She leads me to the patient’s doorway and stops.
“Go in and see if she needs anything. Change her linens. Clean out her trash can… if she has one. Otherwise, pick up the trash on the floor, and if you moan about it, I’ll send you over to Horny Hank’s room. Which I’m pretty sure is the last place you want to go.” Her round face scowls at me. Whenever she talks, the imposing mole on her chin speaks to me with its three straw-like hairs protruding. It’s hard not to fixate on them.
Why doesn’t she pluck them?
I enter my patient’s room and take a moment to look around. There’s no one here. The silence disturbs me. Perplexed, I stand and scrutinize the room.
Now what?
I gather the dirty sheets and drop them on the floor. I glance down and that’s when I see the body. Her snow-white hair lies matted across her forehead. Her urine-soaked hospital gown is stained with feces and plastered to her body like saran wrap. Her chest doesn’t move. I kneel and check her for a pulse, breathing, anything to indicate she’s alive. No response.
Straightening up, I feel numb. This patient probably fell out of bed and no one heard or helped her. Maybe she would’ve died even with help, but either way she was alone, and I can’t help but feel bad for her.
My mind wanders to my father. He abhorred situations like this and that’s exactly why he spoke out. He risked everything by opposing the commander, yet he did it regardless. I hope I possess his bravery, his compassion, and his belief in the dignity of others. Moments like this test my resolve to the core, though. I look at the lady lying before me, and the indecency of her plight makes my neck tighten and my nerves edgy. I turn in one swift motion and bolt back to the nurse’s station.
“She’s rotten, isn’t she? Nasty old hag. What did she want this time?” the head nurse asks.
“She didn’t say a word…” My voice trails off as I try to suppress my emotions.
“Well, did you at least change her linens?”
“No.” I take a step forward and look her full in the face. “She’s dead.”
“Oh. Well, she’s better off stiff.” Her lips draw down in a look of dismay. “I guess you’ll need a new patient, then.” She flips through her charts like nothing happened. I wonder how she does it.
“Give her Alyssa,” a quiet voice from behind her says. “I need a break.” A nurse with silky, black hair peers from behind the charge nurse. She pulls her hair back from her face, revealing an orange brand—gluttony—which distracts me, and I want to punch myself for judging her by the color of her brand.
“I’m not sure she can handle her.”
“She needs someone to take care of her, and I’m not going to do it,” the quiet girl says. “I can’t.”
“Okay, she’s all yours.” The charge nurse points toward a wooden door at the end of the hallway. “Room six.”
“What’s wrong with her?” I’m not thrilled about meeting another patient after the last one turned up dead.
“She’s sick,” the head nurse huffs.
I get the feeling I’m missing some crucial piece of information and she’s not willing to give it to me. So I shake it off and stand straight before putting my hands on my hips. “I’m not going anywhere till you tell me. You can’t expect me to just walk in there and pretend I know what’s wrong.” The head nurse gives me a stern look. “Please.”
“There’s nothing we can do for her except try to keep her comfortable. Her pain is difficult to manage. Sutton’s trying everything he possibly can, but there isn’t enough morphine here and the commander won’t allow us to have more medicines since it’s all for sinners anyway. What she has now is all we have left. So we need to make it last until she—” The quiet nurse chokes on her words. “Until she dies.”
I’m still as a statue, hardened like stone. They want me to take care of someone who’s dying? My heart sinks into my stomach, churning with anxiety.
“She’s too weak to get out of bed, so you’ll need to give her a bed sponge bath, and please, whatever you do, make sure you don’t drop her IV bag. If you do, the gravity will cause her blood to go back up into the IV line and possibly into the morphine bag, which will dilute it and make it harder to administer the correct dosage.”
The charge nurse describes the IV, what it looks like, where it hangs, and how it enters her veins. And she says not to touch her blood no matter what. My head spins with the newly acquired information.
“Whatever she has lives in her bloodstream and it’s lethal.” The dark-haired nurse hands me a paper. It reads like a tombstone, her name carved in black letters on the thin sheet of paper.
Alyssa Jenkins.