I used to write an ER series on here that consisted of the stories Keep Breathing, The Difference and Use Somebody. I'm in the process of editing and revising these stories, and filling in some gaps. You can find my edits here under the title First. Old fans of these stories should be happy - new stuff is coming.
Reviews are always appreciated. If you used to read this story, and there's anything you'd like to see, drop me a line.
PART ONE: CHAPTER ONE
say goodnight gracie, good night gracie, and the unquestioning O of the barrel's end feeds me oxygen, spits in unnecessary breath . . . i'm where oh i'm there with tears in my hair, proud owner of a gun that memorizes lines of poetry and gets the last laugh by giving life instead of taking life away. "you ain't gon' do nothing stupid, is you, sister?" yes. i am staying here, upright, unbroken, deserving of this air.
— 'and then she,' patricia smith
DO YOU SEE WHAT I SEE?
Christmas Eve 1997
She was certain of many things.
For instance, she knew that every morning at five a.m., her body would rise with the dawn. And rain, sleet, snow, or shine — she would run; as fast and as long as she could, until her lungs shuddered with every breath she took. Until she could no longer feel her legs, but that did not matter, because she was so at peace with herself, and nothing could ruin that feeling. For a woman who was never by herself, this hour of running was her only chance to be alone with her thoughts.
She knew that the same person would be there waiting when she got home, every morning, without fail. He would greet her in Afrikaans and point out the copy of the Sun-Times that he had dragged in from the front porch. She would make tea, and they would sit and chat in their native tongue until the time came for her to leave. She was certain of these things, for they had been her life for the past four years. They were all she had come to know. Rise, run, sip, chat, work; repeat. Monotony was a constant she clung to, even in the darkest of hours.
Cook County General Hospital was stuffed to the gills with patients waiting to be seen, a regular freak show free for the viewing public. Harried staff wove in and out of the crowd, and the snow fell thick outside, requiring her to dust the spare flakes off her coat-clad shoulders as she made her way out of the ambulance bay. It was not unlike any other day. And if you were to ask her for honesty, it would be no contest — County's ER was one place where Gracie Abrahams was certain of nothing.
"Hey, Africa!"
She was greeted with exuberance by Doug Ross, who was stationed behind one of the computers at the admit desk. By habit, her nose wrinkled up at the nickname, which she had been stuck with ever since being hired as a new nursing grad at County four years ago. Gracie did not really mind it, but seeing as the person who first originated the pet name was someone who she truly disliked, acting as if she hated it came with the territory.
"You working today?" Doug asked as Gracie circled around the desk, pulling off her gloves and throwing them down on the counter next to him.
She pursed her lips with a tight half-smile. "All day," she replied, her tone of voice rather telling of her lack of enthusiasm. Doug chuckled knowingly, but before he could say anything, John Carter came bustling up to admit, greeting Gracie with snark before she could even shrug her coat off.
"Where the hell have you been?" Carter demanded, slapping a chart down in front of her. He looked angry, but then he typically looked angry when working with Gracie.
"Give me a damn break, I just got on," Gracie retorted wearily, adjusting the sleeves of her pink scrubs. She and Dr. Carter had never gotten along well — in fact, their enmity was the stuff of emergency room legend.
"I've been waiting for shift change for fifteen minutes!"
She raised an eyebrow. He was trying her patience. She inhaled a deep breath and rested her hands on the edge of the counter before replying, "Well, goodness, Doctor. Next time you decide to get ahead of yourself, and get all worked up fifteen minutes before the nurses' scheduled start time for the day shift, please, give me a call. I'll be sure to rush right in just for you."
They exchanged a wordless glare for a few moments, until Carter plowed on, pulling out an x-ray film. "I've got a guy, came in with hemoptysis and night sweats, ten pounds weight loss in a week's time, and radiodensities all over his right lung," he said, holding the film up to the light so she could see.
Gracie squinted at the chest film, immediately spotting the very visible radiodensities. "TB," she said expressionlessly.
"That's what I thought, too, he looks just like a TB guy," Carter said, and she knew just the type he was referring to: semi-homeless looking beard, and the generally dirty appearance of one who has had more than their share of hardships in life. "I need you to go with him to CT."
"Can't I set my things down first?"
"No, you cannot," Carter sing-songed, turning his back and walking away, leaving the chart and chest film behind with her. It was a good thing he did not look back, because Gracie was looking daggers in his direction.
Doug watched the exchange take place. Once Carter was gone, he leaned over and murmured sardonically, "Have yourself a merry little Christmas, right?"
