Chapter 7
The doctor on the right lifted the medication box a little higher. The white cardboard caught the fluorescent light and the blue and yellow label flashed. That was when I knew he was going to use it.
I'd been watching that box since they wheeled me in. It sat in his hand like it was nothing, but every time he shifted his weight it moved closer to the rail of my bed. My blanket was light blue and thin and I could feel my legs shaking under it.
"Let's push it now," he said. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the nurse. "She's stable enough for the dose. We need to keep her calm."
The nurse didn't move right away. Her stethoscope was still around her neck and her RN badge was tipped forward on her scrubs. Her left hand was gloved and still holding my left arm lightly.
"Can we hold ten minutes?" she said. Her voice was even but I heard the pause before she said it. "I want to verify what she's telling us. She's lucid. She tracked my counts."
The doctor frowned. "She's delirious, she doesn't know what she's doing," he said. He said it the same way he'd said it before, like it was already decided.
I wanted to say I wasn't delirious. I tried to keep my right hand up. I held two fingers up the way I had been holding them. My nasal cannula pinched and my wristband pulled on my right wrist.
The nurse glanced down at my hand and then back at him. "Ten minutes," she said again. "That's all I'm asking."
He tapped the box against his palm. "We have a protocol," he said.
The second doctor stepped closer to the foot of my bed. He had his arms crossed and his stethoscope swung a little when he moved. The man in the Navy camouflage uniform was still by the glass doors under the red EMERGENCY sign, but he turned his head to watch.
I saw the box move forward an inch. My chest got tight. I tried to breathe through my nose and the cannula hissed. I didn't mean to make a sound but a small noise came out of me. I pulled my left arm just a little, toward the nurse.
She felt it. Her gloved hand tightened, not hard, just enough to say I'm here.
"Give me ten," she said, firmer now. She let go of my arm just long enough to reach for the badge clipped to her chest. She tapped it once with her finger. "I'm putting a pause on this as bedside RN. I need a charge check."
The doctor on the right exhaled through his nose. "You're going to document a refusal?"
"I'm documenting a delay to verify patient communication," she said. "Call it what you want."
She reached for the phone on the wall behind my bed. It was a gray hospital phone with a long cord. She didn't leave my side to do it. She stretched and pulled the receiver down and wedged it between her shoulder and ear while her left hand found my arm again.
My eyes stayed on the box. The doctor hadn't put it down. He held it at his waist, waiting. The closer it got to the rail, the colder my hands felt. I kept my two fingers up but they started to tremble. I couldn't stop them.
The nurse punched a button. I heard a soft beep.
"This is Reyes in ER bay one," she said into the phone. Her voice dropped a little, low and fast. "I have a pediatric patient, alert, communicating with hand signals. Attending wants to medicate now. I'm requesting a ten-minute verification hold. Patient is signaling three-one-three repeatedly."
A voice crackled on the other end, too quiet for me to make out words. The nurse nodded even though the person couldn't see her.
"Correct," she said. "I'm at bedside, not leaving. Yes, stethoscope, badge on. I will stay with her."
The second doctor leaned in. He wasn't looking at me either. He was looking at the nurse's badge and then at her face.
"Reyes," he said, quiet enough that the older woman and the little girl with braids behind my bed probably couldn't hear. "You know what a delay note does to you. If that girl decompensates and you held meds to chase a hand gesture, liability lands on you. Not on the attending. On you."
The nurse didn't answer him right away. She listened to the phone for another second, then said, "Understood. Thank you," and hung up. The cord swung.
She looked at both doctors. "Charge approved ten minutes," she said. "Hold administration. Keep the box sealed. I'll stay bedside and document."
The doctor holding the box stared at her for a long second. His jaw moved. Then he lowered the box, just an inch, but he didn't put it away. He stepped back half a step from the rail.
When the box moved back, air came back into my chest. I hadn't realized I was holding my breath. My shoulders dropped into the pillow. I let my two fingers relax just a little, then lifted them again so she would know I was still talking.
The nurse saw it. She gave my arm a light squeeze. Her eyes were still wide but her mouth softened.
"Good girl," she whispered, just for me. "We have ten minutes now. Don't worry."
The second doctor shook his head once, slow. "You're putting your badge on the line for this," he said to her.
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"I know," she said. She adjusted her stethoscope so it sat straight again and her RN badge caught the light. "I'm staying right here."
The red EMERGENCY sign buzzed faintly above the doors. The doctors stayed on the right side of my bed with the box still in hand, and the nurse stayed locked at my left side, and the clock on the wall kept ticking behind them.
