Read Online A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red by A.W. Hartoin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: A.W. Hartoin
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came in with head trauma from a golfing accident. You know it’s bad when a guy is more concerned about who’s going to do his IV than who’s going to stitch his face.
It’d been very long night. I was thrilled that it was almost over. We had a half hour left when Brittany and I left the room of a fourteen-year-old boy who was experiencing severe leg swelling. And I do mean severe, as in I was surprised his skin hadn’t split open.
Allison, the phlebotomist, started to go in when Brittany stopped her. “He’s so scared and it’s my fault.”
Allison shot me a glare and then settled a patient look on her experienced face. “Brittany, did you do the IV?”
Brittany teared up. “I tried. I hope I didn’t wreck his veins.”
I patted her quaking back. “You only did one stick. He’s fine.”
“I’m a disaster. Why did I think I could be a nurse?”
Allison rolled her eyes and headed in with her blood draw tray. At least the boy got her. With Allison, he’d barely feel the needle.
I steered Brittany away from the door. The last thing the patient and his distraught parents needed to hear was her snuffling. “He’ll be fine.”
She wiped her eyes, removing the last bit of electric blue eyeliner she had on. “What do you think he has? It looks serious and he’s so young.”
“It’s probably post-infectious glomerulonephritis. He’ll be fine,” I said in the voice I usually saved for patients. Brittany couldn’t take the voice she deserved.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“He had strep two weeks ago and his heart’s solid. Come on,” I said. “I need some coffee.”
And a shot of Dad’s good whiskey. Maybe two.
Brittany brightened up. “You’ve been so great. I wish I could be with you on all my clinicals.”
God wouldn’t do that to me.
Before we made it to the break room, Christine, the charge nurse, cut us off and held up two charts. “Take your pick. We’ve got two infections, ear and toe. Which one do you want?”
There was no way Brittany could handle prying off a toenail. There was a little spatula involved. Messy business. She’d already dry-heaved over a pus-shooting boil that I lanced. Okay. The pus did hit the ceiling, but that was nothing compared with the toe spatula.
“We’ll take the ear,” I said.
Christine grinned and handed Brittany the chart. “Wise choice. You’re out after the ear.”
“Thank god.” I grimaced with guilt. “I mean, it’s been wonderful working with you, Christine.”
“Yeah. It’s been a barrel of laughs around here tonight. Let me know when you leave.” Christine booked it down to the toe and Brittany and I went into Room 3, where there was an elderly woman tugging on her ear lobe.
“I just couldn’t take it anymore,” she said, apologetically.
I had Brittany scrub and glove up. She could handle an ear infection. Lancing ear drums had been out for decades. “It must be pretty bad to get you here so early.”
“I haven’t slept in days.”
“We’ll get this taken care of and you can go back to bed. How’s the pain on a scale of one to ten?”
“Sometimes a ten, but other times, it just bugs me.”
I introduced Brittany and explained my student would be taking a look in her ear to assess the infection before the doctor came in. Brittany got the otoscope ready and her hands were even steady. We were going to rock this infection. Mrs. Silverstein laid back and folded her hands over her stomach and waited peacefully.
Brittany smiled, said something professional, put the scope in Mrs. Silverstein’s ear, and let out an eardrum piercing scream, “Oh my god!”
“Brittany!” I yelled.
She dropped the scope and ran out of the room at her top speed. Mrs. Silverstein had her hands clamped over her poor ears and my own ears were ringing.
Christine ran in with a suture kit, poised to stitch. “Where is it?”
“What?” I asked.
It’d been very long night. I was thrilled that it was almost over. We had a half hour left when Brittany and I left the room of a fourteen-year-old boy who was experiencing severe leg swelling. And I do mean severe, as in I was surprised his skin hadn’t split open.
Allison, the phlebotomist, started to go in when Brittany stopped her. “He’s so scared and it’s my fault.”
Allison shot me a glare and then settled a patient look on her experienced face. “Brittany, did you do the IV?”
Brittany teared up. “I tried. I hope I didn’t wreck his veins.”
I patted her quaking back. “You only did one stick. He’s fine.”
“I’m a disaster. Why did I think I could be a nurse?”
Allison rolled her eyes and headed in with her blood draw tray. At least the boy got her. With Allison, he’d barely feel the needle.
I steered Brittany away from the door. The last thing the patient and his distraught parents needed to hear was her snuffling. “He’ll be fine.”
She wiped her eyes, removing the last bit of electric blue eyeliner she had on. “What do you think he has? It looks serious and he’s so young.”
“It’s probably post-infectious glomerulonephritis. He’ll be fine,” I said in the voice I usually saved for patients. Brittany couldn’t take the voice she deserved.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“He had strep two weeks ago and his heart’s solid. Come on,” I said. “I need some coffee.”
And a shot of Dad’s good whiskey. Maybe two.
Brittany brightened up. “You’ve been so great. I wish I could be with you on all my clinicals.”
God wouldn’t do that to me.
Before we made it to the break room, Christine, the charge nurse, cut us off and held up two charts. “Take your pick. We’ve got two infections, ear and toe. Which one do you want?”
There was no way Brittany could handle prying off a toenail. There was a little spatula involved. Messy business. She’d already dry-heaved over a pus-shooting boil that I lanced. Okay. The pus did hit the ceiling, but that was nothing compared with the toe spatula.
“We’ll take the ear,” I said.
Christine grinned and handed Brittany the chart. “Wise choice. You’re out after the ear.”
“Thank god.” I grimaced with guilt. “I mean, it’s been wonderful working with you, Christine.”
“Yeah. It’s been a barrel of laughs around here tonight. Let me know when you leave.” Christine booked it down to the toe and Brittany and I went into Room 3, where there was an elderly woman tugging on her ear lobe.
“I just couldn’t take it anymore,” she said, apologetically.
I had Brittany scrub and glove up. She could handle an ear infection. Lancing ear drums had been out for decades. “It must be pretty bad to get you here so early.”
“I haven’t slept in days.”
“We’ll get this taken care of and you can go back to bed. How’s the pain on a scale of one to ten?”
“Sometimes a ten, but other times, it just bugs me.”
I introduced Brittany and explained my student would be taking a look in her ear to assess the infection before the doctor came in. Brittany got the otoscope ready and her hands were even steady. We were going to rock this infection. Mrs. Silverstein laid back and folded her hands over her stomach and waited peacefully.
Brittany smiled, said something professional, put the scope in Mrs. Silverstein’s ear, and let out an eardrum piercing scream, “Oh my god!”
“Brittany!” I yelled.
She dropped the scope and ran out of the room at her top speed. Mrs. Silverstein had her hands clamped over her poor ears and my own ears were ringing.
Christine ran in with a suture kit, poised to stitch. “Where is it?”
“What?” I asked.
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