Page 3 of The Heart We Guard
The word is whispered, so I’m not sure I understood what he means.
“Sorry. Gage. Is that a family member? You need us to call someone?”
He was asked on the way up in the elevator, but he said no. Even when Melody tried to explain why having a next of kin was vital.
He shakes his head. “No. In case I die. Gage. He did this. He?—”
“I’m ready for him now,” Dr. Paton, my least favorite anesthesiologist says, interrupting whatever Nicholas was about to tell me.
And I’m glad. Because knowing a patient’s secrets means involving yourself in things that don’t need to involve you. Even though doctor-patient confidentiality protects us in some ways, it can’t protect us from everything.
But the moment Nicholas is being pushed through the door, he looks at me and yells, “Remember what I told you.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, knowing full well someone is going to ask me what he said.
As always, I use the time pressure of the surgical scrubbing to focus on what I’m about to do. I switch off the humanity of it. I forget the patient is someone’s mother, father, child, husband, or wife. I rid myself of all judgments about the person on the table. I was on duty for a recent school shooting and had to save the shooter. I focus on boiling them down to a human body. And if there’s one thing I do know, it’s how to fix what’s contained within the sack of skin we’re in.
When I arrive in the OR, Dr. Paton tells me he’s pushing vasopressors, which is never a great sign.
Once the patient’s opened up and retracted, I find it’s worse than I thought. “I got eyes on the liver. It’s torn to hell. Get me a Satinsky clamp, please. And let’s get a bit more suction so I can properly see what I’m doing.”
It takes hours to repair the damage. Towards the end, my eyes start to burn with the strain. I’m supposed to have another seven hours of this, but I’m close to hallucinating.
When I’ve finally cleaned up and left the OR, Dr. Melanie Rosario, the Intensive Care director, is waiting for me.
“Greer, I need to ask a huge favor,” she says.
A toddler, clinging to a little stuffed bear, goes by on a stretcher. Her eyes are all red from earlier tears, but she seems calm now as her parents walk alongside her. I force myself to smile and give her a little wave. She waves back, a subtle lift and lower of her pudgy fingers twice.
“Whatever it is, the answer is no. I’m maxed out.”
She winces, but we’ve been friends a long time, and she knows it’s not personal. “I know you are. But I’ve got five fresh post-ops and no intensivist until noon. Can you cover the SICU rounds again?”
I sigh and feel the sting of tears. They’ve been coming more easily the past couple of months. I keep telling myself it’s my sleep deprivation, poor eating habits, and a lack of fresh air in open green spaces. Just like I keep telling myself if I just get through this week, next week will be better.
I’m a walking, talking Sisyphus.
I blow out a breath slowly. “I don’t have the bandwidth.”
“Everyone is stretched, so I get it. But?—”
“There’s no ‘but’, Mel. I should have left this hospital sometime yesterday. And I just got my shifts extended until tomorrow. And then I got scheduled for a Quality meeting. I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”
Mel puts her hand on my bicep for a moment, then smiles sadly as she leaves. Add feeling like I just kicked a puppy to my list of complaints.
I’m halfway down the hall when I see Charlie Weston, one of the on-call hospital social workers. “Charlie,” I call out. “Wait.”
“Greer. I thought you were off shift tonight.”
“Don’t ask. I have a patient. Young man. Said he can’t afford treatment. Can you stop by and see him? I want to ask the director of Patient Financial Services if we can’t get a fee reduction under emergency status.”
“What’s the situation?”
I tell Charlie what I know, but his face becomes more and more concerned as I speak.
“He’s not going to get it. The policy has been updated.”
“Since when?” I ask, putting my hands on my hips, but trying not to rage at Charlie, as this isn’t his fault.
