The Phoenix Project

by M. R. Pritchard

  The highways passing through the city are already starting to fill with cars. People making their morning commutes to work. My watch says it is 6:50 am, almost time to go. Jan’s curse never transpired. Suddenly, a wave of dizziness hits me. I reach out to the windowsill to steady myself. Sometimes, if I close my eyes it will go away, this is nothing new, after working all night I’m usually greeted by one of two things: dizziness or nausea. I close my eyes but it doesn’t stop, when I open them again I see an IV bag waving back and forth on its metal stand. This is when I realize, I am not dizzy. The floor moves under my feet, the building is shaking.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The trouble with hospitals, everything is on wheels.

  I notice the ventilator machine rolling away from Lauren’s patient. I drop my coffee in the trash can next to me and I rush forward to stop it with both hands, pushing it back into place and clicking the wheel locks with my foot. Lauren has that look again. She doesn’t know what to do. I hear shrieks, and the chatter from the surrounding nurseries. I grab a hold of Lauren’s arm, squeezing it, trying to bring her back to the present.

  “Make sure all the brakes are on.” I shout to her over the growing noise. I hear a few screams and babies crying from the other nurseries.

  We circle around the nursery, clicking the brakes into place on everything with wheels, ventilators, isolettes, warming beds. Then, as suddenly as it began, the building stops moving. I’m sure since we are on the top level we got the worst of it. Our unit security guard has made himself present from the hallway desk. I hear him tell someone he is searching the unit for damage and injuries. The radio on his shoulder squawks to life with static, a garbled voice announces that there is a water main break in the basement.

  Looking out the window I see that none of the buildings have been damaged. People have started trickling out of the buildings onto the sidewalks and streets. And I can hear the faint sirens from the nearby firehouse.

  For an instant my mind shifts to home. I wonder if Ian and Lina are safe, if they were awoken by this earthquake. I know that Ian is capable of taking care of Lina, that she is always his first priority. But I can’t stop the tugging deep in my chest. I have to call home; I have to check on them. In five more minutes when the patients are stable I’ll call home and check on them, I tell myself.

  But I’ll never get to, because not a second later the power goes out.

  --

  The trouble with hospitals, everything runs on electricity.

  I have never heard the unit this quiet. It’s the kind of silence that echoes loud in my ears making them ring. People stop talking, babies stop crying, the hum of the ventilators and the alarms are silent. It should take less than thirty seconds for the backup generators to turn on. Thankfully, there is enough morning light from the large windows to see. Turning to Lauren’s patient I notice the duskiness starting in the baby’s feet and hands. With no ventilator the baby has no way to oxygenate his body. The seconds are ticking by, and with them the grayness seeps further towards the center of the baby’s small, still chest.

  Why isn’t the power back on? This is taking too long.

  Ventilators aren’t working, IV pumps aren’t working. I look at the nearest isolette and see that there is no temperature reading, which can only mean there is no heat. A cold baby is not a happy baby. I turn my attention back to Lauren’s baby. There is no color left in his body, he has no identifiable chest rise. This is not good.

  “Get your bag, Lauren, your baby needs to be bagged. We can’t wait any longer for the power.” Lauren grabs the resuscitation bag hanging above the baby. Hopefully the compressed air pipes running through the hospital contain enough flow to get us through, until the power returns. Lauren turns the flow meter and the resuscitation bag comes to life, filling with air. I disconnect the breathing tube from the ventilator and attach the bag.

  “One, two, three, squeeze.” She whispers as she squeezes the bag. Slowly, the baby’s chest rises then falls, and the gray discoloration starts to recede.

  I hear Dr. Smith’s voice as she’s walking into the nearby nurseries asking if everything is alright. Someone must have woken her up, if the earthquake didn’t. She walks up to Lauren’s baby. “Is everything good here?” she looks to the baby then Lauren, “Just keep this up.” She waves her hand in a circle over Lauren’s bedside as though she’s casting a spell. Then turns on one heel and walks out of the room, the bottoms of her oversized wrinkled scrub pants dragging at her heels, kicking up dust as she runs into the next room.

