Page 42 of Hate To Want You
I step back a bit and murmur some instructions to Curtis about adjusting medications and moving toward a palliative approach. We’ve gone over this with Teagan’s parents before when we had a scare on a past admission. They know not to expect her to regain consciousness, especially since part of the comfort measures we will use will keep her sedated.
Before I leave her room, I do another check of Teagan’s vitals. I know what the monitors and lab results are telling me, but I need to hear it, see it, and feel it for myself. If anything, her breathing sounds even more laboured than just a few minutes ago. The wheezy congested sounds coming through my stethoscope have me cursing inside my head at this demon of a disease that is robbing a young girl of her life and her family of her very existence.
The next few hours are tense. By now, all the staff on shift know Teagan is dying. Her family and friends are with her, and all we can do is check in to make sure she’s comfortable and wait.
Heidi and I make our way to all the rest of our patients, but I hold myself back from leaning into any comfort she might try to offer. I’m detached. Distant. I have to be. I have to compartmentalize right now while a beloved patient is dying in one room, a dozen others are waiting for my attention, and the woman I’m coming to care for far too much is looking at me with a worried expression. As if she fears I’ll break in two.
When the monitor at the nurse’s station displaying Teagan’s vitals finally shows the flat line where her heartbeat should be, we all hear the cries of grief and pain coming from her room.
Nurses turn and hug each other, Heidi included. I watch Curtis fold her into his arms, and I see the tears on all their faces.
Still, I stay strong. Cool and in control, disconnected from the flood of sadness looming inside me.
I go through the motions of Teagan’s final assessment and pronouncement of death. I hug Maya, shake hands with her husband who thankfully made it here quickly, and offer the trite words of comfort that are all Icanoffer now.
Back at the desk, I fill out the necessary paperwork, file everything, and ensure Curtis knows where it’s all located when Teagan’s body is taken down to the morgue. Only then, when I’ve done all I can do and all I must do, I make my escape.
There’s a back stairwell at Westport General that’s rarely used. It’s meant to be a fire exit, and all the doors have signs that say an alarm will sound if you open them. But most experienced staff know that’s not the case. Instead, this stairwell has become an unofficial refuge for us. A place where we can go when we need to get away from patients or coworkers. At any given time, there’ll be someone walking up and down the flights of stairs, muttering under their breath. Or someone simply sitting on the stairs, lost in thought.
It's an unspoken rule that you don’t disturb anyone who’s in the back stairwell unless it’s an emergency.
So when I sense someone sitting down beside me as my head hangs low and tears well up in my eyes, I know it can only be one person.
“Max, what can I do?”
Even if I come to regret this moment, I don’t care. I need her. I turn and drag Heidi into my lap, bury my head in the crook of her neck, and just hold on tight. Her hands run soothingly up and down my back. I can’t hear what she’s murmuring over the sound of my own grief in my head.
Losing a patient always hits me hard. Clarence pushed me to talk to a therapist last year about it when he became aware of just how hard it was for me. That helped me learn the skills to be able to function after a loss, but it’s a struggle every time.
Yet somehow, Heidi being here in this moment is lessening the tidal wave of pain, guilt, and questioning what I could have done differently.
Time passes. We probably need to go back to work. Some small rational part of me knows that if someone sees us like this, it will look suspiciously intimate for two coworkers. Even if comforting each other is a natural act after a patient loss, it’s not like I’m about to hold Curtis or Ginny like this.
Eventually, my shuddered breathing calms, and I manage to find a thread of my normal self-control. I lift my head to meet Heidi’s worried gaze.
“I’m sorry.” My voice is a rasp, hoarse with emotions. She simply lifts her hand up to cup my cheek before leaning in and kissing my lips sweetly.
“Don’t be. You have nothing to apologize for. Thank you for letting me be with you right now, I know it probably isn’t easy to let someone in when you’re feeling like this.”
Fuck, this woman. Does she even know the power she holds over me? One sentence and I swear I would go to the ends of the earth for her.
“It’s easy to let you in,” I reply honestly, bringing her lips to mine for another taste. This is reckless. I know it is, she knows it is, but we both need the connection.
Her fingers are raking gently through the hair at the nape of my neck as she pulls back to study my face closely. There’s no judgment, just open curiosity, and compassion.
“I normally go home and eat a popsicle after a death.”
A bark of laughter escapes me at her seemingly random comment. “A popsicle? Why?”
She shrugs. “I don’t really know. I guess because it’s a childhood treat, it’s what we give our patients when they can’t keep food down or need a sweet treat or a reward for undergoing something difficult. So I guess in my head, having one is a way of honouring them. I spend the evening thinking about them, their lives, and their struggles. If I knew the patient well, I might spend a few days thinking about them and honouring them in my thoughts, but even if they were a new patient, I still feel like they deserve to be remembered, even if only for a short while. Sometimes, when I was on the mainland, a few of us nurses would meet at a park and plant a flower somewhere. Why, what do you do?”
I’m too stunned by her beautiful and compassionate nature to answer right away. Because my way of coping is a lot less romantic and sweet.
“I used to be devastated for days. It got to the point where I questioned if I could continue working in peds. Then Clarence hooked me up with a counsellor to work through the guilt I’d always feel. Now I go home, pour a large shot of whiskey or two, go to bed, then get up the next day and force myself to move forward.”
“Alone?”
I nod. “Always.”
