by Tiana Cole
Which brought me back to the reason why I wasn’t too keen to go out tonight.
“If I miss my early morning shift or arrive at the hospital late tomorrow, Nurse Silva will kill me. We are short-staffed, you know that. Darn this virus that’s been going around. I pulled an all-nighter twice this week alone.”
I hoped my objection about how wrecked we have been would finally dissuade her. Wrong!
“That’s just it, Sienna. I did too. We deserve a break. And this band is the best. I promise. I’ve been following them on YouTube and their lead guitarist is to die for.”
When Chantal was in a fangirl mode, she could be extremely emotional. The thought of having to listen to a country boy band wasn’t my cup of tea. I preferred old classic Motown music – a quality I must have inherited from my dad – to the metallic twanging of country guitar.
“I-I don’t know…” Shit. My reserve of excuses dried up.
Chantal wouldn’t take no for an answer. I already knew she wouldn’t. I sighed with defeat. Chantal was persistent when it came to what she wanted. I knew her so well. But she was my best friend and would do anything for me. Besides, one or two bottles of beer wouldn’t hurt. It would help me sleep better and she’d get to watch her pesky band. Win-win situation.
“Oh, all right.” I pretended exasperation but now that I have agreed, I’m kinda excited at the thought of being somewhere else tonight. The hospital realm can be pretty boring.
“Yay!” Chantal warbled, happy to have gotten her way. Again.
I couldn’t help feeling apprehensive and guilty at the same time. I really didn’t want to be late for work and it was an early morning shift. I was torn between being a good friend and a model nurse. Frowning faintly, I nodded my head, succumbing as Chantal hailed a passing cab.
My anxiety bloomed when the cab came to a stop in front of a dilapidated building. The façade was typical of honky-tonk club with garish neon lights strung across its wide canopy.
I imagined a huge dance hall from the 1920s. The music from inside the club was pulsating even through the doorway. Chantal hailed the doorman and we were ushered inside a jam-packed room that was bursting at the seams.
I clutched Chantal’s arm as the girl doggedly elbowed her way to the bar that was a foot deep with regulars. A succession of ‘awwws’ and ‘watch it, bitches’ followed our progress. A few of the girls gave us dagger looks as we pushed and shoved our way to the front of the bar.
Chantal managed to order a pitcher of margarita. I protested wildly. Didn’t she say beer? But she ignored me as she carried the pitcher with aplomb until she spotted a vacant table, which she immediately commandeered.
“Lucky us.” Chantal smiled in triumph as she pulled a chair.
“Why did you order margarita? I thought we were having beer. You know tequila makes me crazy.”
I was shouting at the top of my voice. I immediately realized why no one wanted this particular table. Although it sat near the stage and had an unobstructed view of the musicians, immediately behind us was a huge sound system which was booming to the music of the boy band performing on stage. Conversation was impossible with the music blaring loudly in our ears.
Chantal smiled in response. I knew she didn’t hear a word I said.
Swell. I would spend the rest of the night shouting till I was blue in the face. I looked around and observed the motley throng of patrons in the jam-packed arena. The noise was mind boggling as I massaged my temple. A pain had begun to form inside my head.
Chantal raised her glass to a toast as I looked at my own drink with trepidation. I knew there was tequila in it. When God created tequila, I must have been somewhere else and didn’t get my dose of tolerance for it. Beer is okay. Even vodka is something I could take. But any drink laced with tequila? Never.
I never liked the suck the lime, lick the salt, and sip from the glass ritual, which was exactly what Chantal was doing- licking the rim with her tongue. I felt grossed out. I sipped cautiously, feeling like a wet blanket. To my surprise the margarita tasted…wonderful. It must be the alcohol-free kind. The thought made me feel better and braver about taking another sip.
