Page 3 of What We Break
"You did the right thing," I tell her, checking her vitals one more time. "Chest pain isn't something to ignore. Better safe than sorry."
"My daughter said the same thing. She's the one who drove me here."
"Smart daughter. And smart mom for listening to her."
Mrs. Singh smiles at that, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. Her hands loosen. Such a small thing — telling someone they're not a burden. But it matters. People come to the ER scared and vulnerable and convinced they're being dramatic, and sometimes the most important thing I do all night is sayyou were right to come in.
Mr. Sanchez in bed five needs his blood pressure medication adjusted. He's been coming in every few weeks, trying to get his numbers under control. Today he looks frustrated — arms crossed, jaw tight, the posture of a man who is done with this whole process.
"I've been taking the pills exactly like you said," he tells me. "But it's still too high."
"Sometimes it takes a while to find the right combination," I say, taking his blood pressure again. 158 over 94. Not great. "Dr. Cervantes might want to try a different medication." I want to tell him to follow up with his family doctor, but he doesn't have one. We're the only consistent care he gets, which is its own kind of heartbreaking. So I spend a little more time than usual. Go over his diet. Ask about stress. Listen to him talk about his grandson's soccer games.
"I hate taking pills," he grumbles. "Never had to take anything before I turned fifty."
"Getting older is a pain in the butt sometimes."
He laughs. "You can say that again."
The spider guy is in bed seven, and I brace myself, but he's actually pretty sweet once I assure him that swallowed spiders don't typically survive stomach acid. He's about my age, maybe a little younger, and he's so mortified that his ears are red.
"I know it sounds crazy," he says. "But I felt it crawling on my lip when I was half asleep, and I must have swallowed it when I tried to brush it away."
"It doesn't sound crazy," I say, while internally my entire body is screaming. Spiders. On lips. Whilesleeping.I may never sleep again. I may tape my mouth shut. Wait — do spiders crawl in people's noses? I don't want to know the answer. I absolutely do not want to know the answer.
Focus, Laine. Professional. You are a professional.
"You were worried about your health, so you came in. That's what we're here for."
"My girlfriend thinks I'm losing it."
"Did you tell her about the spider?"
"Yeah. She laughed at me."
I want to say several things about that. None of them are in my job description. So I just nod. "Well, Dr. Cervantes will take a look and make sure everything's fine."
"Thanks. You're really nice."
Spider guy thinks I'm nice. That's going on my tombstone. Here lies Laine Mitchell. She was really nice about the spider thing.
By my 11 PM break, I've settled into the rhythm of the night. Check vitals. Distribute meds. Reassure worried families. Help with procedures. There's a pace to it — not frantic, not calm. Just steady enough to lull you before it tries to drown you. I've learned to live in that current. To trust it. Or at least not fight it.
I'm eating a sandwich in the break room — turkey and swiss, because I have made exactly one good life decision today and it was packing lunch instead of gambling on whatever petrified granola barthe vending machine feels like spitting out — when my phone buzzes.
Bethany
We're bar hopping all night - want to meet up for breakfast and mimosas when you get off? The whole crew will be there!
I stare at the message.
Six months ago, I would've said yes without thinking. Gone out, danced until my feet bled, maybe met some guy who'd be interesting for three weeks before I bounced to the next city. When Bethany and I worked together in Thailand, we were out constantly. Rooftop bars. Beach parties. She'd drag me and I'd let her because that's what you do when you're a travel nurse in a beautiful country — you travel, you nurse, you party.
But I signed up for an early volunteer shift tomorrow. And drinks here cost more than my dignity, which is saying something because that's already pretty cheap. Besides, I'm getting to the good part in my book. The hero just made this big stupid grand gesture and if I don't find out whether the heroine takes him back, it's going to eat at me all night.
So what — I'm choosing a fictional love life over a real social life? This is who I am now?
It makes me feel like a crappy friend. Choosing my couch and a paperback over actual human interaction with someone who actually likes me. But not crappy enough to actually go.