Gracie turned her scowl towards him, elbowing Doug in the ribs and stuffing the chest film inside the chart. She scooped the whole pile up and he chuckled the entire time, watching as she cradled the chart against her chest, pulling her stethoscope out of her bag and looping it around her neck. She stuffed a pen and her usual supplies into her pockets, adjusted her hospital ID, and asked Doug, "Can you throw my stuff in the lounge?"
He shrugged with a sort of no problem expression, and added on an afterthought, "Hey, when you're done with Carter, I've got a kid in four — newly diagnosed type one; could use some diabetic counseling."
"I am but your slave for the next twelve hours, Dr. Ross," Gracie sighed dramatically, beginning to walk away. Carol swept by at just the right moment, catching wind of Gracie's words in time to pipe in some of her own.
"Don't tell him that, it inflates his ego."
Heading into Exam Two, Gracie found Chuny prepping her TB guy for transport to CT. They greeted each other warmly, and Chuny handed off the case before going to clock out the end of her shift. Gracie busied herself with cleaning the man's ET tube with a suction cath, and following the transporters as they pushed the gurney out the door, like sea captains maneuvering oil tankers through the Straits of Hormuz. At radiology, she found a moment to step out, take off her N3 respirator, and get a drink of water before finally getting to clock in officially for her shift. But she was called back rather quickly.
"You gotta take a look at this," the tech said. Gracie hurried in to look at the screen, and the tech was muttering aw, shit, under his breath, and Gracie found the next few moments difficult to fathom. Her TB guy had an enormous mass on his frontal lobe. She had heard of tuberculosis massing elsewhere in the body, where it was less potent than respiratory TB, but never before had she heard of brain TB.
That meant she would have to call Carter. Gracie swore loudly.
Carter was called to radiology, and one look was taken at the scans before an OR was booked. Their TB guy was taken up to surgery to get his brain cut open, and Gracie was left to return to the ER, marveling to herself over the oddity.
When she got back, she noticed that the nurses were rather giggly. A little too giggly. But it was an absent observation, since she was too busy flipping through the chart of Dr. Ross's diabetic kid to really pay attention. She should have become suspicious when Conni called to her, "Hey, Africa, hand me that pen, will you?" Should have. Gracie still does not catch on, her eyes focused on her chart, her hand blindly reaching out for the pen in question, her feet on autopilot across the admit area — heading towards where Conni stood on the other side of the counter. She was so inattentive, that she was shocked when she ran straight into Carter.
He yelped, "Hey, watch it!"
She jumped back in surprise. "Sorry," she snapped. "Didn't see you there."
"Pay more attention!"
Lydia was grinning. "Hey, guys…" She pointed, and the two slowly looked upward.
They were standing underneath mistletoe.
Gracie still did not get it. She knew what mistletoe was, knew how popular it was as a Christmas decoration, but she was not keen to the traditions that follow it. The whole idea of 'kissing under the mistletoe' had always been a Hollywood fantasy to her, something that occurred in movies, and needless to say, Gracie was not the type to analyze her life with starry eyes. She made no connection between points A and B.
But Carter groaned. "Oh, come on…"
"Nope!" Connie exclaimed, clearly delighted with this little sting operation the nurses had thrown together — what was apparently their idea of a very funny joke. "You gotta do it! It's tradition!"
"Do what?" Gracie asked, confused. "What's tradition?"
"Nothing," Carter said immediately, wanting to brush off the whole matter. He turned his attention back to the little audience they had garnered, pointing fiercely, as if the act would drive his point home any better. "I'm not doing it."
"You have to! And none of that cheek stuff!"
"Do what?"
Carter looked extremely annoyed, and Gracie, for one, could not blame him. But she was shocked beyond belief when he leaned over, and quickly pressed his lips to hers. It was so brief that it almost seemed like it did not even happen, but it did, and when he pulled away and stormed off without a word, Gracie remained behind, stock still. If she had been cold before, now she was warmed down to her toes.
And now she felt incredibly stupid for falling into this trap. She was simultaneously angered at the nurses, for arranging it, and Carter, for letting it happen. She hated him even more for that. It was quiet until Cynthia asked innocently, "It's Geseënde Kersfees, right, Gracie?" The words snapped her back to the present.
"I hate everyone," Gracie announced immediately, to the amusement of the nurses. She hugged the chart to her chest before she, too, stormed off.
The nurses smirked, while Cynthia looked on in confusion.
What was left to be certain of?
THINK WARM THOUGHTS
January 1998
"I heard a little rumor."
Gracie could not help but roll her eyes at Mark Greene, who was looking a little too amused for words. She was trying to busy herself at the computer by admit, but took a moment to glance over her shoulder and glare at the first nurse she saw, which happened to be Haleh. "It's not true," she said dryly, wanting to focus on her computer task rather than give this conversation much effort. "There are no birthdays for Gracie."
