Your blackberry vibrates in your pocket for a second time, and the buzz manages to garner unwanted attention from four different sets of eyes surrounding you. Of course, it's Quinn calling you again, and heaven forbid you don't answer. While you know if you don't ring her back promptly she will seek and bitch you out, but you can't worry about that right now. You're wary enough as it is, and the looks you've just generated are making you feel even more so. The cough you consequently fake comes as a strange sense of comfort, and when the awkward moment passes, you quietly slide your chair further against the conference room table. Your stomach flips and flops. As you ascertain the paternalistic demeanor and cold silence stretched across the stuffy room, your pulse thrums firmly, leaving a continuous, nervous flutter in your chest. You count breaths. You pinpoint and find a steady rhythm of in and out. Your foot taps a tempo in tandem with the muffled sounds of heart monitors from across the hall—anything to will your mind away from this...perceived inability of your lungs failing to catch up.
It doesn't really help. Like, not at all.
You're still not sure why you're here. You got a message late last night, requiring your presence for a meeting at 8 this morning. Nothing more was said. The not knowing has made you a bit anxious, maybe even slightly panicked. Did you fuck up a patient dosage when writing a prescription? Did you misdiagnose someone? Did you leave the hospital liable?
Yet, the sentiment doesn't appeared to be a shared one, as everyone else is calm and collected. Dr. Yuik just peers down at his watch impatiently, Dr. Kellman sits with his hands folded neatly in his lap, and Dr. Karofsky has one leg crossed over the other, leaning back comfortably against the plush cushioned chair.
And you? If you chew your bottom lip any more, there will be nothing left of it.
The clock ticks 8:06. Karofsky clicks his tongue. Some other surgeon you're not familiar with takes a sip of steaming hot liquid from a plastic Tervis mug. Time seemingly moves with a deliberate patience.
Then Sue Sylvester— transplant floor manager—finally stands tall, clears her voice and begins addressing everyone from the head of the table. "Thank you all for coming out this morning. I'm sure a few of you have been clued in on why you're here. For the rest of you: we have a VIP patient being admitted this afternoon, and I want to be thorough on how we're going to handle the situation."
Your lungs release. Rich, oxygenated blood finds its way back into your system. A long breath expels before you finally inhale stale air again, and the taste of relief sits on your tongue.
Through relief you also find anger, however, because if you're being honest, the issue at hand is not a good enough reason for you to be awake and out of your bed; especially not after working thirteen hours the day prior.
Sue's standing behind her chair, palms gripping the headrest. Her feet are grounded to the floor as she leans forward. You eye her curiously but uncertainly. You've seen her around; you know what she's about. She's a tough love kind of leader—assertive and directive—but not really effective, and there's a large confliction of ideologies between the two of you. You've never seen anyone improve their job performance by being demeaned and yelled at, and that is pretty much her M.O. She doesn't exemplify skills to her staff—only makes demands without giving them the tools in which to do so. You've also witnessed her cut and dry, her black and white, and you know she will never garner any real type of respect. Despite the fact that she seems to think it works, and the hospital chooses to keep her around, you still disagree with her decision making.
"Rachel Berry is our hospital administrator's daughter, and she is being transferred to the floor this afternoon. She came in to the E.R. last night experiencing violent flu like symptoms. Dr. Schuester seems to think it has something to do with a recent breast implantation."
Your throat catches and you bring up your arm to cover your face, choking back a silent laugh. No one seemed to notice though, and that helps you keep your eyes steady and your mouth straight.
"Now, obviously this isn't a transplant issue, but our nurse to patient ratio is the lowest in the hospital. And because we have private rooms, it's likely that she'll be here until she gets better. Apparently the infection is wide spread, so it may take a while."
You peer over at Dr. Yuik just as he presses his lips together tightly, eyes locked on Sylvester. His gaze is hard, intentional, maybe a bit impatient.
She seems to acknowledge it and folds her arms together. "Now, this is how we're going to do it: First and foremost, Berry is only to be looked after by staff I approve of. I'm rotating my best nurses around her, and I'm giving them direct orders that any type of treatment or medicine administered will require consultation with either Dr. Yuik or Dr. Kellman first."
Dr. Yuik shakes his head immediately. "I really don't think you should do that."
