THINK WARM THOUGHTS
January 1998

"I heard a little rumor."

Gracie can't help but roll her eyes at Mark Greene, who is looking a little too amused for words. She is trying to busy herself at the computer by admit, but takes a moment to glance over her shoulder and glare at the first nurse she sees, which happens to be Haleh. "It's not true," she says dryly, desiring to focus on her computer task rather than give this conversation much acknowledgment. "There are no birthdays for Gracie."

Mark gives her a sly look, like he knows the ulterior motive for her hating of birthdays — not wanting to turn another year older. He is wrong, of course. Gracie has never liked her birthday. "And how old are you not today?"

"Definitely not twenty-six."

Haleh, who has been eavesdropping, swings 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 to have your body? Good Lord —"

At least she gets Gracie to chuckle. "Yes, thank you, Haleh."

"Well, happy un-birthday," Mark acquiesces. She thanks him, but she barely gets the words out before Carter and some blonde girl come rushing in through the double doors with a patient in tow. They've already got him on a gurney, and Carter's calling some orders down the hall to Chuny as they go. Mark and Gracie give each other quizzical looks, and make their way to Trauma One.

"Dr. Carter?" Mark's questioning tone speaks volumes.

"Hey, I found this guy!" Carter seems almost proud, like he's stumbled upon something great. "Unconscious, over by the medical school!"

Gracie's pulling on some latex gloves, watching the scene in trauma unfold with a wary gaze. She's unsure who the girl is, but is certain that she doesn't really belong. "Okay, let's be very careful on transfer," Carter announces as everyone prepares to move the guy to the next gurney. "Don't wanna give him an arrhythmia. One, two, three..."

The guy looks homeless. Most of the nurses have a name for this type of patient — a bumsicle. Dirty and disheveled, with a distinct smell that Gracie has a difficult time stomaching. "You are?" Mark asks of the blonde girl.

"I'm Laura Brown." Gracie hides a smirk as the girl sticks her hand out to shake Dr. Greene's, but is ignored. "I'm observing Dr. Carter."

"Second year med student, wants to see what it's all about," Carter chimes in as he begins his examination of the bumsicle. This is starting to make more sense now, as Carter had been required to give a seminar today. He has a thing for blondes. This is all a matter of trying to look impressive.

"BP's eighty palp, pulse is fifty-two," Gracie interrupts, a hint of annoyance in her voice as she checks vitals. She goes to start a line.

"Okay, let's get a core temp, CBC, and a twelve lead."

Things are moving fast, and her nose keeps latching on to a very subtle scent of alcohol. She wants to open her mouth about it, but Carter's already barking out orders again. "All right everybody," he says, "let's prep for a pleural lavage, c'mon, every second counts!"

Mark looks unconvinced. "Pleural lavage?"

"Yeah, I'm thinking active core re-warming," Carter responds boyishly. Laura Brown's carrying an expression of awe, and all Gracie can think about is how disturbingly young she seems next to other women her age. If this is what they're letting into medical school these days, she ponders, 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 queries, trying to hint at what was, to her, plainly the correct course of treatment.

"Hey," someone else observes, "this guy shit his pants."

Carter says nothing for a minute, and Gracie wonders whose words he is pondering exactly. But then he replies breezily, "No, I think this will do just fine, Nurse Abrahams. Perhaps you'd like to get a rectal temp?"

"Carter..." Mark says warningly.

"No, it's all right, Dr. Greene," Gracie interrupts 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 prepares 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 remarks, evidently not catching on to the feuding at hand. Carter and Gracie glare at each other over the patient, and Gracie's thinking of Christmas Eve and how a team effort had played out there. It only serves to irritate her more.

Carter echoes, "Yeah, real team effort."

Next thing Gracie knows, he's talking about a bypass, or dialysis, and she knows it's only to piss her off. That is, after all, what he lives for.

Later, when she is finally off duty, Gracie returns home to a darkened foyer and a television blaring in the living room. She tosses her keys down on the hall table and shrugs off her coat as she makes her way into the kitchen, calling out "Goeienaand, Oupa," as she prepares some orange blossom tea. She receives no response. She peeks 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 sighs, and straightens the tubing for her grandfather. She spreads a throw blanket over him, and turns the volume down on Jeopardy. She whispers, "Ek is lief vir jou," and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

With that, she returns to the kitchen, back to her tea and a scraped-together dinner. She eats in silence at the kitchen table, and after an adjustment to her insulin pump, will later slip into bed without much fanfare.

Some birthday.

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