amongst the few
I had been working for 12 and a half hours straight.
With only half an hour to go the scrap of paper with patient names and numbers was wearing thin along the fold lines. But, to my relief, each task that had been assigned had been dutifully scratched through.
Bar one.
A simple procedure to assess the levels of oxygen and carbon dioxide in the blood was all that was left. I had minimal details; the ward, a bed number, a name. But no rationale for the test had been provided.
I headed out to the most distant ward, greeted the nurse with a tired hello and asked to see the patient’s notes. Far too much to read, but at least a confirmation of the plan to do the test. I asked the nurse where to get the equipment I needed. A needle and syringe, an antiseptic wipe, a bandaid, some gauze, a pathology bag.
At the door to the patient’s room I paused, the lights were out and it was quiet. It wasn’t that late, but clearly everyone in the room was asleep.
She was in the bed closest to the door, and startled when I woke her despite being as gentle as I could. We chatted for a moment as I explained what I’d been asked to do, and to find out if she knew the reason for the test. She did.
She was anxious about the needle, so I kept talking to her, asking about where she lived and about her family while I prepared.
She was old. But the youngest of all her family. Her children had died years ago and her husband long before them. She was an only child herself.
She averted her eyes and turned her head as I pushed the needle into the loose skin over her wrist, my other hand anchoring her strong pulsating artery as a guide. She took a short sharp breath then continued telling me about how things had changed. How she had started to become softer as she got older, that she used to be so strong and now was weak.
She cried. Not from the pain.
Her blood gushed in tiny waves into the syringe as her tears wet her cheeks. She made no attempt to wipe them away. I sat with her, keeping pressure on the place where the needle had pierced through. Held her hand. My pager bleeped, a loud cricket. And then it bleeped again. And still I sat.
She told me she’d be ok. She told me things weren’t that bad. She thanked me.
I smiled and hoped she wouldn’t be in hospital for long.
She smiled back and said she didn’t think so. But that, in the end, it didn’t really matter either way. She was ok.
I left the room, finished the paperwork, pulled out the scrap of paper and scratched off her name. Now I had only 10 minutes to go.