"And why is that?" Sue questions, her tone touching a bit more cocky than you'd like it to.
"Because it's a waste of time and will inevitably do exactly what you're trying to avoid. What if we're in the middle of surgery? We don't have time for trivialities. I highly suggest you reconsider your approach."
Completely unafflicted, Sue straightens her spine and keeps her stance. "Well, it's really not up for discussion. I'm not taking chances here. We've already fucked up once. Her father is not happy. He thinks our plastic surgery department made a colossal mistake, and we have no way to prove they didn't—"
Interjecting, "Many patients reject silicone. It's a commonality," Dr. Yuik explains.
"I'll let you go ahead and explain that to her father, and see what he tells you." Sue retorts.
A shrug ensues. "I really don't care what he has to say."
Losing her patience, she rubs her temples. "Look, I get what you're saying; I do. But you're just gonna have to go with it. She's an important client. We need to get it right. No fuck ups."
Yuik shakes his head. "I'm trying to tell you that you're setting yourself up for mistakes. You're wasting what little time we have. I've never understood this whole thing with VIP, anyway; a patient is a patient, period."
She smirks at him with daring eyes. "I'm not devaluing the importance of anyone, but I'm sure you understand what I'm trying to say here," she offers.
"Well, apparently I don't, because to me, you're implying that the lives and of some people are more important than others based on socioeconomics."
You watch as she contemplates, and it seems like she takes the time to choose her next words carefully, "Look, in the grand scheme of things, there are some people that we have to treat more importantly," she admits.
A voice filled with purpose and challenge retorts, "I'm here for one reason, and that is to practice medicine. I'm not here to play babysitter for a hospital administrator's privileged daughter, and I'm certainly not redesigning protocol for one person."
Sylvester blatantly sighs with meaning. "Again, there isn't a choice in the matter here, Doctor." Something about the way she emphasizes choice signifies power and the abuse of it.
And apparently it's not lost on Dr. Yuik's part either. He scoffs, "With all due respect, I don't care if there is or isn't a choice. This is insulting, and honestly, ridiculous. We are trained professionals, taught to give everyone the same care. I'm not going to be a part of some charade intended to meet your self - aggrandizing personal preferences. This is a waste of my time and everyone else's. As a matter of fact, I should be in surgery right now."
Her lips purse together. "Well, you're not; you're here."
You witness the unfolding in silent awe as he pushes his chair out, stands and begins swinging a jacket over his shoulder. A harsh rustle from the fabric echoes amid the quiet room. "Yeah," he begins. "I may be here right now, but I promise you in the future, I won't be."
"Should I get in touch with administration? Is this your resignation?" she asks carefully, as though she's tiptoeing around her words, but not really.
Another scoff, but this time it sounds more disgusted. "I'll let them know by the end of the day."
You only hear shallow footsteps and the heavy beat of your heart. A click of the door sounds behind you as it opens, then closes. Dr. Kellman blows uncomfortable air from his cheeks, Karofsky sits there, wide eyed and pale. You let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding and slump back in your chair.
"Anyone else have anything they'd like to say on the matter?" Sylvester asks.
Silence.
"Dr. Kellman, I trust you can handle this situation?"
He nods his head immediately. "I'd be happy to. I used to take care of VIP patients all the time at U of M. I'd rather, honestly. I know it'll get done right."
You fight the urge to roll your eyes at the grandiose efforts, yet it doesn't surprise you in the least. Of course he partakes in bullshit hospital politics. Why wouldn't he?
Sue continues, "Well, in that case, I suggest you pick the better of the two residents, and that person will be in charge when you're not around. We can't fuck up again, understand?"
Dr. Kellman nods his head and looks between you and Karofsky, and you imagine the wheels in his head spinning, his cognition playing a game of eeny meeny miney moe. You're confident though; you know what you're capable of. You've displayed it time and time again, running circles around Karofsky while half doing his job on top of yours.
His gaze continues to flicker just before it settles on Karofsky.
With a voice clear and clipped, "Dr. Karofsky has a background in infectious disease, and I think he's up for the job," Kellman says.
Your feel your heart sink, your stomach descend and your pride dissipate. Of all the things you were expecting, this was not one of them. Fucking Karofsky? Really? Why would anyone think he has more potential than you? You can't even think of one single instance where he showed himself as even remotely able.