Mark gave her a sly look, like he knew the ulterior motive for her hating of birthdays — not wanting to turn another year older. He was wrong, of course. Gracie had never liked her birthday. "And how old are you not turning today?"
"Definitely not twenty-six."
Haleh, who had been eavesdropping, swung by. "Goodness, twenty-six? And you don't want a birthday?"
"I don't want to discuss my birthday."
"I'd kill to be twenty-six again, and with your body? Good Lord—"
At least she got her to chuckle. "Yes, thank you, Haleh."
"Well, happy un-birthday," Mark acquiesced. She thanked him, but she barely got the words out before Carter and some blonde girl came rushing in through the double doors with a patient in tow. They already had him on a gurney, and Carter was calling some orders down the hall to Chuny as they went. Mark and Gracie gave each other quizzical looks, and made their way to Trauma One.
"Dr. Carter?" Mark's questioning tone spoke volumes.
"Hey, I found this guy!" Carter sounded almost proud, like he had stumbled upon something great. "Unconscious, over by the medical school!"
Gracie was pulling on some latex gloves, watching the scene in trauma unfold with a wary gaze. She was uncertain who the girl was, but was sure she did not really belong. "Okay, let's be very careful on transfer," Carter announced as everyone prepared to move the guy to the next gurney. "Don't wanna give him an arrhythmia. One, two, three…"
The guy looked homeless. Most of the nurses had a name for this type of patient — a bumsicle. Dirty and disheveled, with a distinct smell that Gracie had a difficult time stomaching. "You are?" Mark asked of the blonde girl.
"I'm Laura Brown." Gracie hid a smirk as the girl stuck her hand out to shake Dr. Greene's, but went ignored. "I'm observing Dr. Carter."
"Second year med student, wants to see what it's all about," Carter chimed in as he began his examination of the bumsicle. This was starting to make more sense now, as Carter had been required to give a seminar that day. He had a thing for blondes. This was all a matter of trying to look impressive.
"BP's eighty palp, pulse is fifty-two," Gracie interrupted, a hint of annoyance in her voice as she checked vitals. She went to start a line.
"Okay, let's get a core temp, CBC, and a twelve lead."
Things were moving quickly, and her nose kept latching on to a very subtle scent of alcohol. She wanted to open her mouth about it, but Carter was already barking out orders again. "All right everybody," he said, "let's prep for a pleural lavage, c'mon, every second counts!"
Mark looked unconvinced. "Pleural lavage?"
"Yeah, I'm thinking active core re-warming," Carter responded boyishly. Laura Brown wore an expression of awe, and all Gracie could think about was how disturbingly young she seemed. If this is what they're letting into medical school these days, she pondered, then I'd graduate with flying colors. "It's ten degrees outside, this guy's a popsicle."
"Perhaps you'd like to get a blood alcohol instead, Doctor?" Gracie queried, trying to hint at what was, to her, plainly the correct course of treatment.
"Hey," someone else observed, "this guy shit his pants."
Carter said nothing for a moment, and Gracie wondered whose words he was pondering exactly. But then he replied rather breezily, "No, I think this will do just fine, Nurse Abrahams. Perhaps you'd like to get a rectal temp?"
"Carter…" Mark began warningly.
"No, it's all right, Dr. Greene," Gracie interrupted bitingly, "I live to make extraordinarily unnecessary contributions to the trauma room."
Not that she truly cared. She just hated who was running this.
Gracie prepared to carry out orders, all the while wearing a look of disgust on her face. "Wow, it's a real team effort, isn't it?" Laura Brown remarked, evidently not catching on to the feuding at hand. Carter and Gracie glared at each other over the patient, and Gracie thought of Christmas Eve and how a team effort had played out there. It only served to irritate her more.
Carter echoed, "Yeah, real team effort."
Next thing Gracie knew, he was talking about a bypass, or dialysis, and she knew it was only to piss her off. That is, she believed, what he lived for.
Later, when she was finally off duty, Gracie returned home to a darkened foyer and a television blaring in the living room. She tossed her keys down on the hall table and shrugged off her coat as she made her way into the kitchen, calling out, "Goeienaand, Oupa," as she prepared ginger-lemon tea. She received no response. She poked her head into the living room to find Oupa fast asleep in an armchair, a trail of oxygen tubing scattered all over the place.
She sighed, and straightened the tubing for her grandfather. She spread a throw blanket over him, and turned the volume down on Jeopardy. She whispered, "Ek is lief vir jou," and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
With that, she returned to the kitchen, back to her tea and a scraped-together dinner. She ate in silence at the kitchen table, and after an adjustment to her insulin pump, later slipped into bed without much fanfare.
Some birthday.