Absence of Mind

by H. C. H. Ritz

  There’s random news, email newsletters, and then the social updates from people I knew in high school back in Ohio, old coworkers at my last hospital, random people who share my interests, and then the current coworkers. Together, I call them the Collective. It’s a deliberate reference to the fact that most of the time, it doesn’t even matter who said what. It’s just nice to know you’re not alone.

  I make a post.

  < Had a car wreck today. Yup, an actual car wreck. My car decided yielding on the left turn was optional. Nobody got hurt, though. And the other driver? Was a Nonnie. But no, the accident wasn’t her fault. Some sort of bug in my car’s software, I guess. >

  I use my Memory app to pull a few seconds of video of the accident, from when I got out of the car to when I sat down on the curb, and attach it to the post.

  Almost immediately, responses come in.

  << Ian: Wow, she’s hot. She’s a Nonnie? >>

  << Shannon: Oh no… glad you’re okay. >>

  << Wayne: I saw a Nonnie once at the grocery store. I mean, it had to have been a Nonnie. She paid a cashier—with a physical credit card. >>

  << Alyssa: Oh, I went to school with a guy who was a Nonnie. He used a laptop computer for all his schoolwork. >>

  << Chris: Wild. Aren’t there, like, almost no car accidents anymore? Is your car defective? Are they going to replace it? >>

  I chuckle. The automated cab pulls up, and I get in with Tobi.

  < Navi, have the cab take me home, please. >

  < Ian, ha. Eat your heart out, I’m going to have dinner with her. >

  < Chris, no, they’re not replacing it. They reset the CPU and something about the drive path. Said it should work fine now. >

  << Ian: You have a date with the Nonnie?! >>

  < No, Ian, it’s not a date. Sheesh. >

  << Shannon: Well, then, why are you having dinner with her? That’s kinda weird. >>

  << Ian: You sure you’re not gay? Come to think of it, you’ve never dated anybody, man or woman, that I know of. >>

  < Why is it weird, Shannon? I mean, I owe her. I wrecked her car, and then she saved my dog’s life. >

  << Alyssa: What, what, what?! What about Tobi?! >>

  < Sorry, forgot to mention. Tobi got out of the car and almost got run over. She helped me get him back. >

  I rub Tobi’s ears even more vigorously than before.

  << Wayne: She used to date me. She’s not gay. I can TESTIFY. >>

  < Wayne, STFU. >

  << Wayne: *laughing* Anyway, what’re you going to talk to her about? She’s a Nonnie. >>

  < Same stuff I’d talk to anyone about. Just because she doesn’t have her smartphone implanted in her head doesn’t mean she lives on a different planet. >

  << Patti: She kind of does, though, doesn’t she? I mean, could you imagine not being able to get your messages real-time? Not having conversations like this one? It must be so lonely. >>

  I have to stop for a moment. Patti’s comment makes me think about my family back home, none of them with Navis—not because they’re Nonnies, but because of their religion.

  I hate how different my family is and how I never feel like I can talk to anyone about them, or about my weird childhood, without feeling embarrassed. But I don’t like how Wayne and Patti make it sound like Mila must be some sort of alien or reject because she’s a Nonnie. That would make all my family back home aliens and rejects. I may think of them that way myself sometimes, but that doesn’t mean other people get to.

  < She can use a phone, you know. She’s not that different just because she talks out loud instead of with her thoughts. >

  << Patti: I guess. >>

  << Ian: So, Wayne, tell me more. What does Phoebe like in bed? >>

  < OMG STFU you two. Seriously. >

  << Ian: Eat your heart out, you said. Gonna make you sorry you said that… >>

  < That’s it! Done! >

  I end the conversation, blocking any further comments, even though I’m giggling at the same time.

  So maybe it is weird that I asked Mila to go to dinner. She is kind of strange. She didn’t seem friendly, either, so I’m not sure what the point was.

  I go ahead and review my Memory app to find the phone number, and then I make the call, even though I feel nervous about it. She should be home by now, I figure.

  But I don’t get an answer.

  My Navi interrupts me.

  << You have arrived at home. Should the cab wait? >>

  < Yes, please. I’ll be right back down. >

  I get Tobi upstairs and settled, and then I head back down and climb back into the taxi, still listening and responding to messages as I go. A few minutes later, I get another message directly from my Navi.

  << A Burger Boy is one minute ahead. The Baco-Burger meal is on special for $9.99. Would you like to stop? >>

  Hmm… I am hungry, I realize.

  < Sure. Make it a #6 with a Coke. >

  << Deducting $10.81 from your primary checking account and redirecting the cab. >>

  Moments later, the car drives through and lowers the window for me to pick up the food. I down it fast and then lick the french-fry salt from my fingers in a state of pure bliss.

