Akiko's ears hurt. It feels as if both her auricles are about to be ripped off any moment, but there's nothing she can do about it. Respirators suck.
So she continues writing on the chart. An MVA, this time— pretty straightforward: A, B, C, D, then straight to the OR.
She wishes she can say the same for the rest.
Horrible, she thinks as she sees yet another patient wheeled in from triage, audibly wheezing. Her partner for the day— Mei, was it?— immediately rushes there while wiping down her stethoscope.
Unfair, she adds to that thought.
The hours eventually pass by, and evening turns into night. Mei doffs her coverall set at ten, and bids her good luck. Akiko only gives a wan smile, quiet frustration at everything building in earnest.
It was an unexpected request made of the Agency, really, even if she said her Ability doesn't extend to curing a novel viral respiratory illness, as it were. Then again, though, she's a doctor first and Agency member second, so when the local health department called for all qualified medical personnel to the front lines, she couldn't very well refuse.
"No Abilities," she made a deal with the hospital director before signing the temp contract— one of her former professors from med school, and a good secret keeper. It's not like she'd have any use for it anyway, unless it's a trauma case or something.
It frustrates her, still.
Tonight's her last shift for the week, at least. Then she'll get swabbed, go home, and maybe engage in some online retail therapy after a much-needed beauty sleep. Everyone else will understand.
For now, though, the floor is hers to manage and keep calm. Should be easy enough.
Wrong.
A trauma case arrives the moment the clock strikes twelve— a stabbing, this time. Unresponsive, pale, with a faint pulse—
"Crash cart, now! Plain fluid, per bolus! CBC and a FAST! And call Surgery ASAP!"
Her ears hurt more, and it's hard to shout through a respirator, but the nurse gets it anyway, doing the other small stuff she might have missed.
She hates PPE, she decides, as the thick material keeps getting in her view as she does a preliminary survey of the wound. The blade has been taken out, so the bleeding is even more profuse. Shit.
"Surgery's not coming, Yosano-sensei," the nurse comes back, eyes frantic with fear. "The MVA we brought up earlier arrested on the table, so they're reviving right now."
Shit.
She has only three nurses on the floor, and no EMs on call tonight. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
The BP drops further— 60/40, 55/30—
Is she going to let the patient die now? After all she swore to the heavens and cried over for years since that time?
She doesn't like her Ability at all, how it hurts before it heals. She's only good at hiding it. Only Fukuzawa knows this.
Between a rock and a hard place, as they say. Shit, she thinks again.
"Thirty, palpatory, no appreciable pulse—"
"Shit!" Akiko screams this time, and she has her trusty hatchet in her hands— she doesn't remember getting it, but whatever. "Everybody, clear!" She shouts, as if she is about to defibrillate— three, two, one.
Her strike is precise and true, like an incision through the patient's midline. There is a blinding light, and then—
"E-Eighty forty, pulse fifty-five. Rhythm... sinus."
Everyone is dumbfounded, of course, blood splatter aside.
The patient coughs abruptly, though, slowly opening his eyes, and that tells them all they need to know.
"Regulate fluid to maintenance rate, and defer FAST. Cancel Surgery referral. I got this."
No one dares to ask what happened. Probably an unspoken agreement to keep tonight to themselves, lest they are questioned about it by medico-legal the following week. Good secret keepers, they are.
Akiko changes out of her old PPE, feeling a lot lighter than usual. Her ears still hurt like hell, and she wants to rip her respirator off her face, but not now.
In hindsight, she thinks, at least her outfit doesn't get bloodied at all this way. A good thing, really, because these scrub suits have sentimental value to her, and cannot ever be replaced by good old retail therapy.
For now though, her shift continues. Seven hours to go.