Page 1 of Mara
“They aren’t going to last long, Mara. Can you talk to them? We can’t lose another staff member, and they just started less than a week ago.”
I pulled the syringe away from the patient and stalled the blood work process. Kimmie, my colleague, looked over her shoulder at the new psychiatric nurse.
They were clutching a bucket by the window and shaking like a leaf. Their name was Alex, and after just a week, it was clear some burnout was already setting in.
The long hours and constant vigilance were a steady drain one felt when working with a bunch of mentally unstable patients. Even the strongest of healthcare professionals got caught up in it from time to time.
I closed my eyes for a brief moment to center myself, then tapped Frank on the shoulder and motioned for the armed guard to escort him back to one of the activity centers while I tried to deal with Alex’s mini crisis.
I was always the one putting out fires, whether it was at work or in my own damn family.
My younger sister, Gianna, never saw the world for what it was because I took the brunt of the world’s madness. She didn’t need to feel it, especially when it came to my mother’s nonsensical drug-infused drivel and my father’s alcoholic rages that led to angry hands.
I kept Gianna sheltered as much as I could, whether that meant kissing boo-boos or hiding us under the house, it varied day by day.
That was why I became a nurse in the first place, because I had received ‘training’ at an early age.
Besides, I thrived in the chaos.
It freaked me out when things were too calm.
Predicting when the next fucked up scenario would occur and trying to prepare for them had become as normal as breathing.
Alex preferred to be called they/them, and we were all for supporting everyone in their personal preferences in how they identified themselves. In a world that told us how to shit, it was freeing to be able to declare your own identity.
So many patients at Wellard were asking every day. ‘Who am I?’ Even I questioned what reflection stared back at me in the mirror on occasion.
“Hey, Alex,” I said tentatively, sitting down with my ass on my feet in a kneel.
“These people…” they said on repeat, clutching the black mop bucket with vomit to their chest.
I could hear the plastic cracking and feared it was going to spill the foul-smelling contents on them.
“The patients are different from emergent care, but you are doing amazing, Alex. Truly, you are a rockstar.” I tried pulling the cracking bucket away from their grip, my cautious smile staying plastered on my lips.
“Just think about how far you’ve come,” I continued, the bucket finally breaking away from the unmoving posture of my dear colleague’s grip.
“I…He hit the wall so many times his head busted open. I couldn’t stop them. There was so much blood. Everywhere. He was laughing at me as I stitched up the wound. I-I wasn’t fast enough and he died. He had that clown smile on his face even in death.”
I frowned. Alex must be referring to Dubi. He was a patient who definitely had his struggles. Anytime he was given an opportunity, he would smash his head into objects, trying to free “the spirits.”
Every death was felt at Wellard, and despite his troubles, he would be missed. All these patients I had come to care for as my own demented family members. Sure, some yanked out their teeth and tried to gift them to you to ward off monsters, but it was the thought that counted.
I set down the plastic bucket and scooted closer to Alex.
“Alex. You didn’t know that Dubi would do that. Someone should have been there with you during that check-up. His death is on us, not you.”
Kimmie looked over at us during our conversation, and I caught her wandering gaze with a scolding look of my own. She steered away and busied herself with cleaning up one of the laboratory stations.
“These people need help, and I shouldn’t have to be babysat for someone not to die!” Alex shrieked, and I cringed back a bit.
“Sorry,” they amended. “I just-Maybe I am not cut out for this kind of work. I would be better in the ER or on a trauma unit. I don’t know how to handle patients that are alive…but also like…brain dead.”
I gave Alex a sympathetic smile. Every nurse and doctor here carried the weight of each patient we cared for, besides maybe Dr. Halstead, but that man barely felt anything. The patients always referred to him as Dr. Hyde, and the nickname stuck with the personnel. Dr. Hyde hardly came up from the basement floor. His multitude of drugs and experimental therapy techniques kept him pretty busy and out of sight.
I worked at Wellard for six years, and I probably shook hands with the guy only three times. Whenever you asked what was going on in the basement or why patients would sometimes come out looking very different after treatments, you were ignored and told to do your job. In other words, if you wanted to work at Wellard, you were seen, not heard.
To be fair, sometimes it was hard to get a word in edgewise from all the chatter of the patients. There was quite the mix, from delusionalists screaming their speeches for everyone to hear, to the schizophrenic who carried on their conversations with the many ‘friends’ they had. Then there were those who erupted, their screams and destruction echoing through the wards.