  About three minutes later, I’m kicking myself. I wish fast food didn’t hit my brain’s reward center so perfectly. I keep meaning to give it up, but it isn’t happening yet. In fact, every time I eat it, I think about ordering my Navi to stop telling me about my proximity to fast-food restaurants—the advertising messages can be adjusted so that they’re less annoying—but I can never manage it. Fast food is good, and I jog enough to keep my weight down.

  Or so I rationalize.

  As the cab turns in to Grady Hospital a few minutes later, I call Mila again. But still no answer. Oh well. I’ll try again later.

  As I cross the threshold of the hospital, my Navi badges me in and automatically turns to text mode. I think that’s because I do service work with actual people. Information workers are probably always on auditory mode. Of course, they don’t have to go into a workplace anymore, either. Navis broke the chains that bound previous generations to their desks for their entire lives.

  At the same time that I cross the threshold, I also enter the hospital communications network, and I start getting general broadcast messages from my coworkers. I note that the tone of the conversation is unusual.

  As I ride an elevator and two travelators through the 1.2 million square feet of hospital to get to the neuro ward on the seventh floor, I read with interest.

  | Derrick: Y’all, we’ve got another live one. Room #730. Acute paranoia. |

  | Sara: Does anyone know if they’re calling in extra doctors? |

  | Abhay: They’re saying we might hit drive-by in the next few days if this keeps up. |

  My eyebrows go up. “Drive-by” means that if an ambulance or a cop is bringing someone in, they’re supposed to keep right on driving, because our beds are full and we aren’t taking anybody.

  | Tolony: Wow, drive-by? Do we ever get that, even around Halloween? I mean, even during a full moon during Halloween? I’ve heard that’s the busy time. |

  | Rhonda: I’ve never seen a neuro ward on drive-by. Not even here at Grady. |

  < Hey, peeps. I’m here to help. What’s got everybody so busy? >

  | Deonte: A lot of aggressive and paranoid people in the last twenty-four hours. |

  | Melita: It’s seriously weird. |

  | Sara: Oh, good, Phoebe. I’ve got seventeen new cases to give you. |

  < Wow—you’ve had seventeen new cases since yesterday? >

  | Sara: No, we’ve had twenty-nine. These seventeen are the ones I need to give you. |

  Ugh. My stomach sinks. I’m about to be overwhelmed. Dealing with “neurologically impaired” patients is stressful at best, and this is going to be a hell of an evening.

  | Sara: Don’t get written up again, Phoebe. |

  I glower. Is she reading my mind now?

&nbs
p; < Okay, now I’m regretting that I even told you about those write-ups. Sheesh. Mind your own beeswax. >

  I’m only aggravated because she’s right. I have a history of getting angry with the doctors when I’m already stressed and I think they’re not acting in the best interests of the patients, which I think half a dozen times a day.

  | Sara: Just sayin’. Didn’t you tell me you’ve gotten fired from two other hospitals already? |

  < One, woman. One. >

  | Sara: Didn’t management recommend an attitude-improvement plan? |

  < That’s it. I’m never telling you anything ever again. >

  Grumbling all the way, I head to the break room and fix myself some coffee in the biggest mug I can find. I down it, and then I fix myself another cup to take with me.

  I hate those Navi-based attitude-improvement plans. I tried one once, for maybe forty-five minutes, before I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  As I head down to my ward, I notice that I’m experiencing tightness in my chest and mild heart palpitations. I’ve had this almost daily for a couple of weeks now. The symptoms probably say something about how stressful my work is.

  They may also say something about the sheer quantity of coffee I drink.

  A few minutes later, I’m finishing the handover of extra cases from Sara in the south wing. My side of the ward—the north side—now has fifty-seven total patients, which is a lot for me, two LVNs, and three techs. We have only three beds left. Hopefully, Dr. Pienaar can get some of these folks moved out tonight. But I’m super curious about why there are so many.

  Sara is the other day-shift RN in my ward, but she handles the south side. The LVNs—Licensed Vocational Nurses—and technicians handle most of the work, with us RNs supervising, but when things are this busy, we still have to do a lot of hands-on work ourselves.

  I begin my day with a room-by-room environmental check for plastic bags, glass, fire-making materials, etc. I don’t trust my techs or LVNs to do it carefully enough. Next, I supervise the initial dispensing of any new meds that the LVNs can’t handle by themselves and double-check all the med pulls. I’ve had patients suffer serious adverse reactions because they got the wrong meds, and I hate it.

  Then, I start my rounds. I have my Navi calculate how many minutes I have with each patient morning and afternoon—today, it’s 4.35 minutes, which is absurd. Normally, I try to breeze through the patients when I can so that I can spend an extra couple of minutes with those who are distressed and wanting to talk, but today, I’m going to be sprinting from room to room.

