Chapter One

I sit on a bench watching the morning runners loop around the lake. After how I behaved at work the night before, I’m too stunned and ashamed that I came straight to the lake after work still in my scrubs just to think about the person I’d somehow become. The anxiety of the busy night is still tense in my neck muscles.

Stretching my neck side to side, I rub my neck with my knuckles. I'm long overdue for a massage, a good night's sleep, and a decent home-cooked meal. My mind is in too much of a scramble to think straight.

My father is a neurosurgeon. I grew up hardly seeing him. His work fascinated me from a young age, but as I grew older, I resented the time he was away from us. As an adult, I know my father is performing good deeds everyday saving people's lives, but as a child, I missed him. I wished he were around to play T-ball with me and all those other things a boy would like his father to take part in. I told myself that one day, when I had kids, I didn't want them to wonder who I was too.

I wanted to work in healthcare and save lives like my father, but when I had a family, I wanted a flexible schedule to be there to raise them. It was a no-brainer to me to become an ICU nurse. My desire to help people in the medical setting would be fulfilled without encroaching too much into my time at home. I had carefully constructed my plan for the perfect work life balance.

Somehow, over the years, the long hours I vowed to never work crept into my schedule. Our unit was perpetually short-staffed. Management offered bonuses for picking up overtime, and I jumped at the extra money. Slowly, my normal work schedule became at least sixty hours a week.

The family I wanted to be a caring, available father to? Nonexistent.

I'd dated. Okay more like slept with, a few guys here and there, but it's been difficult for me to have a real relationship when I'm always working. And when I'm not working, I'm too emotionally spent to even want to have a meaningful conversation.

For the last ten years, all I've been doing is working.

Love life? Zilch.

Hobbies? Nothing unless you include sleeping and drinking.

Here I am. Ten years later. Exhausted, probably depressed, alone. And so very exhausted. Did I mention that already?

I like to think I was once a compassionate human being, but somehow, my compassion has disappeared. Tonight, it hit me all at once, what kind of nurse I have become. It was a crazy busy night, which I know is not an excuse. I was charge nurse again, as I usually am. Charge nurses basically run the entire unit, managing admissions, discharges, and staff. For only a few bucks more, charge nurses carry the weight of the unit on their shoulders. The ER was banging down our door to transfer critical patients, but we just didn’t have any beds, or nurses for that matter.

We were short staffed three nurses. Controlled chaos swirled around the unit. So many things needed to be done with not enough people to do them. Dr. Bennet was taking bed 23 to the OR in an emergency. Bed 15's oxygen saturation dropped, requiring STAT re-intubation. As the charge nurse, the nurses look to you for guidance. So I ran around the unit putting out fires one by one.

When a patient, Mr. Thackeray in bed 5, cardiac arrested and died after unsuccessful resuscitation, it meant I had a free bed. With my charge phone glued to my ear, I barged into Mr. Thackeray’s room and said to his weeping family members and friends, whose heads were bent down in prayer, “Are you all going to be much longer? We need this bed.”

That was the moment I realized I was a terrible nurse and a terrible person. Mr. Thackeray’s loved ones looked up at me with tear-streaked faces in utter shock. I quickly apologized. "I'm sorry. Take as long as you need." But the damage had already been done.

The man had just died. What happened to my compassion? When did I stop seeing patients as people? When had I become a robot?

These are the questions I ask myself as I look out on the still, clear lake. I don’t know who I have become as a nurse and as a person. The point of becoming a nurse was to care for people. What was I doing if I didn’t fundamentally care anymore?

When the shift was over, I went straight to my manager, Wanda.

I popped my head into her office, hoping to make my resignation short and sweet. “I quit.”

Wanda looked up from the paperwork she was doing and threw down her pen. “Over my dead body, come in here.”

I should have known Wanda wasn’t the short and sweet type. Groaning, I dropped into a chair in front of her desk. She stood, smoothing down her suit and clearing her throat. She brusquely walked to the door, slamming it shut with a one thwack of her manicured hand.

