Page 76 of The Coppersmith Farmhouse (Jamison Valley 1)
“Not tonight, baby. But soon, I need to know about Roe’s dad.”
I nodded, whispering, “Soon, but not tonight.”
He shifted off me so I could trudge to the bathroom, dreading when “soon” became “now” and I’d have to share about Rowen’s father, a man I had vowed never to lay eyes on again.
A man whose voice told me in the back of my head that I wasn’t good enough for Jess.
“I don’t care what you are seeing on that thing. It’s wrong,” my patient yelled. He was pointing at my iPad and before I could respond, he muttered, “Idiot.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson,” I said. “I wasn’t here when you got your medications but from what your chart says, I can’t give you any more right now. It could be dangerous to your liver if you take too many pain medications in such a short period of time.”
His chart indicated he had already received more than enough oxycodone for his back pain. I didn’t know why it hadn’t kicked in yet but giving him more wasn’t an option until I talked to a doctor.
“Find someone else. You’re too dumb to figure it out. Where’s Ida? Bring her back.”
I inhaled a long breath and tried to keep my cool. I wasn’t a big fan of someone calling me an idiot or dumb.
“Let me check with Dr. Carlson about your medications, okay?”
Mr. Johnson had come into the ER this afternoon complaining of back pain so fierce it was making him nauseous. He’d come in while I was on my lunch break so Ida had admitted him and given him the oxy per Everett’s order.
“Fine. Get your ass outta here and check with the doctor, bitch. I don’t care what you see on that damn thing. Nothing you people have given me is helping.”
I was done. I was going to let the other affronts go, but this last insult was one too many.
“Stop. I’m sorry you’re in pain, Mr. Johnson. But being rude to me isn’t going to help. You will treat me with some respect. Enough name calling and yelling,” I said, using my mom voice.
He huffed but didn’t say anything in response.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and find Dr. Carlson.”
I stomped immediately to the nurses’ desk, where I closed my eyes and tried to relax my hands, which were balled into tight fists.
“Gigi? Are you okay?”
“Great,” I deadpanned, turning to see Everett. “I was actua
lly coming to find you but I needed a minute.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I let out a loud breath and sagged my shoulders. “Mr. Johnson is in ER room three. He’s spent the last ten minutes yelling at me because he is still in pain and I wouldn’t give him more oxycodone. His chart said he’d gotten the max dose about an hour ago. So I told him I’d come talk to you and see if there was something else we could do.”
“Strange. The dose should be kicking in by now,” he said. “But let me go in and talk with him. See what kind of symptoms he’s having.”
“Sounds good. Let’s go.”
“Oh, I can handle it if you’d like, Gigi. If he’s been rude or inappropriate, you don’t need to deal with him again.”
“That’s nice of you to offer, Everett. But I want to be in there so that if there is a follow-up order, I can take care of it. And I don’t want him to think he can intimidate me. I’ll be fine.”
After another thorough check of Mr. Johnson, Everett decided to give him a small dose of morphine through an IV drip. I stayed at the back of the room, observing, until Everett gave me the order. I thought that morphine combined with the oxy was an awful lot of medication, but I wasn’t a doctor and decided to trust that Everett knew what he was doing.
And it seemed to work.
Fifteen minutes later, Asshole Mr. Johnson turned into Nice Guy Mr. Johnson and he apologized for his behavior.
“Thanks, Everett. He seems much better now,” I said after walking up to the ER counter.
