Page 23 of Doctor Hot Mess

I’ve worked plenty of cases where patients arrive with no name, no ID, no backstory—just injuries that tell pieces of a story no one else can. Usually, it’s easy to compartmentalize, to do the job and let the next shift take over. But not this time. There’s something about her that tugs at me, and I can’t bring myself to leave her alone once my shift ends.

I grab her chart from the end of the bed and flip through the notes. BP’s improved, fluids are doing their job, and imaging ruled out internal bleeding or major fractures. The worst of it is her face and ribs—severe bruising, maybe a cracked rib or two, but nothing life-threatening. At least, not physically. The psychological scars of an attack like this? Those will take much longer to heal.

I glance back at her as I set the chart aside. “Jane Doe,” I murmur to myself. She hasn’t stirred since arriving in step-down. Her body is slack and motionless beneath the blanket. But now, her fingers twitch against the sheet, and her eyelids flutter.

I take a step closer, drawn to her bedside as her breathing shifts. “Hey there,” I say softly, standing beside her. “Can you hear me?”

I step closer, keeping my movements calm and deliberate. “Hey there,” I say again softly, standing at her bedside. “Can you hear me?”

Her eyes open a sliver, glassy and unfocused. She blinks a few times, her brow furrowing like she’s trying to piece something together.

“You’re in the hospital,” I explain, keeping my voice low. “You’ve been hurt, but you’re safe now. Do you know your name?”

Her lips part, dry and cracked, but no sound comes out. I grab a cup of water from the bedside table, sliding the straw between her lips. She takes a hesitant sip before leaning back against the pillow, her face twisting in discomfort.

“Easy,” I say, setting the cup down. “You don’t have to talk if it’s too much right now. Just nod if you can understand me.”

Her gaze meets mine, and she gives the faintest nod. Relief washes over me.

“That’s good,” I say, smiling gently. “I’m Harper. I’m one of the nurses here, and I’ve been taking care of you today.”

Her eyes drift around the room, still unfocused. Then, a hint of panic flashes across her face. “Where…” Her voice is raspy and weak. She swallows hard, trying again. “Where am I?”

“You’re at UAB,” I say, leaning in slightly. “You came in earlier today. Do you remember what happened?”

She blinks again, her brows knitting together. “No. I don’t…” Her voice breaks off, and her hand lifts to touch her face, her fingers brushing the bruises on her cheek. Her eyes widen in alarm.

“Don’t worry,” I say quickly. “You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you here.”

Her hand drops back to the bed, trembling slightly. “I don’t remember,” she whispers, her voice cracking.

“That’s okay,” I reassure her. “Sometimes, these things take time. For now, let’s focus on getting you comfortable and letting you heal. You’re not alone in this, okay?”

She nods again, her gaze still flickering around the room like she’s searching for something—or someone. The sight tugs at me in a way I can’t explain, like an old wound being reopened. I swallow hard, pushing the thought aside.

“Let me know if you need anything,” I say, stepping back. “I’ll be getting off shortly, but I'm here for the next hour.”

She doesn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the ceiling now. As I turn to leave, the same unease from earlier creeps back into my chest. There’s something about this woman—something fragile and raw—that makes it impossible to just walk away.

Who are you, Jane Doe? And what happened to you?

I step out into the hallway, pulling the door softly closed behind me. The nurses’ station is bustling, a mix of day and night shift staff swapping updates as the transition begins. One of the nurses, Kelly, glances up from her charting as I approach.

“Any change with Jane Doe?” she asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

I shake my head. “Not yet. She’s awake but still disoriented. No memory of what happened—or even who she is.”

Kelly frowns. “Think it’s permanent?”

“Probably not,” I reply, leaning on the counter. “Temporary memory loss happens after severe trauma, especially with head injuries. Once the swelling goes down and her brain has a chance to rest, there’s a good chance things will come back to her.”

“Poor thing,” Kelly murmurs, her gaze flicking toward Jane Doe’s room. “To wake up like that and not know a thing—it’s awful.”

Before I can reply, the charge nurse, Janet, approaches with a clipboard. “Heads up, everyone,” she says, her tone brisk. “Heather just called out—tested positive for COVID. We’re short one for the night shift, so everyone will have to pick up the slack.”

A collective groan ripples through the group. Kelly mutters something under her breath about staffing ratios.

Janet sighs. “I know it’s not ideal, but we’re going to need some coverage. If anyone’s willing to pick up a few extra hours, let me know.”

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