Chapter 8
NIA
L oss is part of the human experience.
We see it every day, and at work, it surrounds me, but it never gets any easier.
A father, a son, a grandmother, a sibling. Every patient is special to someone, and if they have no one, I make sure that they have me. A hand held, a few kind words said to try to calm their fears; small comforts, but ones that I hope will make a difference for them in their time with me.
My throat burns and my body aches as I scrub my forearm across my eyes. Pulling off my bloodied gloves, I give them a harsh toss into the bio bin next to me with a shake of my head.
“He would’ve been gorked, anyway,” one of my colleagues comments as we file out of the room.
“Shut up,” I grumble, “his wife is outside.”
Maybe it makes me too soft to do this job, and maybe in a way, it makes me look heartless to everyone on shift with me, but I can’t take the jokes or the funny little phrases they like to use when someone’s died.
I overheard one of the doctors on his trauma team refer to my dad as having a ‘one-way ticket to Jesus,’ and the little comments have made me sick since. Those things stick with a person, and if I have to be part of the worst day of someone’s life, it won’t be because I’ve made a crude comment about the person that they lost.
I pull up my fob watch to check the time. Ten minutes until I can get out of here. I just have to hold it together for ten more minutes.
Those minutes pass like molasses, slow and painful as I triage one final patient. Thankfully, this one isn’t dying. This one doesn’t have family members waiting for news on them, hoping for the best but preparing themselves to hear the worst. She just needs a few stitches for a deep gash on her finger from getting a little too enthusiastic with her new mandolin.
I can handle that.
The locker room welcomes me like a warm blanket as my shift ends and I can drop the facade of being okay, dropping onto a bench to check my phone while I decompress before leaving.
I have a few text messages, one from my mom asking if she should make grilled cheeses later or if the four of us should just go out for sushi instead – a bit of a wild jump, but it’s pretty on-par for her, and I love her for it.
One voicemail is waiting for me from Daniel. My heart drops in my chest as I click on it, pulling my phone to my ear. I listen to the venom in his words as he lays out what he’s done and what’s about to happen for us, grinding my molars against one another as he tells me how helpful he’s being by calling.
My palms break out into a cold, clammy sweat. My chest aches with the slamming of my heart against my rib cage. I can’t tell what this is; terror or intense, unbridled anger.
Before I can so much as blink, my bag is thrown over my shoulder, my keys are gripped tightly in my hand, and I’m flying through the building toward my car.
This cannot be happening.