You bite your lip in a furious frustration, your gaze zeroed in on the blue carpeting at your feet. It's like fifth grade all over again, when the boys wouldn't pick you for kickball; and while you know the crux of the matter may be petty antics, the pang in your chest is still real.
And there's something about the stupid ass grin on Karofsky's face that makes it even more real. You want to slap the conceit from his mouth.
If you weren't so worried about practicing medicine ever again, you just might have.
"Congratulations, Karofsky," Sue calls out with a smirk. "Don't fuck up."
"Oh my God, this is fucking brilliant," Kurt exclaims, arms crossed across his chest, his upper back slumped heavily into the wall. The two of you are watching the shit-show in room 14 unfold before your eyes, all the while perfect smiles staying intact. The best part is: you don't even feel guilty about it.
With a feigned crackling voice, you hear Rachel whine, "My throat is dry. Can someone get me some water? I've only been asking for nearly an hour."
It's followed by an unsure voice calling out, "Uhhh, sure thing, Miss Berry." And then you witness Karofsky enter the hall, mumbling a bit frantically to himself, still waiting for his nurse aide to come back with the cold compress Rachel requested fifteen minutes ago. Ten minutes before that, she demanded extra blankets, socks, ice chips and a different brand of toothpaste.
With a grin, Kurt says, "Welcome to the land of VIP patients—also known as: very impatient pricks. Aren't you glad this isn't your life right now?"
Ignoring the question, you ask worriedly, "Should I help him?"
"Um, no. Let Shrek handle his own shit," he remarks bitterly.
Immediately, you purse your lips to hide your laughter. Kurt's wit—like always—has been a welcome distraction, and already, you're feeling infinitely lighter than you were a few hours prior. Yes, part of you is still really fucking mad that Karofsky was deemed better; but now, you think it was probably the best outcome possible. With the floor having several admissions today, and one that just got transferred from the E.R., it helps serve as a reminder that there are legitimately ill people who need you. You're pretty sure the world would rather have you treat them than Karofsky, who is better suited to babysit the V.I.P hobbit with man-hands over in room 14. She still hasn't stopped bitching.
"He's gonna last a whole two days. Watch," Kurt states enthusiastically. You want to agree, but you won't; you want your lips to slide into a smile, but you can't allow them. It's not professional. Nothing about this conversation is professional.
Instead, you distribute your weight to your front foot and move yourself away from the wall. While you retort, "Yeah, I don't need to watch; I've seen enough," you slowly put yourself in motion. Kurt follows behind as you make your way down the hall, your stethoscope swinging around your neck, the chest piece tapping against your clavicle with every step.
With curiosity he inquires, "So, did you read her file?"
"Huh?"
"Berry's file. Did you read it?"
You furrow your brow, and without even thinking about it, your head shakes.
"It's not my patient. Why would I read her file?"
With a hint of cruelty in his voice, "Well, I read it," Kurt boasts. "The E.R. notes are fantastic; says she went into a jacuzzi tub just two days after getting implants and got an infection. Genius, I tell you."
Despite your best efforts not to laugh at his wickedness, you do. He has this effect on you, and while you kind of adore it, for the same reason you kind of hate it, too.
All you respond with is an eye roll, and "lovely."
He follows you to just outside of room 8 where your new admission has been stationed, and you pull the chart off the wall, scanning it for general information. The patient is a 28 year-old male who just received a liver transplant about 2 months ago. He came into the E.R. early this afternoon for flu-like symptoms and general discomfort. After a few tests, they immediately transferred him to your floor.
You knock on the door before entering, and with a soft voice, you call out, "Mr. Anderson?" He looks up. Tired eyes flit their gaze over and about you, making notions, evaluating your kinesics. You smile gently, stand tall, but never proud. You're not that kind of doctor; you never want to be that kind of doctor.
He must approve of you, because right away, a smile is sent in your direction. "Blaine will work just fine," he chuckles.
You laugh a bit for yourself, knowing just how he feels. "Got it. Blaine. Check."
The smile creeps wider and grows contagious, and now you find yourself immediately returning it. "Well, I'm Dr. Lopez and this is Kurt, one of our nurses. Is it okay if you tell us a little bit about what's going on with you?"
