I Held Up Two Fingers While Everyone Said I Didn't Know What I Was Doing...

The words hung there after she said them. She's trying to tell us something.

I didn't move my right hand. I kept the two fingers up even though my arm ached from holding it. The blanket was light blue and too warm against my legs, and the nasal cannula hissed a little every time I breathed. I could feel my heartbeat in my wristband.

The nurse didn't let go of my left arm. Her white glove was still soft against my palm. She'd been holding my hand open, counting with me, and now everyone was looking at her like she'd said something wrong.

The doctor with the medication box shifted his weight. He had the little white box with the blue and yellow label pinched between his fingers, and I watched it because I didn't want to look at his face.

"She's delirious, she doesn't know what she's doing," he said again, quieter this time, like he was explaining me to the others. "Fever's up, rash is spreading. We need to follow protocol."

I felt my throat close. I wasn't delirious. I knew exactly what I was doing.

The nurse turned her head. She looked down at me, not at him. Her eyes were still wide, but the shock had settled into something else, something steadier. Her messy bun had come a little loose and a piece of blonde hair stuck to her neck. Her RN badge caught the fluorescent light when she leaned in.

"Hey," she said to me. Her voice was low and even. "Can you do it again? Just for me."

The room went quiet. The other doctor behind her didn't speak. The man in the Navy camouflage by the double doors hadn't moved, but I could feel him watching.

She brought her face closer to mine, eye to eye, so I couldn't see the red EMERGENCY sign behind her anymore, just her eyes. She didn't reach for the medication box. She didn't call for sedation.

"Show me again," she whispered. "Nice and slow."

I swallowed. The cannula tugged at my nose. My left arm was still in her gloved hand, palm up, and my right hand was still holding those two fingers. I didn't know how to do it better. So I started to tap.

I lifted my right fingers and tapped them against the metal rail of the bed. Three quick taps. Then a pause. Then one tap. Then a pause. Then three taps again.

Three. One. Three.

My hand was shaking a little by the end, but I made sure the spaces between were clear.

The nurse counted out loud with me. She nodded with each number, her lips moving.

"Three," she said as I tapped. "One. Three."

She repeated it back, not as a question, as a fact. "Three one three."

Behind her, the older woman in the dark cardigan gasped softly. The little girl with the braids pressed closer to her side. They were still behind the bed, their hands tight together.

The doctor with the box took a step forward. His white coat brushed the bed rail.

"With respect, we can't do this," he said. His voice was tighter now. "Her vitals are borderline tachycardic, she has a diffuse rash, she's febrile. This is textbook delirium. If we indulge a number game we delay treatment. The antihistamine is ready. We need to administer and reassess."

He held the box up a little higher, like proof. "We're losing time."

The second doctor nodded but didn't reach for me. He was looking at the monitor over my head, at numbers I couldn't see.

The Navy man moved then. He left the doors and stepped closer to the foot of the bed. His boots made a soft sound on the floor. He didn't speak, but he was close enough now that I could see the stubble on his face and the patch on his camouflage. He looked at my hand, then at the nurse, then at the doctor's box.

The nurse felt him move, but she didn't look away from me. Her left hand, the gloved one, tightened just slightly around my left hand. She didn't let go.

"No," she said. She didn't raise her voice. "Not yet."

The doctor frowned. "Excuse me?"

"She repeated it," the nurse said. She kept her eyes on mine. "She did it the same way twice. That's not delirium. That's intentional."

"That's pattern recognition bias," the doctor said. "You're seeing intent where there is fever."

"Then let me check," she said. "Give me thirty seconds. If she can't repeat it again, you can push the meds."

I was breathing fast. The blanket felt heavier. I wanted to tell her thank you but my mouth was dry and the cannula was in the way, so I just pressed my fingers a little harder into the rail and kept looking at her.

The doctor looked at the other doctor, then at the Navy man. No one said to let go. The little girl behind the bed whispered something I couldn't hear.

The nurse squeezed my hand once, gentle. She didn't let go of the rail, didn't step back from the bed. She stayed crouched beside me, her stethoscope resting against her navy scrubs, her body between me and the medication box.