I was about to tell Chantal, but noticed her whole body was turned towards the stage. There was a flirtatious smile on her face as she licked the salt on the rim of her glass. I realized why as I followed her gaze. The lead guitarist was looking back at her. He was the guy she was raving about. The one to die for, I remember her saying. He was tall and lanky but muscular with hair that was longer than mine. Not exactly someone I would die for.
I tapped her elbow to get here attention. She moved her head towards me, never breaking eye contact with the guitarist on stage.
“This tastes good. Is this alcohol free?” I shouted in her ear, taking another sip from the refreshing brew.
“Yeah, I’m glad you like it. Another pitcher is on its way. Drink up,” she prodded, never once looking at my direction.
Confident and reassured, I took another swig and noticed that my headache disappeared. My ears had gotten accustomed to the blaring sound. The country music wasn’t so bad I thought as the tempo picked up a danceable tune.
I don’t know if it was in the middle of ‘Achy Breakey Heart’ that I got the courage to join the line dance that had formed on the floor. The steps were pretty easy to follow and I was soon joining in with the rest of the crowd. We were on our second pitcher of margaritas and I was feeling high and my adrenaline was on fire.
When the band segued to another dance tune, a huge man wearing a cowboy hat and boots came forward and claimed me. I hesitated initially but he took the lead and I was soon following an easy two-step dance. I realized I was having fun.
The band took a break and I sat down, feeling hot with perspiration running down my back. I reached for my glass of margarita and gulped it down to quench my thirst. I was raring to be back on the dance floor when the band resumed playing its last set for the night.
By then we were probably on our fourth pitcher. I should have realized I was losing control when I stood on top of the table and danced. Chantal was laughing, clapping her hand, and cheering me on. It didn’t seem like a huge deal because by this time everyone was dancing wildly and there was a feeling of easy camaraderie within the crowd.
I tottered and almost lost my balance when I stepped down and joined the rest of the crowd on the dance floor. When the band finished the set I felt a sense of disappointment. I wanted to keep on dancing.
Chantal appeared from nowhere carrying my purse and herded me out the door. She suddenly seemed in such a big rush to go home as I held back, doing the shimmy with my hips and shoulders. She kept pulling me along toward the exit door.
I had a fucking good time and told her. I wondered why I was slurring and having difficulty saying the words. I found that absolutely funny and had a laughing fit.
She was grinning like an idiot too as she hailed a passing cab. She pushed me inside and gave the driver directions before she closed the door. I realized she wasn’t inside with me and guffawed with laughter at her mistake. I opened the door and giggled like a silly school girl. Everything felt funny.
“Sienna, I’m not coming home with you. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
What the fuck was she talking about? Why wasn’t she coming home with me?
“Listen,” she replied, “I’m meeting Eric backstage. Be a good girl and go on home without me, okay?”
Eric? Who the heck was Eric? I was befuddled and the world was moving much too fast. Between bouts of clarity and confusion, it suddenly hit me. Eric. The lead guitarist. Somehow she had managed to get to him sometime during the night. But how? We were together the whole time.
I struggled, intent on knowing where she planned to stay the night, but she was telling the driver to go and I found myself alone inside the cab, on my way home. The images outside the car window were whizzing by so fast and the street lights felt inordinately bright they blinded me. I was getting a headache aga
in.
I groped my purse in search of my wallet so I could pay the cabbie the minute I arrived and ended up spilling all its contents on the cab floor. Shit. I was still groping for the rest of my stuff when the cab came to a halt and I was home.
Thankfully I stepped out of the cab and wondered why the sidewalk undulated. I managed to get the key into the slot and entered our small apartment. The living room was spinning as I staggered to the sofa and slumped down on it. The few steps it would take to get to my bedroom felt like a colossal effort. Maybe because my whole body felt like jelly?
I wished the whole room would stop spinning so I could get up and find my bedroom door. Suddenly I got a ‘light bulb’ moment. Since the whole room was turning wildly I would just wait for my bedroom door to stop in front of me, then everything would be alright.