He proceeds to explain his recent decline in health—how he's had diarrhea, nausea and abdominal discomfort for days now. He's also developed a persistent rash under his arm that has not gone away for over two weeks.
You give him your attention and listen with patience, and when you think you have enough information, you fill your notepad with scribble only you could comprehend. Next comes a quick click of a pen and a slide back into your favorite spot—the breast pocket of your lab coat—before making your way over to the sink to wash your hands.
When you return to his bedside, carefully, you ask, "Is it okay if I examine you?"
You always wait for the nod, and once you have permission, you take the time to look him over properly. In this case, you especially examine his skin, making sure the rash hasn't spread to other areas. And when you lift his gown and check his abdomen for irritant, his gaze locks on you nervously while a wild blush spreads to his cheeks.
A familiar voice cuts through the silence. "Geez, Lopez. Way to tell the guy you're about to start looking at his junk," Kurt grins.
While your brow furrows with a loving irritability, your ears feel hot to the touch with embarrassment. "I'm just looking for a rash. Hush," you bite back.
Kurt beams wildly at you. "Didn't look like that to me," he teases. You still your movements and shake your head, making sure to shoot him the dirtiest of looks. Blaine is about all of the different shades of pink you've ever seen, and now this whole scenario is just awkward thanks to your head nurse.
"Don't you have meds that need to be passed out?" you ask.
Kurt rolls his eyes at you, but it gets the job done; he leaves you in peace.
After he exits, a silence stills the room. It's not heavy, but it's not light, either.
You're jotting down more notes when you momentarily look over, and you catch it—the careful watching as your pen moves across paper, a gaze fixed on you in the most cautious of ways. His eyes speak of fear, yet the need to trust; like the potential of his life is in your hands, and he wants to make sure you recognize it.
It's a look that's relatively new to you, but you you're not afraid of it. While the last year has been nothing but a learning experience, every time your rotations change, the assignments get a little bit harder, the outcomes a little bit weightier. It's challenging in the best way possible.
This is your dream. You want to help people survive.
It makes you wish you could tell him all the reasons you wanted to become a doctor—that when you were little, you had to watch your Abuelo die at the hands of incompetent medical clinicians. This has always been personal—more than just an occupation; it's your self-worth, your reason for existence. The lengths in which you will go, the efforts you're willing to put forth are beyond insurmountable.
In your wish you have the ability to speak freely, assure him in every possible way, but you can't.
"So, any idea what's going on? They really didn't tell me anything in the E.R.," Blaine questions as he worries his lips with his teeth.
With a patient confidence, you explain, "Well, we have to run more tests, so it could be a number of things."
He begins nervously intertwining his fingers, thumbs hooking together, "Well, what are you thinking it could be?"
You choose your next words wisely. "Like I said, it could be a number of things. I really can't tell you much until we see your blood work."
He groans in frustration. "Well, what's typical in this scenario?"
You sigh. You really don't want to have this conversation; not right now. Putting ideas in his head isn't going to get him to a better place. "Well, whenever we give any sort of transplant, the immune system has to be weakened so your body doesn't reject the new source. For you, this is a possibility. Your system could still just be too weak to fight off infections properly."
"Why do I feel like you're telling me half of what I want to know?"
"Because we're not to that point yet," you explain.
"I'm a grown up. Just tell me," he pleads.
You get the feeling that he isn't going to stop asking, so acquiescing, you just say it. "Your body could also be rejecting the new organ."
He goes pale.
Immediately, you regret this decision, because the scared and small look on his face clearly tells you how overwhelmed he is. You should've stood your ground. You know better. "Again, this is all hypothetical, and I won't know anything without running tests."
The air hangs heavy, and with an attempt of optimism, "Look, just trust us," you say. "You can't worry about what-ifs right now. Hopefully, we'll have a better idea of what's going on in the next couple of days, okay?"
He nods slowly. You sense the doubt, the weighted reality of all that exists in this room. For you, this has always been one of the hardest parts of being a doctor—understanding. You're not ill. You've never been ill. You're certainly not going to pretend to know how it feels.
The only thing you can is show him that you're capable and willing to fight.
