Page 5 of Saber's Surrender

“No,” I snort, “it’s not and he won’t simply let it go. He’s going to watch us like bugs under a microscope until he’s satisfied we can get along without it affecting the rest of the club.”

“So what do we do?”

“We fake it,” I answer. “I don’t like you; I don’t respect you, but I can admire your work ethic and accomplishments. I think the best thing we can do is avoid confrontations and smile at each other, no matter how hard it is to do it when we’re in the same room as each other.”

“I guess I could do that. Does that mean you won’t be standing over my shoulder when I’m examining one of my patients?” Her question is ludicrous in my opinion.

“No, and that’s because no matter how good you are, these are still my patients, friends, and family,” I answer with all the honesty I can muster.

“That’s fair, as long as it’s professional and you don’t let how much I hurt you affect our working rapport,” she surmises.

“Then we agree, we’re coworkers and nothing more,” I state, sticking out my hand for a shake.

“Coworkers,” she says before tacking on, “respectable coworkers, Saber. I need a clear mind while seeing patients.”

“Deal,” I concur, my hand still out in the air waiting for her response. It’s going to be hard to hide the snark and asshole when it comes to her, but for my family, for the club, I’ll bite the bullet and provide her the respect she needs to do her job.

“Okay then,” she replies, finally shaking my hand. “Not friends, but friendly.”

I nod my head in response. “Yep. A working relationship, nothing less and nothing more.”

I’m at the hospital today doing my stint in the emergency room and my thoughts are scattered. It’s part of our contract with the hospital that we have to do so many hours a month in this department. It’s not my favorite, but it’s not the worst I’ve experienced. Being a combat medic during my time in service to my country has that title. Still, one of the silver linings from that particular time in my life is I’m able to quickly and easily triage patients, which means in almost no time at all, the overflowing waiting room is down to a more manageable level.

Right now, I’m in a patient room with an anxious mom and her five-year-old child, whose symptoms have been going on for close to a week at this point. I can tell she’s past the point of exhaustion, and at her wit’s end.

As always, when I’m caring for a little boy, my mind is on my son. It’s been years since I gave in and signed the papers giving my rights away as his father, yet I can’t move past the guilt that weighs heavily on my shoulders.

“Take a deep breath,” I suggest to the mom. “He can feel your anxiety and it’s making it hard for me to get a good look at him so we can determine what’s going on.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs as her son climbs her like a monkey making its way through a tree’s limbs. It’s obvious he’s sick due to his pallor and sunken in eyes, but he’s reacting to her on an instinctual level at this point. “He just can’t seem to settle and it’s stressing me out.”

“I get that,” I respond in a soothing tone. I’ve seen this before in other patients, mothers and the bonds they have with their children are unfaltering. They’re tethered in a way I’ll never understand but try to sympathize with. “What can I do to help you and him settle enough so we can get some blood drawn, give him some fluids intravenously, and do a full examination?”

“Is there anything we can give him that’ll help him calm down? I don’t usually use over-the-counter medications on him, my husband and I typically take a more holistic approach when he runs a fever, but nothing we have in our cabinets at home has worked.”

She’s almost rambling in her haste to impart everything to me, but she didn’t answer my question. That’s one thing I don’t like about civilian medicine over my time in the military. Because of my rank, when I asked a patient something, they answered without a second thought. Now, though, I feel like I have to tease the answer out and it can be a bit frustrating.

“Ma’am, first we need to get him to settle down. While it’s not pleasant to have blood drawn or an IV inserted, we can cause unnecessary pain if he wiggles around too much. How about you sit on the bed with him between your legs?”

It’s not ideal, but as soon as she does it, the little tyke settles with his back against her front and looks at me. I’ve already noted the pallor, as well as the fact that his skin is hot to the touch. Now, it’s time to check out the possible culprits; his ears and throat. I warm up the bell on the stethoscope and lean in to listen to his chest, where I hear a distinctive skip in his heartbeat, as well as a wheeze. He tries to grab the strap and I say, “No can do, little man. These aren’t for play.”

“Here, doctor,” the nurse says, handing me the otoscope so I can check his ears.

“Ah, I see what’s going on,” I tease. “You’re trying to grow potatoes in your ears and that’s simply not done, Calvin.”

Calvin giggles which was my intent while I check his other ear, then his nose before I say, “Open wide and say ‘ah’.” I pull the tablet toward me and jot down my findings in his chart. Having worked in environments where everything was written down, I find this is one aspect of the technology age that I highly prefer. Nothing is really left to chance when it comes to an exam, regardless of the patient’s age. Not only that, but I’m able to input my orders and do an electronic signature so that the ball gets rolling toward a resolution.

“Okay, Mrs. Jones, we’re going to get a chest X-ray, swab his throat for strep, and also his nose to rule out the flu,” I tell the mother. “In the meantime, the nurse will also draw some blood then get an IV started because he’s definitely dehydrated. Has he been vomiting at all? What about using the bathroom?”

“He hasn’t really been peeing all that much, but I figured it was because of his fever,” Mrs. Jones replies as the nurse gets all the things she needs together. “No real vomiting although he did say his tummy hurt.”

“Once we get his tests back from the lab, we should have a clear picture of what’s going on with the little man. Y’all try to relax until then. I’ll turn the lights down low and the remote to the television is hooked to the bed railing. Nurse Calla is going to get his swabs and blood drawn in the meantime. I’ll be back once I have some answers for you.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Mrs. Jones utters, her eyes heavy as she fights to keep them open. Calvin has already lost his battle and sleep has claimed him. I only hope he doesn’t jar when Calla pricks his skin and probes his mouth.

Since there’s no more patients to be seen at this time, I head to the doctor’s lounge and use the lull in activity to grab a bite to eat and rest.

CHAPTER

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