Chapter 2 #3
"There's an objectivity that's necessary, initially, at least. Jocko never understood that.
Sometimes, the ER is so fast-paced that the patients just come through in a non-stop train, and I can't remember names or faces.
It's not John Smith, it's the MVC patient. It’s not Jenny Johnson, it’s the third- and fourth-degree burns from a kitchen fire.
Even if I use the patient's name—which I try to, y'know?
If they're conscious, that is—I won’t remember the name once I'm home.
It just doesn't stay in the brain. But the medicine?
I remember that. I remember the dosage of meds, I remember what I did and in what order.
Ask me about my GSW from my last shift and I'll tell you it was a single .
45 slug that entered the torso at an oblique angle from low on the left side, ricocheted off the rib cage, ricocheted again off the hipbone, tore through the intestines and stomach, and wreaked absolute havoc on the vic's insides. I remember how many bullet fragments were extracted—seven. I remember how many bone fragments were extracted—nineteen. I remember how many clamps we used. I remember which meds I gave him. I know he had dark hair, and I think he was Asian. Young—early twenties. A little overweight. I remember this stuff. But I can't picture his face and I don’t remember his name. Not because I didn't or don’t care: I do—a fucking lot. But he lost too much blood before he got to us. His insides were too wrecked. We couldn’t save him, and he died.
I remember his time of death—six-oh-six p.m. But I can't see his face and I don't know his name because about thirty seconds after he passed, another bus showed up with a construction worker who fell fifty feet onto a piece of rebar.
The last patient is out of your mind because now this patient needs every last ounce of your focus. "
Killian is quiet again. "Didn't follow all the lingo, but I get the picture." Another pause. "And Jocko thought this meant you were…what? Coldhearted? Some sort of emotionless automaton?"
"In short, yes. But in giving him the benefit of the doubt, I think it was more about him not being able to fathom how I can do the job at all, because he absolutely could not.
That's not shade at him, though, it's just reality.
It's not a job most people can do. And even among those of us who can and do do the job, there's a very high burnout and suicide rate because it's fucking hard and it takes a hell of a toll.
" I find myself laughing. "But ironically, that's not even why I broke up with him, or why I said he turned out to be a world-class jackass. "
There's a brief pause. "Oh."
"He was possessive and insecure."
"Ehhhboy," Killian says in a simpering tone. "There’s the ick."
I cackle. "You could say that, yes. When I say he was possessive and insecure, I mean that he legitimately demanded that I get myself assigned to an all-female department."
A stunned silence. "That…that doesn't exist. Does it?"
My laughter is all the answer that's needed, really.
"No," I say, eventually. "It's not a thing. He was just wildly insecure about the fact that I worked with a lot of handsome and successful men who made more money than he did. We went to a Christmas party together, and when he saw me joking around with a doctor who happens to be a carbon copy of Brad Pitt from Legends of the Fall, he lost his shit. Ricky happens to be as gay as I am straight, not that that matters. I joke around exactly the same way with Mike, another nurse, who’s just as good-looking in a different way, and straight, and single.
But Jocko couldn't handle that. He couldn’t trust me when I said I'm not interested in Mike or Ricky.
He wasn't content with the fact that I left the hospital after my shift and went home to him.
His insecurity was stronger than his trust, and it made him irrational. "
"That sucks."
It's not what I expected him to say. I'm not sure what I did expect, but not that. "Yeah, it did suck. Because he was a good guy, until all that opened up. Sweet, and very kind to me. He just couldn't understand…me, I guess."
"I'm not sure your average, run-of-the-mill civilian can understand people who've grown up like us, Story," he says, his tone slow and thoughtful. "You even more so because of what you've been through."
"You don't consider yourself a civilian?" I ask.
"Uhhh? I dunno. Sort of? Not really? I'm aware I’m not military, so I know I’m a civilian in that sense, but I also know I have more in common with a soldier than a civilian.
" A thoughtful pause. "I guess I just mean…
normies. Y'know? People who grow up…" he trails off, starts over.
"People who didn't grow up field-stripping Glocks blindfolded and clearing rooms and surviving in the wilderness with a lighter, a knife, a canteen, and a reel of fishing line. "
I can't help butx laugh at this. "Yeah, we definitely didn't grow up anything like normal. So I suppose you have a point in that someone who didn’t grow up like we did or who hasn’t experienced any of the stuff we have just can’t understand us. Not deep down."
“And the people who do get it," Killian says, "are few and far between."
"Sounds like you're talking from experience."
He sighs heavily. “Yeah."
When he doesn't elaborate, I elbow him. "C'mon, Killy. I told you stuff I've never told anyone."
"Cal has this ability to pretend like he's this totally normal dude when he's around people our age, or girls he's interested in.
He tells these wild stories and has everyone hanging on every word, but then he's just your buddy.
So relatable, so cool, so charming. You wouldn't know how fast he can strip and reassemble an MP5 blindfolded.
You wouldn't know he can clear a room, skydive, and all the shit we can do. I mean, you meet some guy who’s in the Army, yeah, okay, cool, you expect that kind of training.
Cal is clearly not that guy. But then…he actually is. "
"I'm not seeing the—"
"I feel like that shit is written on a sign and stapled to my forehead. It comes up in conversation, even when I try to avoid talking about who my parents are, or that one of history’s richest men is like a second father to me, or how we grew up.
And people don’t get that shit. They just don’t get it. "
"Who didn't get it, Killy?"
A long, harsh sigh. "Helena McMurtry. Her parents upped sticks when she was sixteen and moved her and her siblings down to St. John. I dated her for almost a year and a half starting when I was eighteen, almost nineteen. I think the only reason our relationship even lasted as long as it did is that we didn’t get to see each other very often.
Like, there wasn't a lot of distance between us as the crow flies, but you're talking about island to island, y'know? "
"No, Killian, I do not. I didn't grow up on a private island compound in the Caribbean." I find and pat his knee.