  “I need the Doctor, he’s extubated,” I hear someone say.

  “You’re doing fine, Lauren.” I look into her eyes, trying to sense if she realizes the seriousness of our current situation. “I’ll be right back,” I tell her. I follow the doctor, standing on my toes to look over the shoulders of the five nurses standing around the bedside of a very small baby. I took care of this baby last week and his prognosis was not good, he was born 13 weeks early, still just a fetus. You could hold him in the palm of your hand and have room to spare.

  I see the ventilator has drifted during the earthquake, pulling the breathing tube out of the baby’s throat. Someone hands the doctor a laryngoscope to place a new breathing tube. The duskiness that was creeping up on Laurens baby has already consumed this one. The tiny fetus of a baby is gray all over, not moving, there is no chest rise, the baby doesn’t even struggle to breath, his body has already given up.

  “I can’t see anything. This light is not working,” Doctor Smith yells. “Get me another laryngoscope!”

  This is what we were trained to do, save the lives of these tiny babies. Everyone knows what needs to be done. There is a flurry of hands, cutting medical tape to secure a new breathing tube, pulling the syringes out of the IV pumps and pushing fluids by hand. Three nurses run in opposing directions, looking for the extra laryngoscopes that we keep in emergency resuscitation kits throughout the unit. One by one I hear them shout out that none of the lights are working. Someone flicks a flashlight on. Nothing.

  The doctor remains quite; she rolls her shoulders and bends down to the infant warmer. She slides the unlit laryngoscope into the lifeless baby’s mouth. Someone hands her a breathing tube. She threads it down the scope, slowly. The nurse on her right attaches the resuscitation bag and starts squeezing. The baby’s chest rises and falls. Everyone standing at the bedside lets out a breath of relief.

  The doctor listens with the stethoscope. On this tiny baby the diaphragm covers its entire chest. She shakes her head side to side and continues to listen. We’re holding our breath, again.

  Nervously, I tuck the loose hair behind my ears which have sprung forward and curled up in the increasing heat. When the power went out so did the air conditioning.

  “This heart rate is too low,” Dr Smith says quietly. “We need to push epinephrine.” For the first time she looks up, scanning our faces. “This is a full code, let’s get moving people!”

  The nurse next to me grabs my arm, pulling me along, we run to the nearby medication room which holds our medication dispensing robot. This tool was meant to help keep track of medications. It’s a large white box with a hundred tiny drawers. A nurse or doctor would sign into the touch screen computer and select a patient name and medication and one of the drawers would pop open with the needed medication. But now, without power, the screen is black and empty.

  I turn to the nurse by my side, finally recognizing her, Sheila. “What the hell,” she blurts out.

  I bang my fist on the drawer labeled “epi” in red. Nothing happens. My heart is beating in my ears and I can feel the sweat beading up on the back of my neck, clinging to my hair. Someone runs up behind us and I hear Doctor Smith ask what is taking so long.

  “The medication robot is locked,” I yell into the hallway.

  “I’ll be right back,” Sheila says as she runs out of the room.

  I continue banging on the drawer with my fist, trying to get it to move. I shove my sho
ulder into the machine, but nothing happens. Less than a second later Sheila’s back, carrying a rusty red toolbox. She pulls out an old flathead screwdriver and a hammer. I step back as she slides the point of the flathead into the tiny crack between the drawers of the medication robot. She lifts the hammer with her free hand and bangs it on the handle of the screwdriver. On the third hit the drawer starts to crack open. On the fourth hit she misses. The hammer hits her knuckle, I hear her groan, and bright red blood starts seeping out of her finger. On the fifth hit the drawer cracks open. Sheila reaches in and pulls out a vial then we both turn and run back to the baby.