“What’s going on with you, Erik? Bad night?”

Slouching down in my chair, I looked up at the ceiling. “Bad night? Bad year! I can’t do this anymore. I’m burnt out. I’m fried. Done. Code blue.” Sticking my tongue out, I sliced the air in front of my neck. “Time of death: right now.”

Wanda opened a drawer and took out a card. She walked around her desk to where I sat sulking. “Okay. You have a ton of PTO. I want you to take some time off.” She handed me the card. “This is a therapist that handles health care professionals who suffer from compassion fatigue.”

Not really wanting to, I took the card anyway. I read the name listed—Betty Wright. I blew a raspberry with my mouth, not taking the card seriously.

Wanda shook her head and rolled her eyes. “She’s wonderful. She helped me and many others in this hospital: nurses and physicians with burn out.” Wanda put a hand on my shoulder. “I will not accept your resignation at this time until after you take at least a month off for self-reflection.”

Shrugging Wanda off, I stood up ready to get the hell out of there. “Okay, but in a month, I’m pretty sure I’m still going to quit.”

Wanda tossed her blonde hair back. "I sincerely hope not. I need you, Erik."

I walked from the hospital to my house across from Memorial Lake. One benefit of working so much: I got to buy my stellar house in downtown Charleston in a prime location. As I walked up the steps to my place, a feeling of utter loneliness stirred in me. I couldn’t go into my big empty house alone.

I wandered down my steps feeling lost. Spotting an empty bench across the street, I decided that was where I was going to sit and reflect on my life, exactly what Wanda wanted me to do.

So far, I haven’t come up with any answers. Just more questions. Just more disappointment. Just more memories of being cold to patients because I was too busy, overworked, and tired. Reflection is not working for me right now.

I check my watch. 9:32 a.m. I realize that I’ve been sitting and staring into space for over two hours. My stomach grumbles and I have that hazy worn-down feeling I always get after working so many nights in a row. There is only one thing to do on deep, dark days like this one: drink until I can’t remember why I’m so stressed.

Realizing I have no idea what day of the week it is, I check my watch again. It’s Sunday! Perfect! I can go to the new Brunch Spot on Broad Street. That’s what it’s actually called—Brunch Spot.

I set out for the restaurant formulating my plans for the day. I'd start with mimosas until noon and then progress slowly to harder fare as my day progresses.

At Brunch Spot, I take a seat at the bar, which is my normal modus operandi since I usually eat alone. This thought depresses me. The last time I’d been on a date, a real date that included a meal, was when I was in college.

Ugh. Pathetic. That was ten years ago!

When the bartender, a tall bronzed guy with long curly hair tied back in a ponytail, asks me what I want to drink, I am too mesmerized by his gorgeousness that I forget my original plan. “Shot of your best whiskey.”

His eyebrow shoots up giving his dark brown eyes a look of playfulness but polite concern. “It’s kind of early… Doctor.”

I look down at my crumpled scrubs. “I’m not a doctor, and you’re right. It is early. I’ll have a mimosa.”

The bartender smiles taking out a champagne flute. “So you just wear scrubs for fun?”

“No. Definitely not for fun. I’m a nurse in the ICU.”

The bartender nods his head slowly. “Oh. Cool! How do you like it?” He slides the mimosa in front of me.

“I hate it. I used to love it, but now I hate it.” I raise my mimosa up in a type of cheers and then guzzle it down. “This is probably what divorce feels like. Can I have another?”

The bartender chuckles. “Okay. I'm sorry you hate it. I still have mad respect for you though. Nurses are always treated like shit. My mom is a nurse.” The bartender slides another mimosa in front of me and gives me a heart-melting smile. My heart thumps crazily in my chest. I try to direct my attention to something else before I go into cardiac arrest. I find my haggard reflection in the mirror in front of me.

