Read Online The Shift: One Nurse, Twelve Hours, Four Patients' Lives by Theresa Brown - Free Book Online
Book: The Shift: One Nurse, Twelve Hours, Four Patients' Lives by Theresa Brown
Read Free Book Online
Authors: Theresa Brown
Ads: Link
can’t let him get away with treating me like a servant, or a nurse from forty years ago. Plus, I feel on firm ground with this MD, who doesn’t take himself too seriously.
“Sure,” I say, “As long as I could bring it back here and pour it over your head.”
We’re being flirty, yes, but there’s aggression here, too, some old-school doctor/nurse nonsense.
“Well, just as long as you bring it to me,” he says, being boyishly charming. “That’s what matters.”
And then he drops his arm from around my shoulders and switches back to work mode. “OK,” he says, “Dorothy Webb,” and points at Lucy, the nurse practitioner, or NP, while we cluster around her in the hallway. Lucy’s short and today has tamed her thick black hair with a bright red headband. She reviews Dorothy’s history and updates the team—the attending physician, a clinical pharmacist, another NP, and a physician assistant, or PA—on Dorothy’s status.
I’ve been discreetly charting my morning assessment on Dorothy on my medcart computer while listening to Lucy, and now I click to the screen with lab results to check if Dorothy’s ANC—her absolute neutrophil count—has been posted by the lab. An ANC reliably above 500 indicates that Dorothy has enough of an immune system to go home and it’s important to learn that number right now. Once again Sheila has to wait.
“. . . ANC wasn’t back yet . . . ,” Lucy is saying, but after seeing that the lab has just posted the ANC. I interrupt.
“It’s here!” I say, “And it’s . . . Whoa, it’s 850!”
“It’s 850?” the attending says, “Well, let’s go tell her!” He swings his arm holding his papers in an arc toward Dorothy’s door, as if he’s sweeping us all into the room. We happily follow en masse. Moments like this are why we’re all here.
“Your ANC is 850!” the attending announces and Dorothy claps her hands in her bed. If she had heartburn this morning it seems to be OK now. Or maybe she’s so excited about returning home that she doesn’t care.
“So that means,” the attending says, “that someone has to do the neutrophil dance.” He looks at me, “Theresa! Do the neutrophil dance.”
Startled, I look around the room. I’ve heard of the neutrophil dance, but I thought it was a joke, hospital legend, not an actual thing that real people actually perform. Is the attending physician trying to make me look foolish?
Everyone’s looking at me, including Dorothy, and I realize there are worse things than embarrassing myself for her sake, a lot worse. Recalling movements from ballet classes of years past I wave my arms around above my head, more or less fluidly, and shimmy my hips, feeling pretty ridiculous, but the whole room cheers, and Dorothy once again claps her hands like a child. This is the Dorothy I’m used to—pleasant and forbearing. I’m glad this news came when it did; once Dorothy is home she can take her Prilosec whenever she wants.
She looks at me and laughs and I smile back.
“So you get to go home,” the attending says. “Today, if you like.” He gets a sly look on his face, “Or you can stay another day if you’d rather.”
“Oh, no,” she answers back, her knit cap shaking emphatically “Today is just fine. I’ll call my husband and start packing.”
A chuckle goes around the room. The attending points at her now, leaning his body forward. “Lucy and Theresa will get you out of here,” he says, slicing his right palm across his left in a quick motion. “Lickety-split.”
“Well, not too fast. My husband has to get here.”
“Don’t worry, Dorothy,” I reassure her, “Nothing happens too fast in the hospital if it involves paperwork.”
“Oh, that’s right. Well, I’ll get started anyway,” she says. “As soon as you all leave.” We laugh again and then troop out and that’s it, an ordinary day shot through with the crystalline illumination of earned success, a gem-like moment. There’s
“Sure,” I say, “As long as I could bring it back here and pour it over your head.”
We’re being flirty, yes, but there’s aggression here, too, some old-school doctor/nurse nonsense.
“Well, just as long as you bring it to me,” he says, being boyishly charming. “That’s what matters.”
And then he drops his arm from around my shoulders and switches back to work mode. “OK,” he says, “Dorothy Webb,” and points at Lucy, the nurse practitioner, or NP, while we cluster around her in the hallway. Lucy’s short and today has tamed her thick black hair with a bright red headband. She reviews Dorothy’s history and updates the team—the attending physician, a clinical pharmacist, another NP, and a physician assistant, or PA—on Dorothy’s status.
I’ve been discreetly charting my morning assessment on Dorothy on my medcart computer while listening to Lucy, and now I click to the screen with lab results to check if Dorothy’s ANC—her absolute neutrophil count—has been posted by the lab. An ANC reliably above 500 indicates that Dorothy has enough of an immune system to go home and it’s important to learn that number right now. Once again Sheila has to wait.
“. . . ANC wasn’t back yet . . . ,” Lucy is saying, but after seeing that the lab has just posted the ANC. I interrupt.
“It’s here!” I say, “And it’s . . . Whoa, it’s 850!”
“It’s 850?” the attending says, “Well, let’s go tell her!” He swings his arm holding his papers in an arc toward Dorothy’s door, as if he’s sweeping us all into the room. We happily follow en masse. Moments like this are why we’re all here.
“Your ANC is 850!” the attending announces and Dorothy claps her hands in her bed. If she had heartburn this morning it seems to be OK now. Or maybe she’s so excited about returning home that she doesn’t care.
“So that means,” the attending says, “that someone has to do the neutrophil dance.” He looks at me, “Theresa! Do the neutrophil dance.”
Startled, I look around the room. I’ve heard of the neutrophil dance, but I thought it was a joke, hospital legend, not an actual thing that real people actually perform. Is the attending physician trying to make me look foolish?
Everyone’s looking at me, including Dorothy, and I realize there are worse things than embarrassing myself for her sake, a lot worse. Recalling movements from ballet classes of years past I wave my arms around above my head, more or less fluidly, and shimmy my hips, feeling pretty ridiculous, but the whole room cheers, and Dorothy once again claps her hands like a child. This is the Dorothy I’m used to—pleasant and forbearing. I’m glad this news came when it did; once Dorothy is home she can take her Prilosec whenever she wants.
She looks at me and laughs and I smile back.
“So you get to go home,” the attending says. “Today, if you like.” He gets a sly look on his face, “Or you can stay another day if you’d rather.”
“Oh, no,” she answers back, her knit cap shaking emphatically “Today is just fine. I’ll call my husband and start packing.”
A chuckle goes around the room. The attending points at her now, leaning his body forward. “Lucy and Theresa will get you out of here,” he says, slicing his right palm across his left in a quick motion. “Lickety-split.”
“Well, not too fast. My husband has to get here.”
“Don’t worry, Dorothy,” I reassure her, “Nothing happens too fast in the hospital if it involves paperwork.”
“Oh, that’s right. Well, I’ll get started anyway,” she says. “As soon as you all leave.” We laugh again and then troop out and that’s it, an ordinary day shot through with the crystalline illumination of earned success, a gem-like moment. There’s
Similar Books