I must have been waiting when darkness overcame me. I was exhausted and the last thing I remembered was seeing two of everything before I finally closed my eyes and surrendered to the realization that I was dead drunk.
Chapter 2 (Sienna)
My body heaved and I suppressed the desire to puke as I tasted the bitter bile climbing up my throat. I didn’t think the man standing beside me would take it kindly if I embellished his uniform with speckles of vomit.
I brushed aside the rivulet of sweat rolling slowly down the side of my face as I clung tightly to the handrail of the subway train.
I wished this goddamn train didn’t sway like a whore turning tricks, but it was probably just my imagination. My knees were shaking and the handrail was my only lifeline.
I gripped it even tighter, stretching my neck upwards, hoping for a whiff of fresh air above the heads of the daily commuters. I could have waited for the next train, but goddammit, I didn’t have that luxury. Not today.
This was all my fault. I knew it. I should have listened to my instincts last night before I succumbed. Fuck Chantal. If not for her I wouldn’t be here now feeling sick as shit, sweaty and miserable. All I wanted was to crawl into a dark hole, curl up, and die.
Thankfully the train finally came to a stop at my station and I joined the throng of bodies heading toward the nearest exit. The hospital was only a block away and I had a few precious minutes to splash some cold water into my face. I dashed through the few remaining steps towards the back entrance and headed for the locker room.
“Sienna Miller to the Emergency room. Stat. Sienna Miller to the Emergency room.”
What the fuck? I have never been called through the public intercom before. I was still in my street clothes and hadn’t had the chance to put on my scrubs. Glancing at my wristwatch, I knew I had another seven minutes before my shift started.
I didn’t know why I was being paged but had an inkling who called for me through the intercom.
Entering one of the nurses’ restrooms, I hurriedly donned my green scrubs while pulling a hair tie to gather my hair into a pony tail. My supervisor, Nurse Silva, was a stickler for the ‘professional look,’ as she called it, insisting that all her nurses have their hair tucked under a hairnet, rolled in a bun, or pulled back into a ponytail.
I made sure my ID was pinned properly into the left side of my breast pocket as I kicked off the sneakers and donned the white rubber-soled nursing shoes. I knew I looked terrible. To be honest, I looked like shit and felt like it. My eyes were red-rimmed and strands of hair escaped down my neck. Shit.
I wish I had some hair gel to manage it back into place. I cupped my palm over my mouth and blew hard. I hoped my breath didn’t stink of alcohol. I then made my way to the emergency room which was located on the south wing of Mary Johnston’s Hospital.
I immediately spotted a group of nurses huddled around Nurse Silva, who had a stern look on her face. She has been under a lot of stress lately because of the flu virus causing many of the regular nurses to call in sick.
It was her job to make sure every floor of the hospital was staffed, and that was getting next to impossible. One of the nurses was crying, while another cringed against the wall, a look of defeat written all over her face.
Nurse Silva had a stack of patients’ charts in her hand and she was distributing them like a card game of poker. She handed me three of those charts.
“Stay!” she barked.
I felt like a dog handed a juicy bone but wasn’t allowed to taste it. I hoped she would interpret my hangdog expression as fatigue. God forbid she found out one of her nurses was smashed out of her mind just a couple of hours ago.
I must have gotten less than three hours of sleep. Thankfully my alarm clock was always set for 5:30 in the morning. It was one of those antique bell and hammer types that could awaken the dead. For once I have never been more grateful for the racket it produced; otherwise I would still be oblivious to the world this very minute.
Nurse Silva castigated the crying nurse. I thought her name was Melinda. She was new and always managed to get her patients’ meds all mixed-up.
“It’s alright, Mel,” I whispered sympathetically as Nurse Silva turned to another nurse.
“I’ll never get it right,” Mel replied as fresh wave of tears swamp her cheeks.
“You’ll learn,” I reassured her as Nurse Silva returned her attention back to me. It was show time as I strived for a professional look on my face.
“You look like shit, Sienna,” Nurse Silva declared. Not exactly the effect I was aiming for as I managed a brave smile to hide my guilt.
