The patient in room 320 was admitted on a Friday. Her mother and sister were also admitted, though they were dismissed not long after, their wounds healed. The patient in room 320, however, has not been that lucky. Injured in the car accident that killed her father, she was brought in in a comatose state, and has remained that way since admission. All other wounds obtained have healed.
The patient in question is Aradia Megido, 21, student. Her doctor is Dr. Equius Zahhak, no doubt the finest in the establishment. He has taken exceptionally good care of her, making sure that she receives everything she needs. Her treatment has been precise, and Dr. Zahhak has made her a priority case. He fully believes she won't be in this state for very much longer; the other doctors claim that is why he is so constant in his care for her.
The other doctors are wrong.
Doctor Zahhak and I studied together. This fact alone gives me a better understanding of the man, of the way he acts, and what reasons he may have for acting that way, but I've also spent my entire life watching, observing, learning. Human nature fascinates me. Not in the way it interests Ms. Lalonde, the head therapist here, but in the way it interests poets, authors. Here at the hospital there are so many people, all in differing mentalities; weak, strong, confident, nervous. As a nurse here, I've had ample time to analyse them, in my own ways. Unlike Ms. Lalonde, I don't study their minds, but their hearts.
The heart of Doctor Zahhak is especially interesting. Perhaps it's because I consider him a friend, or perhaps it's because this infatuation he has with the patient in Room 320 seems somewhat uncharacteristic, but noting his actions has been somewhat more enjoyable than I'd originally thought.
The patient is beautiful. Her hair is long, full, dark, her skin pale and creamy. She's so blissful and serene, almost as though she's merely sleeping. Doctor Zahhak treats her with the utmost respect, like she's some delicate flower, a china doll he'd do best not to break. Not only does he administer her medication himself every day, without fault, but he also spends his lunchbreak sat in her room, waiting. Waiting for some sign of life, for his sleeping beauty to wake and thank her ever watchful guardian, the prince who has taken only the best care of her during her slumber.
However, if there's one thing to be learnt from working as a nurse in a hospital, it's that life is not a fairytale. Not everyone gets their happy ending. When Miss Megido does wake, it won't be to her true love, it will be to a total stranger, someone she has never met before. She will thank him for his help, then leave, never to see him again. Perhaps her thoughts will drift to the time she spent in a coma, and her heart will skip a beat considering what would have happened had she not woken up. She will smile, grateful to a doctor she no longer remembers the name of, and carry on with her life.
And, in all honesty, that's the best case scenario. Though she's stable, and all her vitals are good, there is always the chance that she'll slip, that she won't wake up. And then Equius will blame himself. He'll be too strong to give up practice, too strong to admit that he feels her death was his fault, but he will feel that way. Who knows how he'll cope with such a heavy burden? Perhaps, though it's awful to think about, the pressure will finally get to him, and he'll spiral downwards into a state of depression, a state which he, once again, won't admit to.
It's horrid to consider such things happening to those you hold close, but there is a second lesson to be learnt from this profession, and that is that, no matter how strong we claim to be, humans are fragile in both mind and body. We were made to be broken.
But that's not to say we can't be fixed.