Echoes

“Merry Christmas,” the voice whispers. “I’m just here to check your vitals.” Opening my eyelids feels like trying to lift a shovel with two feet of wet snow on it. Please let it be shorter. From the glow of the heart rate monitor, my stomach drops as I see it looks longer, if anything. The red line runs from the infected cut in my swollen hand up my arm tracing its way a few inches past my elbow. I’m too frightened to ask what will happen when the red line finishes connecting the dots between my hand, elbow, and heart. “Vitals are the same: fever of 102 degrees, heart rate is normal, and blood pressure is a little low. The doctors are doing rounds and Dr. Yang will be in soon to talk with you about your treatment.”

“I hope you can head home to your family soon,” I whisper hoarsely to the nurse, and glance at my husband slumped over in the recliner to see if he is still sleeping. The click of the door closing wakes him, and he wipes the drool from his chin.

“How is the arm looking?” Dante asks mid-yawn.

“Not any better. How many days have I been here for? I can’t keep track. I know it’s crazy, but I feel like this is the third Christmas I’ve spent here.”

“Even just a single Christmas here is one is too many. The good news is my mom’s bringing the kids today with the presents from under the tree so you can see them open their gifts.”

“I wish we didn’t have to celebrate Christmas in the hospital. I’d give anything to be snuggled up on the sofa with you watching our kids tear into their presents.”

“It’s one Christmas. We’ll make up for it with an amazing Christmas next year. How about Christmas with luau skirts and waterfalls next year in Hawaii!”

“Sign me up,” I reply, wincing as I adjust my infected arm so that the IV with the antibiotics isn’t bent. I jump when I hear a knock on the door. For a split second I hope it’s my kids, but they would just come crashing through the door yelling over one another.

Dr. Yang walks in wearing a Santa hat and a sympathetic smile, “Morning, how are you feeling today?”

I appreciate that she skips saying “good” before morning. “Been better.”

“And we’d all like to see you better again,” she says while examining the red line. “It’s clear the antibiotic isn’t having the results we’d hoped for. We have a new, experimental drug we could try, and it’s likely our only remaining line of defense against sepsis.”

I glance down at the red line. Are my eyes playing tricks on me, or is the line even higher up my arm? Dante comes over and squeezes my good arm. Making eye contact, he gives me an encouraging nod.

“Never thought I’d find myself asking Santa to bring a new, experimental drug for Christmas,” I say trying to muster a brave smile.

Dr. Yang checks her watch, “I’ll get this ordered and you should be able to start it in the next hour.” She gives a hopeful smile before leaving.

Dante and I look at each other, neither of us wanting to say what might happen if the treatment doesn’t work. “Want me to find some bad reality tv?” Dante asks, picking up the hospital remote. This is the first time in our fifteen-year relationship he’s offered to put on one of my bad reality tv shows. I nod off as one housewife starts screaming in another housewife’s face.

I wake up with a gasp. It feels like an ice bath flowing inside my arm. I look in alarm at my husband and then the nurse.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” the nurse says as she checks the IV drip. “We just started the IV and you should start feeling better in no time. It’s going to run for an hour. I will come back to check on you in twenty minutes.”

“Is it normal for it to feel so cold?” I ask, trying to fill my lungs with a big gulp of air. I yank up the thin blanket with my good hand.

“Yes, that’s completely normal,” the nurse says while squirting hand sanitizer on her hands and leaving the room.

Within minutes, the room starts to spin. I focus on a black smudge on the wall straight ahead of me willing the spinning to stop. I feel like I can’t catch my breath as the room starts to go dark. “Nurse! We need help!” is the last thing I hear.

***

“Merry Christmas,” the voice whispers, “I’m here to check your vitals.” It’s a struggle to open my eyelids. Please let it be shorter. From the hallway light peeking through the blinds, I see it looks longer. Dammit. The red line runs from the infected cut in my swollen hand winding its way up my arm. “Vitals are the same. Fever of 102 degrees, heart rate is normal, and blood pressure is a little low. The doctors are doing rounds and Dr. Yang will be in soon to talk with you about your treatment.”

“Merry Christmas,” I croak back to the nurse, glancing at my husband to see if he’s awake. The click of the door closing wakes him, and he wipes the drool from his chin.

“How is the arm looking?” Dante asks, peering at it.  

“Not any better. How many days have I been here for? I can’t keep track. I know this sounds a little insane, but I feel like this is the fourth Christmas I’ve spent here.”

“Even just a single Christmas here is one is too many.”

***

“Didn’t you just finish that level?” Craig asks, looking over Marie’s shoulder at the computer screen of the patient in the hospital bed connected to the IV drip and the heart rate monitor.

“This is my fourth attempt. My last time through the simulation I couldn’t even keep her alive long enough to survive the experimental treatment. I don’t know how I’m going to pass this Patient Care class. Maybe nursing isn’t my calling.”

“You’ve got this,” Craig says while rubbing Marie’s back. “This simulation is the best place to try out different approaches you’d be too apprehensive to try in the real world. The patients can’t feel anything and, if they die, you just reset the level.”

Taking a deep breath, Marie turns back to the screen.