Hold your head, shake the sleep from your eyes. The clock reads 6:30. Don’t lay down, it will only make it harder. The cold is painful, but it is necessary. Get up, walk away from temptation.
Down to the bathroom. Cold water only, splash your face and blot it dry. Do not turn the faucet left, that will make it warm. If you hold your hands under warm water, you will find yourself there for the rest of the morning. Fight the urge.
Eat something. Anything. Your stomach turns at the thought of food. Your throat constricts. Nausea coats your tongue and numbs your senses. You gag in anticipation, but you must eat. If not, you’ll wither. You’ll wilt. You will eat yourself from the inside out. It’s a horrible way to go, so please, eat. Inhale the tasteless yogurt, choke down a handful of nuts, swallow the mass of oatmeal. Your stomach objects, but your body is begging.
Take the pills. Top right cabinet, second shelf, purple bottle with the blue letters. Take two of them, no more, no less. They hurt to swallow, so take them with something cold. Ice water will do. You might not get them down the first time. Persist, persist, persist.
Review your mental checklist. Remember your car keys. You hung them on the hooks next to the laundry room. There you’ll also find your ID. That’s important. Do you want to pay four dollars for parking? You’re already twelve dollars deep.
This economy.
You have your keys, you have your ID. You need your wallet, just in case. Credit card, random receipts, but most importantly, your license. Check your phone, but don’t get distracted. Do not click on the hundred deep text stream that happened last night without you. Queue up the music for the drive instead. Get yourself in the right frame of mind.
The clock reads 7:30. Go down to the basement. Run fast to the garage door, faster than the “monster” under the stairs, at least. You hurt it pretty bad with that shoe the other day, so you’re clear. Oh and, don’t forget to lock the door. That raccoon may have taken your leftovers, but it will not take your dignity.
Turn the car on. Race to the front seat and throw your keys in the glove compartment. Open the garage door before you back out (remember that time in June?) and plug in your phone. The music is automatic. It’s raining, so Mitski will do. Close the garage and speed down the driveway.
Switch the wipers into the second position—it looks like torrential downpour. It doesn’t matter that you can’t see two feet ahead of you. Headlights, wipers, go. But avoid the highway. Take the long way to the school, then hit the U-turn and head to work. Mind the cop on the side. He seems to be distracted by the other unlucky soul who happened to try the U-turn before you. Drive quickly.
You’re there now. Turn into the hospital. Now go right. Employee parking. Don’t take the left-hand turn..
You took the left hand turn.
Go back, reverse. No, don’t reverse, there’s an ambulance behind you. Just go straight, to the lower lot. Grab a ticket from the machine. The lady at the booth isn’t waving at you because she’s happy to see you. She’s waving because she’s confused why you’re here. You’re an employee. And you’re paying for parking.
Congratulations, you’re four dollars poorer.
It’s 8:50. Don’t panic, you can make it. Don’t panic, that spot isn’t too tight. Don’t panic, that mark was there before, and there’s no mark on your mirror. Get out and examine the damage. Conclude that the scrape was previously made, and twist both your mirror and the other back into position. Write a note and stick it on the windshield.
Run to the front. Greet the security guard at the front with a warm smile. You don’t know it, but that’s the highlight of his day, everyday. Sprint to the office. Don’t pull on the door, use your ID first. When the light is green, then you pull. Sign in at the laptop, then write down your name. Stuff your belongings into the tiny locker, and put the key on your wrist.
Go to the elevator. Hit floor D, the lowest floor. Don’t engage the nurse, she doesn’t want to talk. Trace the curve of her back, the slump of her shoulders. Notice the red in her eye and the quiver in her lip. She’s not tired, she’s exhausted. Let her exit first, then follow. Use the signs with the red letters to get where you need to go. It’s a maze, but you have the map. Think back to last week, remember the slope of the turn, the click of the door, the call of the sirens.
Breathe a little. You made it.
Enter. Go down to Zone A. Check the blanket warmer. Fill the blanket warmer. Check the empty stretcher. Dress the empty stretcher. Check the coffee cabinet. Fill the coffee cabinet. Don’t be frightened by the noise, it’s just the thunder.
Turn to the loading bay. Hear the panic in the EMT’s voice, in his shouts for backup. See the gaggle of doctors and nurses fly through the building, dressed in shades of blue and white. Scurry from the hall to let them pass. Watch the limp arm dangle from the bed as it’s carried away.
Glance to your left. Notice the patient in Bed 6. Notice how their fingers tremble, how their lip quivers, how they stare into the darkness above their head, eyes glazed over with fear.
Feel that fear in your chest. Let it weigh you down. Let it sink in your soul like a stone.
Approach the patient. Forget they are a patient. Remember they are human. Don’t speak, just reach for their hand. Look in their eyes. See the pain, and take it from them. Take half, share the weight, watch your steadiness silence their storm. Promise them they will be okay.
Because of you, they’ll be okay.
Photo Credits: Leiada Krozjhen (unsplash)