Page 4 of Holiday Love
“That’s good.” The cold water, ironically, might save him. It has a protective effect on the brain and internal organs. Like chicken put in the freezer, the body can undergo trauma without long-term damage.
Please be okay.
Lindsey writes my instructions down so she can enter them into the computer that sits in the hallway. “I’ll start the IV, then put in the orders.”
“No,” I say, too forcibly. “I’ll do it.”
Both Lindsey and Larry snap their heads up at that. They turn to me, questioning, a totally reasonable response. It’s not usually the doctor who starts the IV, it’s a nurse, but something about Lindsey touching him, sticking a needle into Tedd—the patient’s—arm unsettles me.
“I’ve got it,” I tell them, as I brush past Lindsey to get the supplies out of a nearby drawer.
She shrugs lightly. “Suit yourself.”
I barely notice her leave the room.
An alcohol swab, tourniquet, gauze, 18-gauge IV, and bandage all go on the steel tray that I wheel over to the bedside. When I tug the patient’s limp hand out from under the sheet, I notice how his skin is deathly pale, almost translucent. The body pulls blood away from the extremities in the cold, trying to keep the heart and brain alive.
Come on, come on.
There are large, ropy veins in his lower forearm, perfect for what I need. I wrap the tourniquet tight and rub at his skin, coaxing the vein to rise. The sharp, stinging smell of rubbing alcohol hits the back of my nose as I swipe it over his skin. I take a deep breath. Then, holding his arm steady, I insert the needle. The return flash of blood should be reassuring, but it isn’t because the whole time I watch Teddy’s face to see if he’ll respond.
Nothing.
Not even a flinch at the prick of the needle.
Quickly I hook the tubing up to the bag of saline that hangs from a tall silver IV pole next to the bed. I’ll swap that saline out with the warm one when Lindsey brings it in.
I’m applying the clear bandage over the IV when his fingers give the slightest twitch. I whip my head up to find Teddy staring back, recognition sparking in his beautiful eyes.
My lungs forget how to work.
“Your hair’s longer,” he slurs softly, raising his hand like he wants to touch me, but he’s too weak. His hand falls back onto the bed with a dull thud. His lashes flicker, struggling, failing to stay open. He mumbles, “I…” A pause, a breath too shallow. “I like it.”
Something cracks open inside of me.
He goes still, utterly motionless.
“Teddy?”
Nothing.
My hands clamp onto his shoulders, shaking lightly as my heart rate quickens. I don’t like how gray his skin has gotten. “Teddy?”
Larry stiffens beside me. “Do you know him?” he asks, but his voice is distant, lost in the fog of my rising panic.
“What?” I ask without looking away from Teddy.
“Do. You. Know. Him?” Larry repeats, enunciating each word in a clear loud voice. “You said his name?” He’s staring at me, suspicion narrowing his eyes, and that’s when I realize that out of all the information Larry’s given me, not once did he mention Teddy’s name.
My heart stumbles. “Umm,” I hedge, not sure how to answer. I understand his concern. The hospital has a strict policy. We aren’t allowed to take care of friends or family. The administration believes doctors become a liability when we treat people we know. That our judgment gets clouded by emotion, and didn’t I just prove that to be true? By insisting thatIbe the one to put in his IV?
What Larry doesn’t understand is that here in the ER we closely monitor the outcomes of our patients, with special attention to anything negative. We record every single death and complication. We meet once a month as a department to go over those harrowing statistics.
I know with certainty that I’m amuchbetter doctor than my partner, Dr. G. I have the numbers to prove it. Which means that Teddy is statistically more likely to live ifItreat him. But if I tell the truth and admit I know him, his care will be taken away from me. He’ll be at risk. I can’t have that. How could I live with myself if something horrible happens to him?
On the flip side, how can I gamble with the thing that’s most important to me, my career? If the hospital finds out I breached protocol and treated him, there will be consequences…bad ones. Every rule-following instinct, every risk-adverse tendency in me screams against it.
I’m silent, debating what to do.
