Grace
I’ve been an attending physician at St. Anthony’s for three years. When I first decided to work with Angels of Charity, something about this hospital appealed to me. Perhaps it’s because I specialize in neonatal and this place is smack dab in the middle of one of the poorest areas of Los Angeles. Money should never decide if a newborn baby lives or dies, so I accepted the offer. So far, I’ve been fortunate enough to land mostly day shifts. But I’ve also learned that at night, this neighborhood could care less who you are or how many babies you’ve saved. I’ve seen things on my drive home that most people only witness on the six o’clock news from the comforts of their living room.
So, here I am, flashers on, going 50 in a 30, stop signs be damned, because- A) I have an unconscious woman with too many drugs in her system in my back seat. And- B) I left my pepper spray at home. Twenty minutes seems like forty-five when I finally pull under the awning at emergency receiving. Karen has Albert, a burly male nurse, ready at the entrance with a stretcher. Thank God. My back is already screaming at me from hauling Natalie’s dead weight from her bedroom to my car. I don’t think I could lift her again if I needed to.
I shoot a quick text to Annette, letting her know what’s going on then follow Albert past triage to one of the exam rooms where Karen is waiting for us. I catch the fear in her eyes when she sees Natalie, lifeless and unconscious. It’s a brief flicker that she hides well, but I don’t miss it.
“Do you know her personal information?” she asks, making a feeble attempt to distract me.
I interact with parents who are anxiously awaiting me to tell them whether or not their premature newborn will make it through the night. I meet with expectant mothers who have gone into labor months before their time, explaining to them why they still have to give birth, but we can’t even try to save their baby. I recognize all the tactics we’re trained to use to distract from the trauma at hand. I don’t need things sugar-coated for me. I was prepared for the worst the minute Lucas ran into my arms. But, I respect Karen as a physician, so I do as I’m expected.
“I know enough to get her registered,” I reply, my tone telling her, I’ll let you do your job. She reaches for my hand, giving me a knowing smile, then pulls the curtain shut around them.
I set the clipboard on my lap and start to fill out the paperwork. The lines all start to run together somewhere between “last name” and “emergency contact.” I look away, thinking a glance at the scenery will reset my brain, but it doesn’t. The gray porcelain tile runs right up into the boxy, commercial style gray chairs. Mothers hold their sleeping toddlers in their arms. Wives rub the backs of weary husbands. Once in a while, someone makes the journey across the cold, hard floor to the coke machine or the bathroom. On a television mounted to a wall somewhere behind me, a newscaster takes breaks in between celebrity gossip and stories of armed robbery to talk about tomorrow’s weather. It’s going to be another sunny day in September. It’s all irrelevant. Because the only thing I can think about is the fact that my sister is fighting for her life behind a set of double doors twenty feet from my chair. And I’m going to have to somehow break the news, one way or the other, to her terrified little boy that’s probably struggling to fall asleep on my sofa right now.
Maybe it’s lack of sleep and long hours at work followed by longer hours at home. Maybe it’s the fear of walking in that bedroom and not finding a pulse. Maybe it’s the frightened look on a nine-year old boy’s face as he walked through my door. But it’s suddenly all more than I can handle. I hang my head in defeat. Where’s the finish line? When is enough, enough? How much is one person supposed to take before they crash and burn? I need a break. A week on a deserted island with nothing but a cabana boy, the sun, and an unlimited supply of fruity adult beverages.
“Grace?” A familiar voice snaps me out of my daze.
I look up from counting the tiny black specks on the charcoal tile. Long red hair and curves that won’t quit. If Jessica Rabbit were a human, she’d be Deirdre Drazen. Only without the sparkly dress. Deirdre is about as down to earth as they come, in her yoga pants and Converse. You’d never know by looking at her that she’s one of the country’s wealthiest heiresses.
“Deirdre. Hello,” I reply, trying to breathe some life back into my tone. She doesn’t buy it.
“You’re on the wrong side of the waiting room,” she teases, as she takes the empty seat next to me.
I force a chuckle. “I think I like it better on that side of the double doors.”
“Is your dad okay?” She looks genuinely concerned. I admire that. I’ve only spoken to the woman a handful of times and only once about my father’s health.