  All the while, I’m getting more messages.

  | Bourey: What I wanna know is, why are all the new patients either pissed off or scared to death? Are hallucinations not trendy anymore or what? |

  | Derrick: I feel ya, man. Not a single one who’s suicidal or obsessive, either. |

  | Melita: FYI, shift change told me #719 almost managed to set a fire again last night.|

  I grimace. Patient #719 has summoned firefighters three times in two weeks.

  < Is night shift handing out lighters now or something? >

  | Bourey: Yeah, yeah, yeah. |

  | Thiago: Anyone else scared spitless of #712? I don’t believe in demons, mind you, but that man is possessed. |

  < Yes. He is creepy as hell. It’s gotta be a biotech mod, right? >

  His eyes light up red. It was seriously unsettling when I saw it for the first time, especially given that he was cackling maniacally and screaming into my Navi, “You will burn in the fires of hell!” Especially given that I was raised by an ultra-conservative religious family.

  !!! Emergency message—All available personnel: Room #717. !!

  I’m just leaving #728, so I’m available. I book it.

  Two

  Shouting comes to my ears as I round the corner toward #717. I get almost to the doorway, and then there’s a man-sized shape in a hospital gown and a blur of motion. An impact knocks the breath out of me. I hit the wall, then the floor, and scramble for footing.

  My Navi sounds a siren in the front of my mind, as if I didn’t know already.

  !!! Danger! Personal risk of injury! Run away! !!!

  Strong hands grab my arms, the pressure painful. I grit my teeth, unwilling to cry out. His eyes are red-rimmed, his face contorted. Then there are others around me, helping to pull the man away. My Navi identifies him before I do—Paul Davis—and delivers his messages. Since we’re face-to-face, it goes back to audible mode.

  << Get away from me! Get away! >>

  I pull on all my reserves of empathy instead of getting defensive.

  < What’s wrong? What do you need? >

  Davis wrestles against the techs, fighting hard. Bourey, an LVN, is approaching with a jet injector.

  << You’re not going to hurt me. No one is going to hurt me! >>

  < You’re afraid. Something is scaring you. >

  It sounds simplistic, but I learned a long time ago that this kind of language calms people down quickly.

  Davis suddenly goes limp, collapsing like a toddler about to have a tantrum. Bourey hasn’t even hit him with the sedative yet. I kneel next to Davis.

  < You’re scared. Tell me what’s scaring you. >

  He doesn’t respond. He’s broken down into sobs, wrapped in a fetal position, now rocking himself back and forth.

  Bourey kneels, too, and taps the injector against the side of Davis’s neck. He cries out once and then tries to scrabble back into a corner. The techs stay close but let him get to the corner. Once there, he huddles, abject. I keep my distance.

  < Navi, include Bourey and Douglas with Davis. >

  This will send any messages that I send to Davis to the other two as well.

  < Davis, tell me what’s scaring you. We’ll keep you safe, I promise. >

  He doesn’t reply. He cowers with his arms over his head as if he’s expecting a beating.

  < You’re so frightened. So frightened. >

  He looks up at me, some sort of expression on his face. The medication starts to kick in. His pupils dilate.

  < Can you tell me what’s scaring you? >

  << Everything. Everything. >>

  < Okay. Everything is scary. I can see that. Can we go into this room over here where you’ll be safer than in the hallway? >

  After he looks around and sees where I’m pointing, he seems to evaluate and then nods. He scrambles into the room and hides behind the bed. Like a frightened child, he peeks up from behind the bed.

  << Who are you? Where am I? >>

  < This is Grady Hospital. I’m Nurse Phoebe. >

  I come into the room and sit on a chair opposite the bed, minimizing any movements that might seem threatening. It’s amazing how my attitude problems vanish when I’m genuinely needed. I wave off the techs, the real excitement over for now.

  << Am I sick? Oh God… what do I have? >>

  < There’s something wrong with your brain, and it’s causing you to be frightened. We can help you, though. We’ll fix it. >

  << Oh no… I’m going to die. >>

  Davis collapses to the floor, his hands over his face, crying again.

  < No, sir, you’re not going to die. We’re going to fix your brain. >

  He peeks out again. << Do you promise? >>

  < Yes, I promise. >

  I’m not even lying. The new smart drugs, coupled with Navi guidance, have made psychiatric issues eminently treatable. The hardest part is getting people into treatment.

  He sits up slowly.

  < How are you feeling now? Are you still as frightened? >

  << No… I feel better. >>

  < Will you sit on the bed so I can check your blood pressure? >

  It takes me a few moments to coax him up off the floor. I have to show him that I don’t have any weapons and point out that I’m a smallish and not-very-strong woman before he lets me come close. His paranoia seems all-encompassing.

  I check all his vitals, ask Bourey what medicine he gav
e him, and notice that eight hours have passed since he was last dosed. The sedatives tend to run in seven to eight hours, so his had probably worn off.

  < The doctor will be in to see you shortly. He was already scheduled to see you about now. >