Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Compromised
Sarah
S o much blood. Trembling hands stained crimson lift. The pink nitrile gloves present a stark contrast to the deeper, angry red sluicing down the rubber.
I meet my own green-eyed gaze in the bathroom mirror.
This isn’t you. You’re strong. You do not break down over this. You’ve seen worse.
It all feels hollow.
Two hours. Two hours into my shift and all hell broke loose. The emergency department transferred a stable pregnant female in her early twenties. She got assigned to me since no one else was available and I’d walked into her room to do an initial assessment, not trusting the ED’s version of “stable.”
Pulling the unconscious woman’s gown up to assess her abdomen, I’d froze. Dried blood coated her thighs. She needs a bath, I’d thought to myself with a sense of detachment.
I’d nearly crumbled to the floor after removing her gown and diaper. So much blood. There’s no way the pregnancy was viable with that much—Get a grip, Sarah!
I tug the gloves off, uncaring if the rubber snaps from being stretched taut. I need it off. Get off of me!
I nearly scream, gripping the edge of the sink after tossing the brutalized gloves into the wastebasket.
Deep breaths.
Why am I like this? It’s just blood. Women bleed in labor. And this isn’t my first miscarriage.
But it’s the first I’ve dealt with since being a pregnant practitioner.
No. I shake my head, refusing to believe I’m emotionally compromised because of my own unborn. But that voice won’t shut up, screaming I’ve failed my patients with my incompetence. I’d completed the assessment with jerky, stiff movements and it wasn’t like she saw how affected I was by her condition.
I hope she killed him. I read the EMT’s report. Suspected sexual assault victim. The rape kit administered downstairs confirmed it. And not all the blood that’d coated her before the ED cleaned her was hers.
She’d injured the bastard.
Good.
Deep breaths, Sarah. I obey my own internal command, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. My hand finds its way to my rounded belly.
I have to do what’s in the best interest of my child and patients. I promised Zaiden and myself that I’d do that.
Bowing my head, I admit I am compromised. I can’t do this in a detached, professional manner.
Not this, not like this.
That bastard didn’t just violate her body. He took her child along with him.
My thighs ache, pelvis throbbing with phantom pains from my own miscarriage.
It’s time. Time for me to take time off, to step away before I’m the one bleeding on the hospital floor.
For Sariel or Zade. For Zaiden.
Sarah
A nervous hand lifts to knock on the department manager’s door, pausing before making contact.
I need to do this, I remind myself. Would I be able to live with myself if I cause accidental harm because of my emotional state?
No .
I rap my knuckles on the wooden door, waiting for a muffled “come in,” to carry through the gaps. Turning the knob, I walk into the semi-illuminated office, shutting the door behind me.
Dr. Miranda Grant looks up from her monitors. Her brown eyes sweep over me, cataloging every weakness and imperfection with a blank expression. She sits back in the computer chair, stapling her fingers together on the cherry wood desk.
“You need time off, Dr. Bell,” she says before I can open my mouth. I nod. She recruited me when I’d felt burnt out in NICU at St. Elizabeth’s. Maybe my detachment hadn’t just been professionalism and a good work ethic. I’d begun to lose the very thing that made me a practitioner that patients looked forward to seeing.
My empathy.
An old mentor once told me, “When you stop thinking of your patients as people and start thinking of them as patients, then you need to quit or back away. They’re people, Ms. Bell. Always.”
NICU wasn’t for me, I’d discovered. Obstetrics was. And I need to stick to my principles before I’m in the same predicament as last time.
A doctor without a soul.
Dr. Grant releases a sigh, leaning forward to click around with her computer mouse.
“You have over two hundred hours saved up. Do you want to use all of them and let it bleed into your maternity leave or…” she trailed off, leaving options dangling within reach.
My eyes close for only a brief moment.
“Two weeks,” I tell her, silently hoping it’s enough. Her eyes slide to my protruding stomach, a dark brow rising.
“Many women continue working until they go into labor,” I point out. She’s head of the department and knows this, but the reminder felt necessary. Hadn’t I told Zaiden the same thing?
“Yes, and some studies suggest there’s a correlation between that and more severe symptoms of postpartum depression, something you’ve never experienced,” she says. Her tone isn’t callous. She’s simply stating facts.
“Take the two weeks off. When you come back, stick to intakes and follow-ups, nothing serious. After maybe another two weeks, which should put you close to your due date? Take another week off.” Her hand raises to cut me off when I open my mouth to object.
“Think about your baby, Sarah.” I blink, eyes misting at the use of “baby,” and my first name. “You’re a good doctor, an excellent nurse, and an amazing woman. Don’t let burn-out take those things away. You’ve stayed in this department because it’s a passion of yours and not just on a professional level. Don’t take risks with something that means this much to you.” Sniffing, I bring a hand from my stomach to wipe a tear away.
“Yes, Dr. Grant,” I whisper to the floor. I’m in my forties and feel as vulnerable as an adolescent right now.
“Good. I can’t wait to meet that baby of yours someday. Everyone’s excited,” she says, face finally breaking its placid expression in favor of a smile.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
I guess it’s time to go home, little one . After mumbling “thank you” and “goodbye,” I leave her office with a swirl of emotions flurrying through me.
Zaiden.
He’s waiting for me at home and right now, a hug and some cuddles sound nice.