Deirdre spends half her time running from her money by giving it all away and the other half drinking until she forgets she has anything to run from. Overall, she’s a remarkable human being, though. Her soul is pure, regardless of what demons keep her awake at night. She must head at least a dozen non-profits, Angels of Charity included. I can relate to her desire to give back. It’s why I chose to work at this hospital rather than one on the west side of LA. So, when she approached me three weeks ago about doing some volunteer work for a children’s ward at a hospital in South Africa, I jumped at the opportunity.
“He’s fine,” I tell her, after my stomach finally stops tying itself in knots. “My sister.” That’s all I say. It’s all I can manage. I can’t say the rest out loud. Saying it out loud makes it all too real. My sister overdosed and may not make it out of here. No. I can’t say those words. So, I leave it at that. She nods, an understanding that the gory details are mine to keep.
“I’m so sorry. I wish her well,” she says, and I believe she sincerely means it. “Holly needs to set your travel arrangements soon. The hospital is expecting you,” she adds, her words more a question than a statement. I knew her assistant would be needing a final answer soon. I just thought my main hiccup would be finding someone to care for my dad. She’s asking if I can still go. This is the chance of a lifetime. What real doctor wouldn’t want to travel the world to help the less fortunate? I owe her an answer. I’m sure there’s a waiting list a mile long and right now, I’m holding up traffic. I glance at the double doors that lead to my future and say a silent prayer. Help me.
As if my words were swept up by the universe and carried straight to God’s ears, then scattered in tiny pieces of hope from this hard, gray chair to the bed behind closed curtains, the heavy wooden doors swing open. Karen looks stressed but not despondent. I stand.
“She’s going to be fine.” She moves her eyes from me to Deirdre, as if asking permission to continue in her presence. I don’t care if the Pope was sitting in that chair, I want to know what happened to my sister.
“Go ahead,” I encourage her.
She takes in a deep breath and steadies herself. “I have her on two amps of sodium bicarbonate.”
I nod.
She continues, “We ran active charcoal on her before it got to her liver. She had a pretty intense tricyclic and opiate cocktail. She was hypotensive with myocardial dysfunction.” No wonder I thought she was nearly dead. She’s using medical terms for low blood pressure and irregular blood flow to the heart. I assume she’s hoping Deirdre won’t decipher the language. At this point, Deirdre’s opinion of my sister’s habits doesn’t matter. I just want to know if she’ll be okay. “She’s stable. We’re keeping her overnight to make sure.”
Antidepressants. I hold back a laugh at the irony. Then I say another silent thank you to the ceiling. And another out loud. Karen reassures me with a smile, nods to Deidre, then heads off to get Natalie situated in a room upstairs.
Deirdre stands and wraps me in a hug. Awkward. But appreciated. “Take your time. Just let Holly know when you’re ready.”
In this moment, I have two choices. I can let my circumstances define me, bog me down, keep me from pursuing my own happiness. Circumstances someone else’s choices brought me to. Or I can let go of a responsibility I never asked for and do something for me for the first time since I took this job. My body, every single fiber, feels like a tight rope, being pulled at both ends. If I’m not careful, the once strong threads will thin to nothing more than pieces of string. If I’m not careful, it’s all going to come unraveled.
“Tell her to make the arrangements,” I reply, as my head battles with my heart.
“You’re sure? If now isn’t a good time…”
I cut her off, “I’m sure. Now is the best time.”
It may not be exactly the break I’m looking for, but it’s a break I’m going to take.
***
Two days after my sister was discharged, I got the call from Holly. Between the home health nurse and Annette, I’ve made sure my dad will be taken care of the week I’ll be gone. Annette was happy to help. No surprise there. The woman is a godsend. A godsend that will get a huge thank you gift as soon as I get back.
Before Natalie was released from St. Anthony’s, I’d made sure to set up all the avenues of proper after care while I’m gone. Along with in-office visits to her primary care physician, she’ll receive in-home visits by a certified addiction counselor as well as a nutritionist for her somatic needs. That should keep her in line at least until I can get back. I also arranged for Lucas’ father to keep him over the weekend. Paul will pick up his son after school and return him late Sunday evening. If Natalie wants to pull another one of her stunts when the medical professionals clock out, at least her son won’t be around to witness it.
***