With eyes never wavering, you tell him, "We're gonna take good care of you, no matter what."
And you mean it.
And you think he means it when he responds, "I trust you."
After fifteen hours, you're exhausted. Your heels throb. Your stomach grumbles. It's quite possible that if your Blackberry goes off again at any point in the next twenty minutes, you'll hurl it from the seventh story floor window; that's how many fucks you currently give.
Yet, when you find her steadfast gaze following you all the way to your locker, your morning feels infinitely lighter; better; with purpose. And when she turns her back to pour herself a cup of coffee, you watch her from behind, looking entirely put together in those crisp black pants and white button up shirt. It prompts you to peer down at your blood stained scrubs, disheveled hair and stretched out sneakers. In fact, you blush, more than a little bit embarrassed. You look like you just got off the struggle bus, and you can feel every disgusting germ the hospital has to offer emanating from your pores and crevices.
If she notices though, she doesn't voice it. Instead, she softly hums what you recognize from late middle school as "Lucky" by Britney Spears, and it echoes through the employee lounge. With fascination, you bite back a chuckle and watch her, hips swaying with ease. And one by one, she empties nearly fifteen sugar packets into her coffee. Three creamers follow with the soft stir of a spoon, and you think even amid the sleepy haze you're in, she might actually be the loveliest anomaly you've ever seen.
You call out, Hey you. You sit down on the bench across from her and begin to unlace your sneakers, pretending to concentrate on the task at hand; otherwise, you'd be staring at the way loose strands of blonde hair fall across her face in this imperfectly perfect manner. Especially right now, while the sun is rising through the window, casting pigments of hot red and yellow against her skin as she moves into it. The illumination all but demands that you to admire her, and it leads you to just sit there, smiling a tired half smile, feeling that pang because you know what the immediate future holds: your day's coming to an end while hers is just beginning. And for once, you kind of wish it wasn't ending; now that she's here, you really want it to begin.
Arms tired and heavy, you shimmy your heel from your Nikes and look up at her again. Both hands are gripped around her paper coffee cup as she carefully lifts it to her lips. While blowing at the top, she flits her eyes to you, her mouth forming a wry smile. It's like the gesture is reaffirming all your previous thoughts.
That's when reality strikes in the strangest of ways, hitting you with your very first ever cliché: you now think it's entirely possible that the sun really does rise and set with someone.
Not just anyone, though.
Only her.
With a smooth voice and a soft grin, "Good morning, Dr. Lopez" slips past her lips.
You smile back without meaning to. Well, you kind of mean to, just not in the dopey manner you're displaying. "And what brings you up to transplant this morning?" You really try to downplay your stupid-ass grin.
"You, of course. You didn't respond to my text last night."
You've been exchanging random text messages about your day as of recently, and it's allowed the small discovery of a few details—like how her sister is a dance major at OSU, or how Brittany rents an upper flat apartment from an Asian family. She was telling you last night that everything they cook smells like soy sauce, and it makes her hungry.
It made you smile. A lot.
And now you really want to learn everything there is about her, no matter how infinitesimal.
Yet, you can't. You know if you gave even the slightest bit of yourself to her, it would only be a matter of time before you gave her everything.
So instead, you make excuses, "I had two admissions last night. It kept me pretty busy."
With squinted, playfully accusing eyes, and a voice tracing the line of sexy-sultry, she smiles at you. "Dr. Lopez, are you trying to avoid me?"
"Not at all," you lie.
That look lingers on you. Your world spins under her stare. You count seconds.
She's approaching you slowly now, your gaze level with her thighs, and you recall a time when the inside of those thighs were tightly clenched around your hand. You feel the rush, the quick blooded swoon all at once, and the feeling can do nothing but descend and settle between your legs.
She stops before you. She leans down slowly, sending you further into vertigo just before warning in your ear, "You better not be."
You really want to ask her or else what, but that could be constituted as flirting. You also don't trust your voice not to give away too much, or tell how little of a resolve you have left when it comes to her.
When you look up, she's still in front of you, peering down at your feet. Her focus is now settled on the newly achieved hole in your sock. It's torn right through your big toe, and you chuckle as she laughs weakly at you.
"Long day, huh?"
"The longest," you admit.
