Page 3

Chapter 2

A t twenty minutes to seven, I walk through the Emergency Room entrance at Lakeside Memorial Hospital and use my badge to clock in. This place is like a sanctuary for me. I feel oddly comfortable here. Ever since I was eight years old, when I fell off the monkey bars at school and broke my left arm, I’ve known that I wanted to go into the nursing field. The nurses had been kind to me that day—something I wasn’t used to receiving at home. From that moment on, I knew what my future held. I wanted to help people.

After leaving the hospital that day, I was certain I would become a nurse. It was all I ever talked about. My parents, absent both physically and emotionally, made up for it by throwing money at me. The following Christmas, it was no surprise to find neatly wrapped gifts under the tree. It’s interesting how the little things bring us the most joy. Back then, I assumed I had a normal life as an only child.

That is, until he happened.

Shaking myself out of the past, I head over to the doctor’s lounge to get a report from the night shift staff. After completing my nursing degree, I took it a step further, earning both my graduate and doctorate degrees in the field, and now I work as a nurse practitioner. I've always loved the emergency department. It’s fast-paced, and there’s never a dull moment. You never know what’s coming through the door. It could be an infant with a cold, someone in a life-threatening situation like a heart attack or pneumonia, or a car accident victim.

Saving lives and improving the well-being of others is a gratifying experience, but there are days that weigh heavily on my soul. Losing patients, particularly children, tears at me in ways I can’t put into words. Watching innocent lives end so tragically feels personal. It’s not a profession for the faint of heart; it demands everything, especially when the darkest moments come knocking.

In the doctor’s lounge, I find the night shift nurse practitioner flipping through a chart. “Good morning, Marsha. How are you doing?” I ask with an easy smile. Marsha is in her early forties and a mom to four hellions. She has a strong work ethic, and I enjoy coming to work after her shift because I know she has everything under control. “It wasn’t so bad last night, but I’m ready to be home, resting in my bed.”

She fills me in on the patients still waiting for blood work and other test results. The most excitement they had overnight was a patient who came in experiencing hallucinations of purple elephants chasing him. Crack is wack, for real.

“And now I’m handing the reins over to you,” she says with a light laugh. It’s Friday morning, so I know she’ll be off for the weekend to be with her kids. “I’ve got this covered. Go. Enjoy your time off.”

I glance over the four charts in the rack, deciding which one to tackle first. There’s a sixty-year-old male with chest pain who is waiting for lab results. His initial cardiac enzymes were normal, and the GI cocktail administered on arrival after the EKG eased his chest pain. This likely means he has undiagnosed gastroesophageal reflux disease. Then, there’s a six-year-old boy with flu-like symptoms, a twenty-one-year-old with abdominal pain, and one of our frequent flyers, Scotty, who is here for the third time this month for IV hydration. Scotty is a fifty-five-year-old chronic alcoholic who doesn’t know when to quit. He usually presents after a fight at a local bar or passing out in the alley behind it.

Lucy, a spunky nurse who has worked here as long as I have, sticks her head into the doctor’s lounge. “Dr. Sparks, we have three coming in via ambulance—a two-car motor vehicle collision. The medics just called it in.”

Holding back a sigh, I place the charts back into the rack and head to the ambulance bay.