Chapter 2

The surgical floor at St. Anthony Hospital is simple and easy to navigate, laid out in a way that leaves little chance of getting lost, even on your first day. The main door opens to the treatment room on the left and a stock room on the right, and beyond that, the patient rooms begin. The first two rooms on either side are large, each holding four beds. Post-operative patients needing immediate care, along with those dealing with complications, are placed there, with a nurse always assigned. It feels less like a regular ward and more like a high dependency unit.

Past those rooms is the nurses’ station, with a staff room directly across from it. From there, single rooms run along both sides of the hallway until the very end, where another stock room and a doctor’s restroom sit side by side.

I’m usually terrible with directions, but the layout is straightforward enough that I find my way around faster than I expect.

I start from one end, looking for Kim, but she’s nowhere in sight. She was doing rounds when I took Mr. Greg to the treatment room, but now a different nurse has taken over. She’s tied up answering the doctors, so I don’t get a chance to talk to her. I stop another nurse who’s busy giving meds and ask where Kim is. She shakes her head and turns her attention back to what she’s doing. I ask a few more people, but no one seems to know where Kim is.

Eventually, I make my way back and ask the nurse doing rounds. Her name is Marty. She tells me to check the break room. I was there earlier and didn’t see Kim, but I’ll go back anyway. This time, she’s sitting at the table, eating. It feels strange how hectic the floor is, yet she’s here having food.

“I was here a few minutes ago looking for you, but I didn’t see you,” I say.

“I was in the washroom,” she replies.

“Having breakfast?” I ask.

“Yeah. It’s early,” she says, glancing at her watch. “I’m diabetic. I felt dizzy and knew my blood sugar was dropping, so I took a five-minute break to eat.” She grabs a drink and takes a sip with a trembling hand, then looks up at me. “Do you want anything?”

I clear my throat. “Apparently, Dr. Keller doesn’t want my help with the dressing change. He’d rather you assist him.”

“Daniel…” she says, rolling her eyes. “Tell him I’m having breakfast.”

I hesitate. “Anyone else can help him?”

She studies my face for a moment. “Why? Wasn’t he nice to you?”

“He didn’t like my help. Or the way I did things,” I say.

She pauses, then pulls out her phone and dials. As soon as the call connects, she says, “My sugar again. I’m taking a short rest.”

There’s a pause.

“I saw the doctor, Daniel. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Another pause.

“All my blood work came back normal, so I don’t think there’s anything else to do.”

Another pause.

“I’ll do that.”

From the conversation alone, it’s clear Dr. Keller is taking a particular interest in Kim’s health. I wonder if there’s something she isn’t telling me. Maybe she’s dealing with more than diabetes. The way he takes time with it makes me think that.

Then she says, “Listen, everyone’s busy. You’ll have to adjust to Amelia. She’s new but great, isn’t she?”

Silence follows.

From the way Kim’s face loses colour, I can guess Dr. Keller’s response. All I hear next is “mm-hmm” from her side. It goes on longer than it should. I don’t understand how he has so many complaints about me after barely five minutes together.

Kim ends the call and looks at me. “You can go help him.”

I turn to leave. As I reach the door, she asks quietly, “Was he rude to you?”

I don’t want to cry on my first day. If I open my mouth, I know I will. So I shrug without looking at her and walk away.

In the treatment room, I face the same stone-faced Dr. Keller.

“That took only a few minutes,” he says.

I say nothing.

Mr. Greg is on the table, half his wound exposed as Dr. Keller removes the old dressing. He turns to throw it into the garbage bin on the dressing trolley and freezes. There’s no garbage bag.

His face tightens with anger, and he shoots me a glare.

“You want to put it on your face?” he asks, holding up the blood-soaked dressing.

I don’t respond. I grab a garbage bag and pull it over the bin attached to the trolley. He drops the dressing in, strips off his gloves, washes his hands, and dries them.

My hands are shaking as I open the sterile dressing tray and place it on top of the trolley.

“Betadine,” he says, pulling on new gloves.

I check the bottom drawer first, since that’s where solutions are usually kept, but it isn’t there.

“In there,” he snaps, pointing to the third drawer. I find it. “Next time, prepare everything in advance,” he says.

My chest eases, just a little. So there is a next time. The way he’s been treating me, I wasn’t sure there would be.

I open the Betadine and pour some. My arm trembles, and a few drops spill over the edge of the container.

His glare sharpens. “Put it on my face then,” he yells.

I close the bottle and step back, keeping my distance. I’m honestly afraid he might hurt me.

He cleans the wound carefully, methodically, using a single piece of gauze for each area, moving from inside to outside.

“More gauze,” he snaps.

I hand it over, nearly dropping it into the Betadine. He takes a slow breath, clearly holding himself in check.

I can’t stop shaking. It’s coming from inside me, and he’s the reason. This has never happened to me before in my nursing career.

When he asks for a dry dressing, I open it slowly and carefully. I don’t let it touch anything. I hold it open from both sides, keeping it lifted so he can pull it out himself.

As he reaches for it, the dressing brushes his wrist.

He stares at me, disbelief flashing across his face. He yanks off his gloves and throws them onto the floor. Then he storms to the door, leaves it wide open, and yells, “Out.”

I walk straight into a group of doctors leaving after rounds. They look confused as they pass me, and the tears I’ve been holding back finally spill down my cheeks.