She eyes you inquisitively, her tone laced with a bit of accusation. "Have you eaten?"
"I will. Eventually," you tell her.
She groans, "San..."
"I didn't have a lot of time." It's strange how your voice just traveled an octave higher, and why suddenly you feel the need to defend yourself right now.
She crosses her arms, giving you a look that makes you feel horrible for not taking better care of yourself, and, "You need to eat, San."
"I will," you repeat.
"You will?"
"Of course."
"Then how about I make you a deal you can't refuse?" slides past her lips.
Immediately your interest is piqued. "Oh?"
"You go home and sleep, and when you wake up, send me your address. I'll bring you dinner. You get food, I know for sure you've eaten, and everyone wins."
Everyone wins echoes in your mind.
Her words make you contemplative, yet nervous; valued, yet unworthy of the sentiment. You want to say no, name all the reasons why it isn't a good idea, but every time she gives you that look, you're finding it more than difficult to say no to her. Instead, your lips move from still, your grin widens, your tone hits the slightest bit of curiously happy, and you can't help but respond, "So far, so good. What's the catch?"
Her eyes brighten, her smile extends, and—
That smile is...
You could easily make an infinite list of all the things her smile is.
Sorcery.
Manipulation.
Sexy.
Deserving.
Flawless.
Everything.
And while you're memorizing the corners of her lips, the fullness of her mouth, she eyes you intently.
She keeps you. She knows she has you.
As if you ever stood a chance.
"You have to share it with me."
Without thought, "And what if I don't like sharing?" It comes out entirely more flirtatious and sexual than you ever intended it to be. You're actually quite certain you've broken another rule.
"I didn't take you for the possessive type," she winks.
You blush. Hard.
You're not going to deny it, though.
In truth, it's a side of yourself that you haven't fully come to understand. While you know that there are certain things about your emotions that differentiate from others—the fierceness in which you feel things, how black and white your world can be with the high highs and the low lows—you still haven't come to terms with this newfound feeling quickly establishing itself somewhere in the pit of your stomach.
Because you've never wanted to possess or be possessed by anyone. Not ever.
But lately, your imaginings are becoming so vivid you can practically taste the atmosphere. You've fashioned flawless visions of a world where she takes your hand, she leads you to the place where your heart is the most overwhelmed, and you trust. You sense the honesty in everything. She is yours, you are hers, and possession is prevalent.
Yet, you know it's not the kind of possessive power that's over and against; it's the kind that concludes mutual understanding. Neither of you seek control; you seek equal parts. Perfect equilibrium is all that is achieved. It's quite simply an equation where she belongs to you, you belong to her.
And in this world, you think it might be okay to be named as hers.
You definitely don't want her to be anyone else's.
She could so easily be someone else's. Without question.
You think about that concept as she eyes you patiently. Your throat clears, you swallow thickly, and, "I uh...I work again tonight, but I have the next day off. Maybe then?"
Her focus brightens. She smiles the happiest of smiles, and your stomach flutters at the thought of you putting it there. "It's a date," she says.
You almost correct her. You almost say it's not a date.
Almost.
But the imaginings won't let you.
Rather, you stand. You make your way to the door, and just as you go to leave, she reaches. She grabs your hand, and you feel a slight weight and a quick slip. Something tickles your skin, like the ragged edge of plastic, and you smile. By the size and shape of the object, you think you know what's next to come. And when you look down, you see that recognizable label, and all your thoughts are confirmed.
Snickers satisfies.
"To tide you over," she grins.
And you feel it again—the pendulum, the swing, the slow descend into everything.
All you can do is stare at her in awe.
You're still not quite sure she's real. Yet, somehow, you think she's the most tangible thing in this room.
And when she stares back at you, her gaze never wavering, you think even more; like perhaps your previous notions may have been wrong.
Maybe you really do have favorite things.
You've never been a vivid dreamer when you sleep (probably because you're so damn tired all the time), but when your head hits the pillow and you allow yourself to drift into a land of darkness, you find your dreams filled with visions.
Images play of a two story brick house; one with large windows and a wraparound porch. On the porch sits a swing. And in this dream, every day, you lay across said swing and fall asleep with the morning sun beating across your face, the smell of wet grass filling your periphery.