“I know you must be exhausted and I’m grateful you still showed up,” Nurse Silva said.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank you, Jesus! She thinks I’ve been working too hard and not out gallivanting the night before with my traitor friend Chantal, who, by the way, was still missing when I woke up this morning.
“It’s quite alright, Nurse Silva,” I replied, faking a bright smile and a martyred-look. I knew the nurses were in for a performance review in the next few days. It wouldn’t hurt if Nurse Silva put in a good word for me with the board of directors.
“I just need you to look in on three of those patients’ charts this morning. You can take the rest of the day off after you do your rounds. I don’t want you falling sick. Are you sure you feel alright? You look different.”
I assured her in my best victim voice that I could manage half a day’s work. I was part of the team and glad to put in my share of work for the patients’ sake, and she could always depend on me, blah, blah, blah.
I was just so relieved she thought I was tired and not drunk out of my mind. I vowed never to let this happen and be grateful for this liberty pass. I wouldn’t always be this lucky. And the thought that I could finally catch up on actual sleep gave me the adrenaline I needed to make it through the morning.
I inspected the charts and decided which patient I would check in on first. The first patient was a 59-year-old male who came in three days ago complaining of stool in the blood.
Since this was the first episode the doctor in charge was concerned about bleeding in the lower GI level. I needed to check on his lab results to see if his CBC, platelets, urine dip, and stool WBC were within the normal range. The results should be with the nurses at the floor station.
I made a quick stop, chatted with the shift nurse to see how the patient slept through the night. Everything looked normal, except for the WBC count. I wrote down my recommendation for the doctor before I knocked on the patient’s hospital room door.
“Good morning, Mr. Taylor,” I greeted him cheerily. Even to my own ears my voice sounded shrill. He looked at me listlessly as I checked on his IV and pulse monitor.
“Did you have a restful sleep?” I asked while thinking how sleepy I was. I wished I could switch places with the guy even for half an hour.
Since he didn’t seem inclined to talk, I filled the silence by saying, “Well, your lab tests look fine except for a slight decrease in your white blood cell count. Your doctor will be monitoring that. I’m sure your next procedure will show that it has normalized and then you ca
n be discharged.”
Silence.
This was starting to feel awkward. Well…I did what I came here for, no need to stay longer if the patient was feeling surly. I turned and make my way out the door when he said, “I don’t want to be discharged. I want to stay here.”
What? I turned back to face him, pushing my lethargy aside. He looked despondent. I normally wouldn’t have missed that, except I was performing on reserves of energy.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Taylor? Do you have any pains aside from what you came in for?”
I wished he would open up and tell me if there was. Sometimes a patient’s physical disability is just a symptom of something psychological.
“I don’t wanna go home. It’s lonely there.”
My years of training kick in. I pulled a chair and brought it near his bed. I put on a sympathetic smile and reached for his hand.
“Damien died and I’m all alone. There’s no one to talk to and I feel lonely.”
Damien? Who the hell was Damien?
I took a quick glance at his chart. There was no mention of any family. Son, maybe? Or a brother? I kept silent while pressing his hand. Tactile contact, I learned, was sometimes more effective than words.
“I’ve had him for a long time. He was okay when I left for work. When I came back after a few hours, he was just lying there. I thought he must have gone to sleep. He was getting on in years and sometimes he doesn’t hear me coming. But when I went to pick him up, he just stayed limp in my arms.”
Okay. Damien was someone who stayed at home when he went out. Getting on in years and turning deaf. A Pet?
“Is Damien your dog companion?” I asked softly.
“No, Damien is a cat. He belonged to my brother, and when he died, I sorta adopted Damien. We’ve been together for almost fifteen years.”
My heart went out to this man. I wasn’t a cat person. They gave me asthma attacks. I loved dogs and when my dog died when I was 12 years old, I was heart-broken. I could empathize with his feelings.