My blond hair is lopsided, and my eyes! I’d like to think my blue eyes used to sparkle with energy and hope. They are dulled now with a film of hopelessness and longing. I look away from myself and back to the handsome bartender who is much easier on the eyes at the moment.

Another customer takes a seat at the end of the bar. The bartender extends his hand. “Baxter.”

I take his hand and immediately feel more under his spell than ever. Electricity charges between us like the time I hooked myself up to a Train of Four, a peripheral neuromuscular stimulator, just to see what fifty milliamps felt like. Although, it is the first non-patient contact I’ve had in months, maybe years, so I might be over-exaggerating the magical electric moment. “Erik," I finally manage to mumble out.

“Well, Erik. I’m going to see about this other customer, but I’ll be here if you need anything.” He winks at me as he walks away. My eyes wander down behind the bar. His ass in his tight jeans is as beautiful as I thought it would be. My heart flutters intensely. I wonder briefly if I'm going into a tachycardic episode. I force a deep cough, just in case, to knock me out of the fast rhythm, before I take a long sip of my new mimosa.

On my phone, I search for compassion fatigue. I click on the first article:

Warning signs of compassion fatigue:

• Abusing drugs, alcohol, or food
• Anger
• Depression
• Hopelessness
• Less ability to feel joy
• High self-expectations
• Workaholism

So far, my self-assessment ascertains I have all of the signs. Stunned by how many warning signs I have, I stop reading the article. Chugging my mimosa down, I decide that I can deal with my compassion fatigue like an adult tomorrow. Today, I am committed to acting like an incompetent drunk.

I plant myself at the bar for the next few hours. Baxter is friendly and scoots over to where I sit whenever he isn't busy. He presses me to eat, worried I'll pass out.

"You just got off work. You haven't had any breakfast," he pleads.

Against my wishes, he brings me a warm bagel with cream cheese.

"I told you I'm not eating," I say as I push the delicious looking bagel away from me.

He puts his hands on his heart. "Eat something. For me?"

"Okay. If you insist." I devour the treat, the cream cheese melting and the toasted bagel crunching in my mouth. A perfect little breakfast.

By the time Baxter gets off work, I'm completely smitten. I'm also completely smashed. He sits down next to me on a stool smiling. "Can I take you somewhere for lunch?"

"Lunch?" I say. Dazed by the concept of time, which always happens to me when I've been working nights.

"It's 1:30." He puts an arm over my shoulder and gently tugs me toward the door. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

Baxter wants to take me to lunch. A meal? This incredibly hot guy wants to hang out with me during the day? I slap my face with my palm. I must be having a psychotic break.

Baxter laughs. "What are you doing?"

"I'm just making sure I'm not hallucinating."

“Are you always this fun?” he asks as he laughs again. Grabbing my hand and leading me out, he says, "I thought we'd walk a bit. You know, to help sober you up?"

Shrugging, I say, "Good idea!" Although, I'm not entirely convinced it's a good idea. I've never hung out with a guy sober before.

We walk from Broad Street to King. It's Second Sunday on King Street, where the street closes off to traffic. There are vendors and food trucks lined up and people walking lazily down the street. Couples hold hands, just like Baxter and me. To any bystander, Baxter and I must look like a couple too.

Suddenly, I wonder why Baxter is being so nice to me. Why would a guy like him want to hang out with someone like me? What’s his angle? What’s he getting out of this? Am I getting pranked?

Baxter doesn't give me too much time to contemplate these questions before he pulls me over to a cluster of white wicker tables and chairs. "Sit here. I'm going to get us some food. Do you like Short Grain?" He points to a food truck I have never seen before. To be honest, I have never gotten food from a food truck before even though I know it’s one of those cool things any hipster from here to Brooklyn does on the regular.

I lie. "I love Short Grain!"

"Cool! What do you want? Have any favorites?"

"I’ll get whatever you’re getting!”