But your head doesn't rest against the surface of the swing; it's leaned against warmth and comfort. Your cheek nuzzles against the smooth outer skin of a thigh. And even though you never look up to see her face, you know it's a woman. You can tell because of the lingering scent of floral shaving cream from her legs, or the way thin fingers softly weave through your hair. When she softly presses into your shoulder blades and her fingers find your knots, it seems like a familiar touch; like she knows your ins and outs, and has spent years mastering your aches.
It's another realm of perfect existence. You just might want to stay forever.
Yet the harsh buzz of your alarm clock tells you other things are more prevalent, and you groggily swat at the noisy contraption. Next, you wipe the sleep from your eyes, ignoring the dull pain in your calves, and slowly make your way to the bathroom.
You're glad that you were smart enough to rent an apartment close to the hospital, rather than the nicer ones just outside of town. If you had to get up a half hour earlier, you'd be the biggest cunt in all of Cleveland.
It takes you a grand total of 17 minutes to shower and get dressed, leaving you the normal 13 minutes to drive. You admire the falling leaves as you walk to your car, but of course, the sun is already lost in the clouds. You can't remember the last time you legitimately felt its warmth.
It makes you feel like you're a fucking vampire.
You don't listen to the radio on your way to work. You stopped doing that a long time ago. Stretches of silence have become important to you; they've given you a certain sense of clarity, sanity if you will.
Because the minute your feet hit the pale cream tiles of the transplant floor, all sanity is lost.
Today is no different. You walk in to a slightly panicked Kurt, watching as he whips by you. Two others quickly follow suit, headed towards room 8. Your feet aren't far behind.
When you step past the threshold, you see Blaine leaned over the side of the bed with Kurt's assistance, vomiting up blood. His face has gone paler since you last saw him early this morning. His skin now has a yellow tint to it.
You sigh.
Fuck.
Immediately, you go to the hallway, pulling up his lab results, crossing your fingers that they're there. They are, and you begin quickly skimming them over, looking at things like creatinine and bilirubin levels, red and white blood cell counts, platelets.
Everything you're seeing is abnormal.
You feel a hand wrap around your arm, and you gasp. You quickly spin around and see Dr. Kellman behind you, "What's going on?" He asks. "I've gotten two pages in the last fifteen minutes."
You eye him tentatively. "Room 8. It's not looking good. Bilirubin levels are sky high, his skin is showing increasing signs of jaundice. Pancytopenia definitely. There's also a steady increase in creatinine serum levels. The blood tests all came back with high levels of ALT, ALP and AST. I'm positive his liver and his kidneys are failing."
He looks at you inquisitively. "Let me see this," he demands and pushes you aside. You watch as he studies the monitor, scrolls up and down, stopping every so often and intently viewing the results.
After two minutes of just standing there, "He's displaying all the symptoms of graft vs. host," you finally conclude.
His eyes widen. "Wow. That's a heavy diagnosis you've got there."
You nod, but never waver. You're sure of yourself, even though he's looking at you in a way that makes you feel like you need to explain yourself. "There are just so many correlations—"
Kellman puts his hand up to stop you. "We'll see. In my thirteen years, I've only seen one case of graft vs. host ensuing after a liver transplant," he says. "I'd rather not jump the gun on a diagnosis."
Calmly, you respond. "I'm not saying we jump the gun. I'm saying he's showing all of the signs, and we should run tests," you explain.
He just stares at you like he's unconvinced, and then looks back at the computer screen. "I'm going to look these over with Dr. Yuik, and discuss it with him," he says dismissively.
Brazenly, you question this decision. "I don't understand. Why aren't you discussing it with me? I've been the one treating him for the last two days. I've been seeing all the symptoms. What's the problem?"
He sighs as though his patience is wearing thin, and he runs a hand through his hair. "My problem is that you're drawing conclusions. You're assuming he has a disease that only 1 - 2% of patients get, Dr. Lopez. I'm not sure if it's justified in this case."
"But I'm not assuming. I'm telling you we should run tests to rule it out—"
"Lopez," he interrupts. "My decision has been made. Let me talk to Dr. Yuik."
Bullshit. That's all you hear. You can process nothing more.
