Page 9 of Waiting Game

“Room 72A,” Evelyn pointed, “an older man with acute renal failure. He’ll probably be here for a while,” she said softly.

I nodded, grabbing the stack of charts as she handed it across the desk.

Tilly followed quickly on my heels as I walked into the back office to put my bag down.

“Pete was asking me all sorts of questions last night.”

“What?” I snapped around, “about what?”

“Why the hell you were going to Melbourne. Do I think you’re going to get back with your ex. Do I think you’ll even come back. Questions about what your family does. He was acting super fucking crazy.”

I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him he was worrying about nothing and he’s only going to push you away by acting like a stage five clinger.”

“He’s just insecure,” I shook my head.

Really, he had every reason to be.

He knew next to nothing about my family or my past, and it had been a point of argument for a long time. It never bothered him in the beginning of our relationship. It had only been since we got engaged that he grew frustrated about the way I danced around the topic.

“Yeah but bringing that shit into work isn’t cool. I mean he’s supposed to be a paediatric doctor but he was over inourward for like an hour wasting time and bugging me about you.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she shrugged.

“We’ll figure it out,” I forced a smile, but wasn’t sure if it was true.

I turned towards the charts and hoped that the conversation would end there.

Tilly caught the hint, and left while I flicked through the pages of patient records. I took them in my arms and finished the last of my coffee before I made my way to room 72A.

“Good morning,” I tried to sound chirpy as I scanned his chart for his name, “Andreas?”

He only glanced my way once, and then back out the window.

He was an elderly man, with slick grey hair that had been combed back neatly.

“My name is Valerie, how are you feeling this morning?”

“Fine,” he said.

“Do you mind if I do some checks?” I asked, throwing the charts on the table next to him.

“If you must,” he sighed.

It was obvious that he was nervous.

Though I was only doing the most basic of observational checks, he watched my every move and flinched with every beep of the equipment.

“Hey,” I said, “do you know the difference between an oral thermometer and a rectal thermometer?” I asked as I pulled out the thermometer to take his temperature.

He frowned up at me, shaking his head.

“The taste,” I smirked, positioning the thermometer in his ear and pressing the button.

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