  We couldn’t have been gone more than a few minutes. But when we return the whole feeling of the room has changed. Before this room was alive and buzzing with tension, adrenaline was speeding through everyone in the room, now that’s gone, replaced with a somber heaviness and silence. I slow my pace to a walk and look towards the baby everyone was just working so hard to save. Dr. Smith looks at me and shakes her head, pushing her lips down into a pouted frown. Hanging the stethoscope on the warmer she leaves the bedside, headed into the next room, her shoulders now slumped and heavy. There are still other babies that need her right now. I turn to the baby we were just trying to save. It’s painfully apparent that we are too late, now he looks like a tiny gray doll, limp, lifeless, a child’s toy. Not something that was once alive, with real parents and the hope to grow and thrive. A sharp pang starts in my nose and wells up behind my eyes. I start to walk away breathing in a deeply as one of the nurse’s covers the baby with a white crisp pillowcase.

  The problem with hospitals, people, and babies, sometimes die.

  --

  Lauren continues to squeeze the resuscitation bag for her patient. Right now it’s the only thing keeping the baby alive.

  I decide I can’t wait any longer. I walk swiftly to the wall and grab the black phone, I punch in the phone number to my house but there is nothing, no ringing, there’s not even a dial tone. I slam the phone down and pick it up again. Still nothing. I pull my cell phone out of my pocket. The touch screen is blank and black. I hold down the power button waiting for the circular white insignia to light up in the center of the screen. But still nothing happens. I don’t understand.

  I try and think about what just happened. There was just an earthquake, which we don’t have many of in upstate New York. I can remember four in my whole life. In the back of my mind I can see my college physics professor drawing on a chalkboard. I feel a nagging sense of urgency, this is something else, this is something bad. Suddenly all I can think about it getting in contact with Ian and Lina.

  “Is anyone’s cell phone working?” I call out. The four nurses near me check their pockets, each of them shaking their heads no.

  I look out the window craning my neck down so I can see the street. People are milling about, talking to each other, many have their cell phones in their hand, but no one is talking on them. I look to the street and notice that none of the cars are moving. Many of them are stopped in the middle of the road, some shifted at odd angles and pointed towards the sidewalk, as though their drivers tried to pull over while the cars were slowing down but they didn’t quite make it when they came to a complete stop. There is a man in a suit sitting on the hood of a car. A police officer is walking down the middle of the road on the yellow lines, waving his arm yelling something. Everyone on the street just stares at him. I shift my gaze to the highway and see more of the same. The on-ramps are clogged with non-moving vehicles. There is even a city bus at a dead standstill with a cluster of people standing around the buses open door.

  I hear the stairwell door slam open. When I turn I see people filtering out of the stairwell. There are about fifteen nurses, their faces red with exhaustion, sweat matting their bangs to their faces and the stray hairs to the back of their necks.

  Dayshift is here.

  Behind the dayshift crew follows the night shift supervisor. She pushes her way through the day shift swarm which is crowding around the desk. Everyone is talking. The supervisor picks up the phone. She pulls the bottom speaker close to her mouth and holds down a button trying to make an announcement. I see her lips move but I don’t hear anything. She looks around while she talks then stops abruptly, frowns at the phone, and slams it down hard. The crowd at the desk hushes their chatter.

  “No one is to leave the hospital!” the supervisor yells. “This is a code silver, environmental crisis, all employees are to stay on their assigned units and continue to carry out their duties. If an employee leaves this hospital you will be charged with patient abandonment. Your nursing license will be revoked. You will face criminal charges. We will be updating you all throughout the day as we receive information as to what is going on.”

  The supervisor pushes her way out of the crowd huddling around the desk, people shout questions to her but she doesn’t stop, she walks quickly, with determination, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor, she heads back to the stairwell doors and disappears.

  The bad thing about hospitals, once they hire you they think they own you.

  --

  People are talking. They dayshift crew has thinned out among the night shift, helping feed babies, wrapping them in extra blankets to keep them warm, taking turns squeezing the resuscitation bags for the babies with breathing tubes. Dr. Smith continues to check on all the babies within each of the eight nurseries. I keep checking my phone, hoping it will come back to life. I feel stupid doing it but when I look around I notice other people doing the same thing.

