Page 191 of What We Break
When he's done, I help him rinse his mouth and get him settled back against the pillows. His face is that particular shade of pale-green that means we're nowhere close to finished.
"Better?"
"Am I gonna die?"
The question catches me off guard. Not because it's unusual—kids always think they're dying when they're this sick—but because for half a second I want to laugh. Not at him. Just at the pure drama of being twelve.
When's the last time I actually laughed at work? Not polite smiles or appropriate chuckles, but really laughed?
"You're not dying," I tell Connor. "You're dehydrated and miserable, but we're fixing that. See this?" I tap the IV bag. It was a sign of how awful he feels that other than a little cry he let me do the IV. "Magic feel-better juice. Give it an hour and you'll be asking for popsicles."
"Really?"
"Really. I might even be able to find you a red one if you're nice to me."
That gets a tiny smile. Good. I chart the episode quickly. Emesis times two, approximately 300ml, no blood.
"I'll be back to check on you in a bit, okay? Try to rest."
In the hallway, I head straight for the locker room. Thank god I keep backup scrubs in my locker—learned that lesson my first week as a nurse. I wipe down my shoes with paper towels and swap the soiled scrub pants for clean ones. Two minutes, maybe three. Back to work.
Reid would probably make some joke about me stripping in the middle of my shift if he knew.
Except Reid's probably sitting on his couch at home, with Blake, laughing at some movie. He's probably sipping a beer, thinking all is right with the world. Just…oblivious.
Or maybe they're talking. Maybe Reid is sharing another "funny quirk" about me—how cluttered my bathroom drawers are, or how I hum when I'm nervous—and Blake is filing it away. Cataloging it.Turning my boyfriend's pillow talk into ammunition for the next time he wants to prove I don't belong.
God, why am I thinking about what they're saying?
Stop. Next patient.
The guy in three is writhing when I walk in, fist pressed against his lower back. Kidney stones. I've had patients tell me they're worse than childbirth, and looking at Mr. Quintana's face, I believe them.
"I've got your pain meds," I say, already drawing them up. "This should help."
"Please," he gasps. "Please, it's—fuck—sorry?—"
"No apologies necessary. I'd be cursing too." I find his IV port and push the medication slowly. "This is Dilaudid. You should feel it pretty quickly."
His wife's in the corner, wringing her hands. "Is it definitely stones?"
"The CT scan will tell us for sure, but based on his symptoms and the blood in his urine, the doctor thinks that's most likely." His face starts to relax as the medication hits. "There we go. Better?"
"Oh god." He's almost crying with relief. "Oh, thank god."
"That's the good stuff," I tell him. "You should be comfortable for a while. Urology will be down to look at your scan and talk about options."
His wife mouths 'thank you' at me as I update his chart. I give her what I hope is a reassuring nod and head back out.
The ER's in that weird evening lull—busy enough that everyone's moving, but not so slammed that we're drowning. Dr. Cervantes is on the phone with someone, waving wildly. Two residents are debating something over a computer screen. Normal Tuesday sounds.
I check the board. Mrs. Woodrow in five has been here six hours for what turned out to be gas pains. She's probably ready to murder someone by now. I grab her discharge papers and head that way.
But Joyce intercepts me halfway there.
"Those can wait five minutes."
"Mrs. Woodrow's been?—"
