揟hat抯 right. She nagged me here. Wouldn抰 stop until I came in.?
揑 see.?I nod. 揌ow抯 your health in general??
揈xcellent,?he replies with a surety that only a true bullshitter could pull off.
揟he wife?confirms my suspicions when she stands up and announces, 揌e has atherosclerosis, high cholesterol, diabetes, and glaucoma.?
揃ut other than that,?Mr. Wilson insists, 揾ealthy as a horse.?
Mrs. Wilson抯 eyes swing around to the ceiling.
揝how him your foot, Melvin.?
揟here抯 nothing wrong with my foot, woman!?Mr. Wilson grouches. 揑 stubbed my toe a few days ago, Doc, and she抯 been on me about it ever since.?
Here抯 a fact for you: if one half of a couple drags the other half to the hospital kicking and screaming梕specially if the kicker and screamer is an old man? There抯 definitely a serious problem happening.
揥ell, you抮e already here, Melvin,?I say reasonably. 揗ight as well let me take a look at the foot梚f nothing else, the nagging will stop.?
After a moment Melvin nods, still grumpily, but he reaches down to take off his sock. While he does, I offer Mrs. Wilson an apologetic look for the nagging comment, but she seems to understand we抮e on the same team.
And then I get a look at the foot.
Hello gan-fucking-grene條ong time no see.
I snap on a pair of latex gloves and examine the foot more closely, poking and prodding the damaged flesh. Then I listen to his heart, his lungs, check his eyes for jaundice and his lymph nodes for swelling.
揧ou抳e got an infected foot ulcer here, Melvin, heading quickly toward gangrene. Another day and you抎 be losing that toe梐 couple more days it抎 be the whole foot.?
Melvin nods. Because he already knows this梙e just didn抰 want to believe it.
揥e抮e going to get this cleaned up, get you started on IV antibiotics, and I抦 going to admit you so we can monitor your blood sugar and adjust your insulin if needed. Then I抦 going to write you a very strong prescription . . . to listen to your wife sooner next time.?
He grunts out a chuckle. And when his wife moves beside him, he takes her hand in his, giving it a squeeze.
揥ill do. Thanks, Doc.?
I nod. 揑抣l be back.?
I cruise out the door with Jamestown hot on my heels. Out in the hall I glance at my watch and tell him, 揋et me the vitals on the asthma attack in Exam Four; they should be done with the nebulizer treatment. Then come back here and I抣l demonstrate the debridement procedure for a diabetic, and then you can scurry off to the bakery.?
揧es, Dr. Daniels.?
I pause then, and give him some of the most important professional advice he抣l ever hear.
揑f you want to go into emergency medicine, your most vital relationships are not going to be with the surgeons or the cardiologists or other residents or the chief of staff. It抯 with your nurses. They have to respect you梐nd they抮e only going to do that if you respect in return. In most situations they抮e all you抮e going to have梐nd more times than not, they抮e all you抮e going to need. Don抰 screw it up again.?
He looks at the floor, his face contemplative.
揙kay, Dr. Daniels. Thank you.?
I pat his shoulder before he heads down the hall.
Then I turn around梐nd stop short. Because Violet Robinson is standing there, staring up at me with those round, heartbreaking eyes.
This morning, I overheard her talking to one of the other nurses桟ooper Palmer梐bout a date he set her up on with his cousin or something. She said the guy was nice. That the restaurant he took her to was nice. That they had a nice time.
Which is frigging fantastic梑ecause I was married for fifteen years. I know all about nice.
It抯 the kiss of death.
If you give her flowers, and she says they抮e nice? She抯 not impressed.
Jewelry is nice? It means she hates it.
And when it comes to guys? Nice means she抯 flat out, never-seeing-you-again not interested.
I get a dirty thrill every time I hear about one of Violet抯 dates going down the drain. I realize this is wrong on every level. I抳e heard Vi talking relationships, maybe marriage, at some point in the future. If I抦 not planning to make a move, I should be wishing her a long, happy relationship with some other worthy guy.
But . . . I抦 just not that good of a person.
揟hat was kind, what you said to him,?she tells me softly. 揂bout nurses.?
揘o梚t was just the truth.?
Her hair is up in a bun today, a thick russet knot, with gentle wavy wisps escaping behind her ear and at the nape of her slim neck. And I just can抰 stop myself from wondering what those tendrils would feel like, what her skin would smell like, if I brushed my lips across that exact spot.
揧ou抮e good with them梩he first-years. You have a way of making them want your approval, not because they抮e afraid of you . . . but because they admire you. And I think that抯 better. Better at bringing out the best in them.?
My heartbeat picks up, pounding rough and sudden against my chest.
揥ell, that抯 the job.?
揧eah,?she says with a smile and a soft nod.
A moment later, my tone shifts, becoming clipped and formal.
揑 need to debride Mr. Wilson抯 foot.?
Violet抯 voice mirrors mine梐ll business.
揜ight. I抣l prep him and get the cart.?
揋ood.?
I hold out the chart, and when she takes it, my fingers brush the back of her hand.
There are three thousand touch receptors in the human fingertip, and every single one of mine focuses on Violet抯 skin. How baby soft it is, smooth.
The hospital temperature is set at a steady sixty-six degrees to reduce the spread of bacteria. It抯 why stethoscopes and doctors?and nurses?hands can feel like ice cubes. But Violet抯 hand isn抰 cold or callused from washing or the harsh rub of hand sanitizer.
It抯 warm, silky . . . achingly feminine.
It抯 not something that should register in my mind; it抯 not professional. I have no memory of what any other nurse抯 hand feels like梑ecause I抳e never noticed.
But hers . . . I do.
*
When I was eleven, the tire on my BMX bike blew out after I jumped the homemade ramp the kid down the street constructed. I landed hard, then walked to Kmart by myself, bought a new tire with my own money, replaced and inflated the tire, and still managed to finish my paper route on time.
Because I抦 a Gen X-er. My brothers and I weren抰 latchkey kids, but even with a stay-at-home mom, my generation was basically raised to survive a zombie apocalypse.
On our own.
I try my best to pass those life skills梥elf-sufficiency, responsibility, independence梠nto my boys. Aaron doesn抰 work during the school year, because he plays football and keeps his grades up, but in the summer he has a part-time job as a lake lifeguard. When Brayden turns fifteen, he抣l find a part-time job too梡robably as a junior counselor with Lakeside抯 summer rec program.
And when I抦 on days at the hospital, I抳e gotten the boys in the routine of coming home from school, doing their homework, and getting dinner started. Nothing fancy or complicated梑ut I trust that they can manage soup and sandwiches or mac and cheese and a salad梬ithout burning the house down to the ground.
揇ad, please stop buying the crappy fabric softener,?Brayden says, folding his laundry at the opposite end of the kitchen table where I抦 currently eating a roast beef sandwich for dinner. 揑t sucks.?
Parents don抰 have favorites梬e抎 cut open a vein for any of our offspring. But some kids are just easier. Low maintenance. Generally happy and don抰 mind doing what they抮e told.