A/N: thank you so much to those who reviewed and followed The Ledge. This is for you :) regardless of whether I am total crap or am just a bit worse than average, I love writing and have realised after this much time how much I Have missed it - the idea of creating a multi chapter story based on the observations of others was purely out of your interest and my challenge, so thank you.
Tx
...
Observations: The Ward
You see a lot of things on the emergency ward.
Some call it the ward of hope, others the ward of tears. The wonders - and sadly limits - of modern medicine dictate which side of the fence it falls on for the people who enter. One thing is for sure - the ward doesn't discriminate. All manner of people come and go through those heavy double doors. There are people I have seen who I will never see again, and there are those who I see almost every other night... Who find solace in too much alcohol, too many drugs, or the back of an ambulance in the care of anyone who will give them the time of day.
And there are those whose occupation bring them here more often than they should. Which is why I am tending to one Detective Jane Rizzoli, who I know well. Definitely better than she knows me. In fairness, there wouldn't be a trauma nurse or surgeon who didn't know the Detective. Hero of Boston - shot herself through the stomach to kill the man holding the entire Boston Police Department hostage.
But I know her from earlier than that.
I remember the woman I was assigned to, at the tail end of a double shift I had been asked to work due to to load on the department on a Wednesday night. I had been tired, short with everyone and certainly less than impressed with those who were treating the ward like their own personal hotel room... I had approached her bed with all the bluster and impatience and irritation that had tagged along with the loss of my night off. And then I had seen her.
I will never forget that look.
We had been trained on the roles, purposes and likely injuries of the Boston Emergency Services - of which the police was one. It was our unspoken commitment to care for each other, no matter what. Though we crossed boundaries of profession, our goal was the same. But nothing had prepared me for what I saw in her eyes... Total and utter defeat. And that, perhaps, is what I remembered about Detective Jane Rizzoli, before I remembered the injuries, the delicate care they required, the physical therapy - after all, hands were something a Detective couldn't do without.
They were something Jane Rizzoli certainly couldn't do without.
I had seen Jane Rizzoli no less than four times since that first night. Each time the look in her eyes was the same. I had tried, and failed, to gain access to her hands beyond the absolutely clinical requirement. They had become the things she had tried to protect - or hide - I never really understood which it was. She gained no comfort in the same action that so many others did. I couldn't take her hand. It was out of bounds, and all of the nursing staff knew it.
But then there was the doctor.
As nurses, we don't like being told how to do our jobs, but we appreciate the people who know how to do theirs. And Dr Maura Isles is one of those. And she talks to me now, as I adjust the oxygen and carefully administer the right amount of pain medication to dull the ache in Detective Rizzoli's cracked ribs, about her concerns for the next 12 hours - dry drowning - we have seen it here so many times. In those cases, it is due to people either drinking too much and falling off their transportation or people making a terrible, tragic choice. Rarely do I save a bed for those who step in to try and stop it.
But that, as I have learned, is Jane Rizzoli's MO, isn't it?
From what I understand, Dr Isles was the one who pulled her out of the river, who administered the CPR for more than 10 minutes that only slightly fractured one rib - another testament to her skills. I have seen people attempt CPR for 2 minutes and crack 4 ribs. Not that it matters of course, in the end it saves the life, but Dr Isles had once again proven her expertise over the human body.
And from what I can see, a little more than that.
She's next to her of course, holding her hand in the same protective way that loved ones do, that I see all the time. The difference is in Detective Rizzoli. I have never seen her hold another person's hand. I have seen flinching, pulling away certainly. But never another person able to touch those hands. Or the scars that lie across them.
But she can.
I ask her my questions, take her major vitals, adjust her oxygen and double check the mask over her mouth, and I wonder whether or not a part of her remembers me as well as I remember her. Until I notice her eyes for the first time. Not defeated. Not even close. These eyes are resolute.. Strong, and fixed on Dr Isles.
And I realise it doesn't matter. It is not the same woman.
I can't help the smile that reaches my lips as I turn away. My rotation is over. I will be there tomorrow.
There is a flurry of activity as I arrive for my shift. She had had trouble breathing during the night. She had panicked, ripped out her IV and as a result, we had all panicked. Nobody wants to lose a patient, especially someone from the police department. Especially, as it turned out, Jane Rizzoli. Because Dr Maura Isles was still there, still awake, and lucid and more than capable of directing us all although she refrained from doing so. But her eyes were clear. We needed to get it right.
I would like to think she smiled at me because it was me, not because I was just another nurse on the emergency ward. But I will never know. I check the IV, note it is firmly in place and review the oxygen vitals from the night before, and the morning. She looks at me, because Dr Isles is sleeping beside her, her head on the side of the bed, cushioned on a hand, her other across the dark-haired woman's stomach. Without a word I reach for the pillow that had been discarded from the hospital chair Dr Isles was sitting on, and place it closer to her head. Close enough to Jane's hand to take control of it, if she wanted to.
Behind the mask, she smiles. And her eyes aren't defeat - they are strength and determination and acceptance and love. Unconsciously, I look down at Dr Isles and then back to her, and she nods once in answer.
So 24 hours later I find myself saying to Jane, with a cracked rib and dubious breathing but in the capable hands of her insistent Dr Isles, hat I look forward to never seeing her again. The smile that spreads across her face is almost as bright as the one currently on Dr Isles'...
And only slightly less than mine as I turn away from Rizzoli's hands being held in hers, and return to the ward for the rest of my day.