client.” Her use of the word “client” causes my hackles to rise. Client has connotations of payment being the primary focus, while patient evokes a more caring outlook. “She’s come here under her own wishes. Her family is unaware, as none of them were willing to donate to their elderly uncle. Lord Woodward has no living children. This girl is his last hope of survival.”

“And she’s his niece?” I say, skeptically. Every fiber of my being tells me this woman is no more that man’s family than I am.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” She narrows her eyes, and the look of disdain I have become so familiar with flits over her features. “Do remember, nurse, you are the last one at the door of this department. If you choose to be awkward, I have every capability of terminating your employment. I will also ensure you never work in private medicine again.”

My instinct is to retaliate to her threat, but I remind myself of my purpose for being here. This obscene situation could be my opportunity to learn more about what’s going on in the ward. I look at the young woman resting on the sofa and know damn well she’s no niece of the man lying in room four hundred who’s spent his time here pressing the nurse’s call button every ten minutes.

“Understood, doctor,” I say through gritted teeth. “What exactly would you like me to do?” She visibly relaxes on my agreement, and I congratulate myself on keeping my mouth shut. She lifts a tattered piece of paper from her desk and waves it at me.

“Take this,” she says, “and get Bryan to check her into room 402.” I stare at the scrap of paper, the blurred photocopy of a passport. The woman on the sofa’s picture gazes back at me. Her name is noted as Lauren Woodward, and she’s detailed as being twenty-four years old, according to her date of birth.

“Where is the original document?” I question. My limited experience in the department tells me that all donors need to be identity checked before admittance. The strangeness of the situation only gets more warped.

“I’ve seen it,” the doctor snaps. “Just do as you’re told, nurse. I am in charge here.” She pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing her instruction. “Once she’s logged onto the system, come back and escort her to her room. Ensure she showers and is made comfortable. I will visit her later this morning to conduct the required tests. No food or drink until I advise she’s able to.”

“Yes, doctor. Would she like to visit her uncle?”

“No, he’s not to know she is here. He would be more likely to reject the donation. We don’t want to risk more delay on his surgery. I gave this young lady my word I would respect her privacy, and you need to as well.”

With the questionable identification in my hands, I return to Bryan’s desk. He glances up, and his pained expression softens a little. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did earlier.”

“It’s okay. I know what it can feel like to have numerous pressures and no obvious relief.” I walk around to stand beside him and place my hand on his shoulder. “If you need help, don’t hesitate to ask. I may be able to.”

“Thanks, Sam.” He places his fingers over mine. “It’s nice to feel I have a friend in here. What can I do for you?” I pass him the pathetic paperwork, and he stares at it.

“Can you check this patient into room 402?”

“Sure, what is she in for?”

“She’s a kidney donor.”

---