Because you can't look at him anymore, you turn so your back is facing his direction. Your top teeth bite down on your bottom lip bitterly as you shake your head. Everything about this is utterly ridiculous. You're right and you know you're fucking right.
Part of you thinks he knows you're right as well.
And maybe it burns him that a residency doctor figured it out first.
A female residency doctor.
He's pivoting on his feet like he's about to turn away, but you're not done talking yet. "You know," you call out, and he turns his head back to you. "It's just a few biopsies. Isn't that what we're supposed to do? Rule things out? It's literally two tests."
His face stays the same. He doesn't meet your eyes. Instead, he words, "Sure. Whatever. Run the test," and he walks away.
/
Your food tray sits in front of you, your muffin completely untouched, your coffee kind of gross and cold. Kurt is using his fork to move around the lettuce in his salad, playing with it more than eating it. Neither one of you are in the talking kind of mood.
Finally, Kurt cuts the silence, "How long do you think he has?" His words hang as he just puts it out there, blunt as ever.
"A few weeks at best. A few days at worst," you answer honestly.
He says nothing more. He throws his plastic fork down and pushes his tray away. Then, he slips from his side of the booth and walks away without saying anything more.
You let him be, and a few minutes later, head up to the floor with your feet dragging. When you arrive, you walk through the halls; you check on patients. As you turn down the corridor, you find Blaine sitting up in his bed, eyes squeezed shut, the front of his neck and gown soaked with sweat. The last time you checked his temperature, it was right at 99. That was just over a half hour ago, and it's fairly evident that the fever has grown worse.
They ran a biopsy this evening, but you don't expect the results back until the morning. It seems as though all you can do is hurry up and wait. For now though, you've been trying to at least make him more comfortable. You gave him a morphine drip earlier, and currently, with a cool, damp towel, you begin patting his neck.
"Mr. Anderson," you call out, seeing if he's coherent.
He smiles at your voice, lifts his brows and hazily replies, "Hmmmm?"
You smile sadly, knowing that a comprehensible Mr. Anderson would have required you to call him "Blaine."
Gently, you say, "It's me, Dr. Lopez, from yesterday. Remember?"
He licks his lips as though they're dry, mumbling something incoherently as his body settles into stillness. And when his lids flutter open for a brief second, you see the conjunctival membranes over the sclerae of his eyes. They've turned that yellow color, matching the pigment of his skin.
It really shouldn't surprise you. It's common in jaundice, but for whatever reason, it shakes and startles you in a way you could never transcribe.
Something permeates. There's a feeling there, lodged in the back of your throat, lingering from the deepest of places. It courses so fast, so powerfully, you hardly even have the chance to prepare for it. You just go from sure-footed to heavy-headed in a matter of seconds.
In fact, you can't think of a time where you've ever felt more frail.
You compare and contrast facts.
28 years old.
You're 28 years old.
He's on the precipice of dying.
You're not dying.
The heart monitor beeps slowly but audibly. You're mentally pacing the spaces between those beeps when you feel a clammy hand find yours. You glance at him furtively, your eyes tingling hot from the verge of tears, your legs weak at best. Sweaty fingers thread between yours, and despite the plastic of the pulsox reader digging into your skin, you don't dare let go; rather, you squeeze reassuringly.
When you see a stilled pattern to his breathing, you finally let go. You have to start making your rounds. When you move though, it feels like the ground beneath your feet is faltering. Everything is rotating in fragmented particles and harsh hues—everything except the shadow beside you mimicking your steps; and like a tape recorder on rewind, you keep hearing that grey hologram of yourself recite broken promises that you can't take back.
'Just trust us.'
'We're gonna take good care of you, no matter what.'
You fall into the gradual process of feeling your head getting a little bit heavier, your heart getting a little bit weaker.
But being the professional that you are, you finish your rounds. Your hands may have shook the whole time, your throat may have been caught in your chest, but you did it. And when you're able to steal a few precious moments away in the bathroom, you waste no time opening the door. Once you're inside, you flip the lock, fall to your knees, and find solace slumped against the inside of the door. Hands still trembling, the tips of your fingers raise to wipe tear-glistened eyes, and finally, you let out the silent sob that wouldn't allow you to breathe properly before.
Alone. This is your safe haven. A place where you can let the tears fall, and the world doesn't get to see you break.