Bad Case of Loving You

He left, ten minutes later, taking his poppers with him, and I stayed where I was, too fucked to move except to drag my sleeping bag up to stop from freezing. The housemates were partying downstairs, shouting over the pounding music, getting their last bit of fun in before semester started, too.

It was all work from here on, until after my final exams.

Chapter One

When the lift door eventually opened, it was five centimetres lower than the floor, and I helped the orderly lift the wheelchair out over the step, holding my breath so as not to get a noseful of the patient in the chair. Avoiding stench was probably the most important thing I’d learnt so far.

That, and how to lie about why I was late.

“Lift broke down,” I said apologetically as I slid into the only empty seat around the Formica table in the staff room.

Everyone muttered sympathetically. That was what made the excuse so useful; the lifts broke down all the time and we all got stuck in them. In fact, I was already late before the lift doors jammed, and it was entirely my own fault for sleeping in.

All right, not quite everyone was sympathetic. Dr. Maynard was looking at me dubiously, but I kept my innocent face on and took out my stack of index cards.

“As I was saying, before Mr. Blake decided to honour us with his presence, expect to be asked to give a précis of any of the patients we see on today’s rounds. Take notes, engage your brains. I’m not here to actually teach you anything; you have to do that yourselves. My only role is to stop the nurses from murdering any of you for messing with their ward,” Dr.

Maynard said, a flash of wry humour on his face. I wasn’t sure how long he’d been over here, but he hadn’t lost his American accent as far as I could tell.

All of a sudden, he looked human and kind of attractive, in a worn-out, entirely fuelled by caffeine way that I completely identified with. He stood up and led us med students out onto the ward, and there was a certain amount of jostling as we sorted out the pecking order.

The middle-aged woman with a buzz cut sitting at a PC at the nurses’ station said, “JesusfuckingChrist,” as Dr. Maynard walked up.

“Good morning to you, too, Jane,” Dr. Maynard said sweetly, smiling at her. “You’re the CN today? Ready for rounds?”

“Unfortunately,” she said, presumably not swayed by his charm. “Let’s do this. Just stop the kids from breaking anything.”

“What’s a CN?” the tiny Asian girl beside me asked in a whisper.

“Clinical nurse,” I murmured back. “Shift coordinator.”

Nevins, who I knew from anatomy labs, said, “She Who Must be Obeyed.”

We shuffled along behind Dr. Maynard, pens and index cards at the ready, then all packed into a cubicle around a bed holding a shrivelled-up old woman.

“How’s the pain, Mrs. Mac?” Dr. Maynard asked loudly, bending forward over the old woman.

“Can’t complain, doctor,” she said, and Jane rolled her eyes expressively. The old girl obviously did complain. I reached forward and took the folder out of the rack at the foot of the bed.

“You can’t do that,” Nevins whispered, but I ignored him, opened the folder, and scanned the obs chart and the meds sheet quickly.

I jumped when Dr. Maynard said, “Perhaps Mr. Blake could tell us the pertinent information about Mrs. McDonald’s pain management regime?”

Jesus Christ. There was a trick here. I looked through the oxycodone entries. The old dear was PRNing to the max.

Every three hours…

There it was.

“Um,” I said. “Her analgesics’ frequency drops off during visiting hours. She’s going five hours at least between doses in the afternoon.”

Dr. Maynard nodded approvingly and I knew what a pet dog felt like when he dropped a soggy stick at someone’s feet.

“And?” he said.

And? What else was there? Oh, impact on management, of course.

I flicked through the file to her nursing admission. Mrs.

McDonald lived alone, with her family dropping in every couple of days to check on her.

“The patient might have a better quality of life in a less isolated environment. Living with other people in a hostel, perhaps.”

“I’m not going to no fucking old age home,” Mrs. McDonald said. “You can all just fuck off.”

There was a snigger from my fellow students, and Dr.

Maynard’s eyes were twinkling at me when I looked up at him. I closed my mouth quickly, kicking myself for having walked into that trap.

He patted Mrs. McDonald’s hand. “We’re not going to put you in a home, Mrs. Mac,” he said. “I was thinking of you going to live with one of your daughters.”

“They’re monsters,” Mrs. McDonald said. “They won’t let me have my ciggies.”

“Seems to me that you can’t have had many cigarettes stuck in a hospital bed,” Dr. Maynard said. “And you don’t seem to be suffering too badly. How about I talk to your family and we see what we can work out?”

Mrs. McDonald harrumped and tucked her bedding around herself more securely with hands wizened by arthritis. I looked at the medication chart again. Yep, the old bat was on nicotine patches, that was why she wasn’t having cravings.