Baxter gives me two thumbs up. "Okay!" I watch as he walks away, his brown ponytail of curls bouncing. He is so damn cute.

He brings back two Japanese rice bowls and bottles of water. Setting it down, he says, "I scored us some sashimi, pickled cucumbers and ginger, and ponzu."

I nod, thanking him but really not understanding anything he has just said. I would say that I'm not much of an adventurous spirit when it comes to food. If I'm being completely honest, I will admit that I've been living on ramen, frozen entrees, and hospital cafeteria food for a decade. There is little motivation for making proper meals at home when you're dead tired and short on time.

Turns out, the rice bowl is absolutely delicious. Whatever ponzu and sashimi is, I love it! We eat in content silence. At least, I hope it's content because I can't come up with anything to say. It's been years since I have been on a date. If this is to be considered a date. Baxter eats and keeps looking at me with a grin on his face. It’s unnerving.

After we've wolfed down our rice bowls, Baxter pulls out a sketch book from his backpack. He opens it to a blank page. "I think you have a beautiful face. Do you mind if I sketch you?"

Stunned by the question, my mouth drops open. Blushing, I run a hand through my hair that hours before looked disheveled. I cringe to think what it looks like now. Plus, I haven't slept for over twenty-four hours.

What is he talking about? Surely, I look like a mess! Is he just messing with me?

He notices the look on my face. "I'm an artist and..." His voice trails off. "I just think you've got a nice face that I don't want to ever forget."

Quivering from his endearing request, I stutter, "Okay. What do I have to do?"

He eagerly pulls out a pencil from his backpack pocket. "Nothing. Just be you."

I puzzle over this request because I am unsure who I am anymore.

Baxter stares at me while I sit rigidly in the chair. He looks intently into my face. I watch as he traces my eyes and nose onto the white paper. I've never been this flattered in my life. I slap myself in the face again.

"Are you slapping yourself again?" Baxter chuckles.

"Yup. Still hoping I'm not having a psychotic break." I look at him warily with a smile. When he smiles back, I quickly look away as my neck prickles with sweat.

It's October, for God sakes! Why is it still so hot?

“I’m sorry I mistook you for a doctor.” Baxter continues to sketch my face. “I’m sure you get that a lot.”

I nod with a laugh. “Yup. Because why would any self-respecting man want to be a nurse, right?”

Baxter groans. “Yeah, that sucks. It’s an honorable profession. People never give it enough respect.”

“Where is your mom a nurse?” I ask.

“She’s a travel nurse. Right now, she’s in California. She and my dad got an RV and travel the country while my mom works.” He looks up from his work. “My dad is retired Navy.”

“Wow. That sounds pretty amazing.” I’d never really considered traveling nursing before. As soon as I got into the cog of working at the Medical Institute of Charleston, I never wiggled my way out. I just put my head down and worked.

“They love it!” Baxter digs in his backpack and pulls out a postcard from Santa Barbara. “They send me postcards from wherever they go.”

I take the postcard from him. “Welcome to Santa Barbara” in big burnt orange letters is set over a sunny beach setting. On the back, it reads: “Wish you were here, Son. Miss you! Love, Mom and Dad.” It is adorably sweet.

I hand the postcard back to Baxter. “That’s pretty cool. Your parents are more adventurous than I am.”

He laughs, returning to his sketch. “They are pretty cool.” He squints his eyes up at me. “You don’t like to travel?”

I sigh. “I think I would like it. It’s just that I’ve been pretty busy with work.”

Baxter nods, knowingly. “You fall into the overtime trap?”

Looking away at a little girl walking her dog down the street, I say in a defeated voice. “I guess I did.”

“That’s okay. That’s what’s beautiful about the human spirit. You’ll figure it out.” He smiles broadly. He looks so full of optimism. How does he do it? Is he on drugs? I try to see if his eyes are dilated from where I’m sitting.

He shuts his sketchbook and says, “All done! Thanks for sitting for me.”

