A/N: Not British, not a nurse. But I love CtM and the Patsy-Delia dynamic. Also, Billy Bragg, whose songs inspired me.
September 19, 2017
Patience,
There are nights here where I lie awake, listening to the cracks of gunfire in the distance. The desert doesn't absorb sound exactly. It softens it, so that sometimes I feel like I'm going mad straining my ears for something that isn't there. There's so much to do here, so many people to help. And not just the locals.
My soldiers come first, they must come first. They are who I think about when I wake in the morning, and the last thought in my mind at night. And that is how it should be. But not for us. It's hard to explain, if you're not here seeing it, but everything and everyone I left behind feels so fake now, so selfish. I can't believe the things I used to care about. And I can't let myself be distracted any more from the fighting here by the energy I spend thinking of you, trying to get you to open up to me or let me in. I'm tired of having to fight tooth and nail for every inch that might be real, when everything here is real.
I can't do it any more.
Emily
If she were normal, she supposed that she wouldn't be able to breathe. That was what all the movies and TV shows and books said about this kind of a situation. She should be sobbing, and spluttering, asking the universe why this was happening to her of all people. Instead, she was… steady. Emily was just another in a long line of hurts, and she'd been through worse. To her, it felt more like wiping a chalkboard than ripping off a plaster; once the slate was clean, it was as though nothing before it had existed. No pain, no muss, no fuss. This was a blip in the bleakness that had been her day.
And, if she was being honest with herself, this was no surprise. This had been the first letter that she had received in a month, their phone calls going from steady, to intermittent, to nonexistent, until they felt nothing more than passing ships in the night. It was why she had been so glad to finally receive some post, before she had known what lay inside.
Fuck. She groaned internally, and stood up, stretching to work out the kinks that had built up in her back as she slouched over the letter, reading and re-reading. She needed a drink, a cigarette, and a warm bath. She picked up the phone and called Trixie.
Nine hours earlier…
If one were to ask her colleagues three words to describe Patience Mount, the responses would revolve around themes such as efficient, brusque, or talented. She was sharp under pressure: cool, calm, and collected. But at that moment, she was none of those things. Because Nurse Patsy Mount was daydreaming.
The letter was sitting among her things in the break area. She knew it was because that's where she had left it. She liked having things tidy, each piece set away in its proper box. It made things easier. But this letter, this letter would not stay in its box, no matter how hard she tried. There she was, two hours into her shift, and instead of the practical, all that filled her brain was the thought of the words contained within the envelope, crisp even after its long travel. Sharp, tidy. Just like Emily.
A cry of pain from a nearby room broke through her reverie and she hopped to, alert that there was a mother in need. Strong, confident footsteps carried her into Mrs. O'Connor's room, and she eyed the distraught woman kindly, ready to put forward her skills in aid. All thoughts of the letter were forgotten as she examined the woman, determined to set right what she could.
"Nurse, I want the drugs! All the drugs! SO MANY DRUGS! Gimme 'em NOW!"
At approximately four o'clock in the morning, Mrs. Helen O'Connor had awoken to a terrible pain in her back, her pajama bottoms soaked through. After rousing her husband, they had quickly made their way to the hospital. Mr. O'Connor was now standing to the side of his wife, right hand crushed in a vice-like grip, looking dazedly around the room while his wife screamed.
"Mr. O'Connor, I have to examine your wife now."
Patsy was loath to kick a supportive partner out of the room, but every so often there would be a fainter, and she had no intention of creating more patients today. For his part, Mr. O'Connor looked to his wife for her answer, and the murderous look Patsy saw was enough to inform her that he was staying put.
"Alright, Helen, I need to check how dilated you are. You're going to feel some pressure." She draped her field as to afford the woman some semblance of privacy, wincing as a new shriek of discomfort came her way.
"'Some pressure my arse, nurse!" Patsy made what she hoped was a sympathetic face as she withdrew her hand and stripped off her gloves, straightening.
"Helen, I'm just going to pop round to the central station and get Dr. Jackson in here to administer the medication." She paused, watching as Mrs. O'Connor worked her way through another contraction, wheezing slightly as her husband coached her breathing.
Something tickled at the back of her mind, an inkling of a faded memory from her training placement. She shoved it back down and hurried to send a page to Dr. Jackson, only to turn around and smack into the man in question. He grabbed her to hold her steady.
"Patient requesting an epidural in room 5." She glanced down at his hand on her arm and pulled away with slightly more force than necessary. She did not enjoy looking like a fool.
"Lead the way, Nurse Mount." The doctor's jovial response only served to further grate on her. Jackson was forever a boy trapped in a man's body, equal parts endearing and obnoxious. She turned on her heel and walked as primly as she could to the medical cabinet, taking care to pay the doctor no mind as she punched in the required medication and her access code.
She re-sterilized her hands as she entered and snapped on a pair of fresh gloves, passing the vial and a clean syringe to the doctor robotically, already mentally running down the rest of the procedure.
"Alright, Helen, you're going to feel–"
"If you say 'some pressure,' I swear to Jesus doctor, I will strangle you when I can move again!" Mrs. O'Connor blushed and wheezed again while Patsy chuckled internally. Being on the labor and delivery ward provided the grandest threats.
