"No!"
The word cracked like a gunshot from Dr. Mitchell's office, which was currently more like a dark lair as another migraine raked him over the coals. A short blond woman in a white lab coat backed out so quickly it might as well have been a real bullet she was dodging.
"Guess I'll come back later," she muttered, frowning at a red folder she carried. She looked up and saw me watching.
Reflexively, I flinched away, my eyes cast down. I felt a pinch of frustration, but I let my anxiety do its thing. I had to choose my battles.
But I stopped myself. On her face, something more than irritation caught my eye. Worry, maybe? Although I had only been at the hospital for three months, I was starting to differentiate important signs: Is that nurse rushing to deal with an emergency, or just busy? Is that lab tech lost in thought, or just lost in the labyrinth of hallways and passages?
Is Dr. Mitchell an ass, or just in excruciating pain?
That was a trick question. Dr. Mitchell is always an ass. Unfortunately, he's pretty often in excruciating pain, which he's willing to share.
I felt a rush of compassion for Lab Coat Blondie and thought I could diagnose what was wrong. Signs: the lab coat. The new face. The fact that she saw Dr. Mitchell's office was dark, blinds drawn, yet still tried to enter. The fact that she came to Dr. Mitchell's office in the first place.
She was new, and she was confused about some test or other for one of Dr. Mitchell's patients, I guessed. And when Dr. Mitchell didn't answer his phone or respond to an email, she had done the responsible thing and come straight to the source. If she had been around long enough, she would have known to go to someone else, and if she had been a nurse instead of a lab tech, she would have braved that booming "No" to get whatever she needed before retreating from the Cave of Pain.
"Try Dr. Byler," I said as the new tech walked by me. "She's one of his interns and should know about whatever that is"--I nodded to the folder--"or be able to get you to someone else who can help. Just down the hall."
She flashed me a grateful smile before following my pointing finger.
"Hey! Can you
shut up
out there? Why are there people out there, and why are they
talking
?"
I'm not saying I'm a mouse, but I did scurry away from the irascible creature breathing fire from his dark cavern.
The truth is, I should have known better. In the three months I'd been here, I'd begun to notice that his migraines had a pattern. I knew it was around two in the afternoon that Dr. Mitchell tended to shut himself away in his office--not daily, but usually toward the middle of the week.
On a bad day, this end of the hall was a ghost town. The doctors who didn't work closely with Dr. Mitchell didn't have much reason to come around, and the doctors who did work closely with him knew no reason was good enough to disturb him on a bad pain day. And forget the nurses--they were far too savvy to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I was surprised to have seen even this one lonely lab tech.
Though our paths crossed and I worked with some of Dr. Mitchell's patients, I had no need to work closely with the man himself. And I heard the daily whispers about whether he was feeling fine or feeling like shit on a given day. Yes, I was perfectly equipped to keep out of his way.
So I knew it was weird that I tended to gravitate toward the dead zone around this time every day.
As I scurried to the elevator that would take me to the nursing station two floors below, I brushed aside the question that had been bothering me ever since I'd noticed this new habit in myself.
Why are there people out there?
he had shouted.
Why, indeed?
***
"I'm pissed because I'm in pain."
Dan dispensed himself a cup of decaf from the vending machine, saying nothing. Evidently he didn't want to get into the same discussion we'd been having earlier.
But he was wrong, and I wasn't about to let it go.
"It's almost every day. Nothing is working. I deal with it--"
"So gracefully."
"Whatever. I deal with it. The point is, I deal with this pain. And gosh, yeah, sometimes I suppose I do get pissed," I said, letting sarcasm creep into my voice. "Can't imagine why--my head only feels like it's turning inside out." I took a long pull from the bottle of water that had appeared on my desk sometime after I had last left my office but before I'd come back for my afternoon torture. I would say "appeared mysteriously," but I'm sure it was Dan, or maybe a kiss-ass intern.
He didn't take the bait, so I slurped another drink and waited.
"Glad to see you're staying hydrated," he remarked finally.
Score one for Dr. Mitchell. "Yes. Hydrated and in pain and pissed."
"You know, if you just tried to deal with some of your stress--"
"I don't have stress."
"--maybe a little yoga, a massage now and then, something to relax--"
"Wine is good for that."
"Bah." Dan shook his head and waved me off.
I laughed and took my leave of the lounge. It was about time for some resident or intern or a nurse to find me and ask for something--advice, a consult, the answer to a dumb question, something. Okay, probably not a dumb question--that was just my irritation from the pain talking.
Except the pain was less than I was used to. I polished off the water and tossed the bottle into a blue recycling can, annoyed that Dan was probably right about staying better hydrated.
In my imagination, he was pretty pleased.
I'm not even a doctor,
I imagined him saying smugly,
and I'm taking better care of you than the best doctor in this hospital.
Meaning me, of course.
Scratch that.
I'm taking better care of you than the best doctor in the country.
If I was going to have flights of fancy, I might as well indulge.
A few minutes later, I found myself standing not at my office door but at the door to a patient's room. Why?
I mentally combed through the last few hours. This was right, I knew. I was supposed to be doing something with this patient, or getting something...
Labs, which should have come in already and been flagged for me. But there'd been nothing in my inbox.
Pain lanced behind my right eye. Clenching my jaw, I went on the hunt.
***
Before this gig, I could go days at a time without talking to anyone, and every Thursday I almost convinced myself that I was ready to go back to that blessed existence.
This Thursday was no different. It was the fourth day straight of hours of interacting with patients, family members, nurses, insurance agents, and the occasional doctor, and I was wiped out.
I was also proud of myself--or at least trying to let myself feel pride. Since I'd dropped out of college, I hadn't put myself in social situations that required a lot of human contact. I had done freelance photo editing, I'd gardened for hire, I'd even washed people's pets--nature and animals didn't trigger my anxiety. (The anxiety that was all in my head, according to my mother, so why did I let it hold me back? I never had a good enough answer for her.) This volunteer position was more of a work situation than a social one, so the tasks made it bearable, but it was still far more than I had ever thought I'd be able to do.
Still, I had one and a half hours to go of my shift today, including this final fifteen-minute break. Between my knack for finding out-of-the-way spaces and my pitiful, frazzled appearance, I had been granted access to a safe haven in a break room the size of a broom closet at the back of the clinical laboratory. I was there almost every day, chugging water, snacking on whatever I'd packed that morning, and finishing a crossword the staff had been working on throughout the day while I listened to music.