  It’s starting to get hot. Now the unit smells musty and heavy. The tinge of sweat and soiled baby diapers cling heavy in the air. Instantly I miss the cool smell of baby soap that usually greets me when walking onto the unit.

  I take a hair tie out of my pocket and try to pull my shoulder length hair into a pony tail but plenty of curly strands fall down around my face. I tuck them behind me ears and dab at my forehead with a paper towel. Not knowing what is going on at home worries me. The sun is up now and I should be dropping off Lina at school, I should be kissing Ian goodbye as he leaves for work. The ache in my chest burns deeper every time I think of them both. I don’t know how I’m going to do it but I have to get home. I can’t stay here. I have worked beside these people for years, now they are about to find out what kind of a nurse I am. What kind of a person I am. I am a coward. I am selfish. I will not abandon my family for my patients, not even if they are babies, and I am filled with horrible shame during this moment of realization.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I watch out the window as a line of people collect at the door to the hospital. A row of security guards stand in front of them. The people are yelling, pointing up to the floors above them. Visitors. They must have family here on the floors below us or even babies here in the NICU. I think of the baby that died a few hours ago. His parents may be down there, waiting, not knowing that they are about to receive some of the worst news of their lives. I sit down in a rocking chair. The adrenaline which kept me running earlier, during the earthquake and the full code, has trickled out. Exhaustion hits me like a sharp bullet between the eyes. Trying not to think, I tilt my head up to the ceiling and stare at the white pecked tiles. I start rocking, back and forth, back and forth, and I close my eyes. Before I know it I am breaking the golden rule of the night shift, no sleeping on the clock. However, no one wakes me.

  --

  When I open my eyes they are dry. I rub them with both hands. A shiver runs down my back and goose bumps prickle up on my arms. Three things happen as I sit up: I see the tiny flecks of dust quiver around the air conditioning vent above me, I hear a monitor beep, and I see someone washing their hands.

  “Power’s back on!” Lauren smiles at me. Her baby is reattached to the breathing machine and she rubs her sore hands.

  “That’s great. How long was I out?”

  “About an hour,” she replies.

  “Do we know what time it is?”

  “I’m not s
ure. I heard someone say they thought it was around ten.”

  I look out the window. The sun isn’t very high in the sky so they could be right. I notice three ravens perched on the roof across the street, standing still as statues. Behind them the black tar of the roof radiates heat in dense invisible waves. It’s good the air is back on because it’s already evident that today will be a hot day.

  “The supervisor is back. She’s going to make an announcement.” Lauren leaves the room and walks towards the desk.

  “Attention please!” The supervisor yells. “Currently the hospital is operating under a code silver. You are to remain on your unit. Emergency generators are running. The phone system is still down. There are cots and blankets in the conference room for those of you who have worked all night. And the cafeteria will be delivering food to each of the units.”

  “What do you expect us to do, stay here?” Someone from the crowd shouts. “You can’t keep us here, some of us need to go home and be with our families!” I stand on my toes to see who is talking. It’s Jan, the nurse who gave me report the night before, the one with four children.

  The supervisor’s brow furrows, she looks exhausted. “I understand many of you want to go home. I do too. However I have to warn you that most of the city remains without power. Transportation is out of order. There are reports of rioting downtown and some have reported hearing gunshots. Our emergency room is currently crowded with the injured and the sick. We may ask some of you to help out in triage. I suggest that each of you stay here where it is safe until, until…..” I can see the gleam in her eyes, she is holding back tears. She takes a shuddered breath in, “until it is safe to leave the building.”

  I walk back to the window and look towards downtown. There is a sliver of smoke snaking its way towards the sky. On the highway overpass see a cluster of men walking together, their skin is dark and contrasting against their white t-shirts. They all wear the same thing, black jeans, white t-shirts. They walk up to a man sitting on the hood of his car on the highway. The man jumps up and starts walking backwards, he’s taking something off his wrist and out of his pockets. I see him toss them on the ground in front of him. One of the men in the white t-shirt raises his arm, he is holding something black in his hand, and I realize it is a gun, suddenly, the man walking backwards drops to the ground in a crumpled mess.