Dr. Jackson shot a cheeky grin at their patient to show that no offense had been taken, before nodding to Patsy, who gently rolled their patient so that they could begin.
"Fuuuuuck me, that stings!" From experience, Patsy knew that the local anesthetic had been injected, and she reached for the needle, tubing, and medication she had set aside earlier.
"Helen, I need you to focus on me, can you do that?"
"The pretty woman who makes me feel like even more of a beached whale that I already am…" She paused, gasping for breath as another contraction came on, clearly more powerful than the last.
Patsy waited, timing how long it lasted. Above them, the monitors registered a slight spike in activity, the pulsing rising as the pain got worse. Then back down. Sixty-three seconds. She glanced up again, and felt that same tickle. Something bothered her, though she could not have said why.
"Mrs. O'Connor, I need you to try and be as still as possible. Grab Nurse Mount with your other hand if needed. Show that pretty girl what you're made of." Once the suggestion had been made, Patsy had no choice but to proffer herself as a stress tool." It was over quickly, and she managed to extract herself with minimal bruising or scratches.
"You should start feeling the effects in about ten or twenty minutes, and Nurse Mount will be by to check your blood pressure and baby's heart rate every few minutes to make sure everything is as it should be." He flashed a smile, then exited the room, his white coat swishing behind him as he left in a cloud of authority.
"Thank you, Nurse." Mr. O'Connor's voice was quiet and even. She nodded her acknowledgement, preferring to stay unattached. She had other patients to check on.
Six hours and dozens of checks later, Mr. O'Connor suddenly sprinted out of his room.
"Nurse, nurse, she can't breathe!" Patsy sprinted over, to find Mrs. O'Connor gasping for air, monitors jumping to abnormal rhythms. She pressed the emergency call button, popping her stethoscope into her ears to listen, trying to discern between the external and internal sounds.
Dr. Jackson came running in, nearly crashing into the supply cabinet as he rounded the corner at top speed.
"Absent breath sounds on the right upper; normal breath sounds on right lower, left upper and lower; muffled cardiac sounds." She rattled off. There was something familiar about this. "Pulse elevated, oxygen levels going down."
"Check her legs, Nurse Mount."
And then it hit her. Ophelia Ryalt, diagnosed with a pulmonary embolism while twenty weeks pregnant with twins. Patsy had been in her third week of placement on the maternity ward. They had managed to save the mother – barely – and the twins were now four years old and making a nuisance for their pediatrician. She moved briskly into the hall and grabbed a Doppler machine, her face belying nothing of what was happening in the room.
She scanned the right leg first, then the left, revealing nothing out of the ordinary. But it couldn't be that nothing was wrong. She looked her patient over, head to toe. There. A dark purple lump on the left bicep. Gesturing towards it, she kept her voice calm, so as not to elicit panic when she asked her question.
"How long has your wife had this bruise, Mr. O'Connor?"
"I… I'm not sure. Maybe a couple of weeks? But I couldn't say for certain. Helen wasn't even sure where she got it from."
She scanned the area just to be sure, but she already knew what Dr. Jackson was going to say. Sure enough, a partial clot was lodged in the artery, looking as though a piece had gone missing very recently.
"Nurse Mount, alert the cardiothoracic surgeon on call and the O.R. Tell them that we have a priority patient in need of an embolectomy and a Caesarean." She left to do as she had been instructed, Dr. Jackson's brief words of explanation to Mr. O'Connor fading from hearing as she went.
She sagged into a chair in the central station, watching as the doctor and Nurse Crane wheeled Mrs. O'Connor to the elevator. They had caught it in time, they hoped. The baby would be fine, they hoped. Meanwhile, she was left spinning, trying to find her way back to equilibrium. She felt a soft tap on her shoulder, and she looked up to find Nurse Franklin. As usual, the blonde looked glamorous, making Patsy feel decidedly lumpy and unpolished in her present state.
"Oh dear, Patsy, you look quite done in." While other nurses, or doctors even, may have used this as a slight, Patsy knew it was offered as truth and sympathy. "Why don't you go and organize supplies? It's nearly time for change of shift, and I won't have you getting caught up in another emergent case."
Patsy cracked a smile. For all that they were the same age, Trixie Franklin was the mother hen, and everyone knew it.
"If you're sure…"
"Of course I'm sure, now go!" With a 'thank you' and a quick squeeze, Patsy left to reorganize and renew supplies. Rather than find the work menial, it was comforting, allowing her to structure her thoughts, erect her shields while she counted down the minutes until the end of her shift. When it came, she hurried – not fled, Patience Mount had never fled anything a day in her life – to collect her things from the break room and leave.
The letter fell out and hit the ground as she grabbed her bag. She had forgotten all about it. Better to take it home where she could read in peace, away from the prying eyes and gossips that pervaded the hospital. She slipped her jacket on and walked out of the hospital doors into the cool London night.
A/N: Drop me a line if you liked it or you didn't here or on tumblr at twomeerkatsinatrenchcoat. Much internet research went into this, but if you think I can do better, or want to beta, let me know! Crossposted on AO3.