“Can I see it?” I ask, reaching my hand out.

He shoves the sketchbook into his backpack. “Nope. It’s not ready yet.” His eyes open wide, mischievously. “I’m not ready yet.”

I lean back in my chair. This Baxter is devious and gorgeously sexy. What was he doing with me again?

He claps his hands together, snapping me back to attention. “Where to next? You need to get home and sleep?”

My heart sinks like a lonely stone. I knew it. He’s already ditching me to do something else.

I answer honestly. “Nah. Can’t sleep now. I might as well stay up until tonight.” I look up the street to the dive bar Lower Deck. “Think I’m going to head over to Lower Deck.”

Baxter hops up. “Sounds good! Let’s go.”

Surprised, I get up from my chair and follow him. I guess he isn’t ditching me. I can’t figure this guy out.

When we get to Lower Deck, Kent is bartending. As soon as I sit down, Kent pushes a vodka soda with lime to me. Holding the vodka up, I cheer, “Kent! My man! Always has my drink ready for me!”

“No problem!” He points to Baxter. “And for you?”

“I’ll just take a beer," Baxter says, looking around at the Sunday crowd.

“One beer coming right up.” Kent spins around to the beer fridge behind him.

Baxter looks at me earnestly. “What happened last night at work? You wanna talk about it? My mom would vent to my dad. I think it helped.”

Taking a sip of my drink, I stare straight ahead at the liquor bottles lining the shelves.

“Not really, but…” I paused looking for the right succinct words. “I just don’t feel anything anymore. I realized for the first time last night that I don’t see patients as human beings anymore.” I point to my heart. “I lost the ability to care.”

Baxter’s expression is unchanged, like he’s trying to figure me out.

I take a bigger sip of my vodka soda. “You must think I’m a heartless person.” Whispering into my hand, I say, “If so, you're right.”

Baxter shakes his head. “No, I don’t think you’re a heartless person. I think you need to rest and take some time off. It happened to my mom. She was working so many hours and barely had a life outside of the hospital. She was starting to disappear from our lives, devoting everything to that place.”

I see a glimmer of hope in my situation. There were others who successfully conquered compassion fatigue.  “How did she get out of it?”

“She took a break.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Stop being so hard on yourself. You’re not a terrible person. You’re just going through something only people who care too much go through.”

Suddenly, I get an unsettling feeling. I look at Baxter, trying to figure out why he was hanging out with me. I blurt out, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Baxter takes his hand away from my shoulder, surprised by my direct question. “I don’t know. You look like you’ve had a hard night…”

I can't stop myself from word vomiting. “So you feel sorry for me? Pity is not something I need right now.”

Baxter sighs. “No. I don’t feel sorry for you.” He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Okay. This is going to sound horribly superficial, but I thought you were really hot when you came into the restaurant. But then, your sarcastic wit kind of won me over. I wanted to get to know you better.”

“My sarcastic wit? I am not sarcastic.” After a weird silence, we both laugh. If mere mortals had super powers, mine would undoubtedly be sarcasm and parallel parking.

Admittedly, I am flattered Baxter thinks I’m hot, which was the last thing I thought he would say. Afraid I’m going to screw things up with him, I continue to drink to get to the level of drunkenness I am used to when hanging out with cute guys.

When Kent asks me if I want anything else, I promptly order another vodka soda with a lime and two shots of tequila.

Kent pours us the shots whistling, “Tequila time!”

“Tequila?” Baxter asks, skeptical of the sudden uptick of liquor consumption.

I pick my tequila shot up. “You said I needed a break, right? You said I needed to stop being so hard on myself.”

Baxter opens his mouth ready to contradict me, but I point at him. “You did say that.”

He surrenders and nods. “To taking a break!” We clink shot glasses. I down the tequila, enjoying the familiar burn down my throat and forcing myself to forget alcohol abuse is the number one sign of compassion fatigue. I will deal with all of that tomorrow. There is always tomorrow.