sunshine-flavored kisses: August 2013

20 August 2013

Thirst

I've been stuck in my patient's room all night.

He's only a wee one, 2 years younger than my sweet girl. He is just as lovely. My little yellow towhead has large brown eyes that stare back at me. I pull up my chair and hold his hand for the worst part of his dialysis. I sing to him for his daddy, who cooed to him earlier in the evening, the sweetest lullabies. I kiss his warm hand for his mama who is asleep down the hall. Tuck him in tight and I rub his head and watch his lashes flutter closed.

Three hours in one room can leave a mouth parched.

So I vacate my station and head down the hall for a drink, and realize it's the first time I've emerged.

There's a post op bleeding out. Her arterial wave goes flat as I walk by. A nurse voice raises.

Water will wait.

Thirty minutes and two units of red cells and some saline later, I hang a left and take two steps in my quest for a moist tongue.

There's a new trauma two doors down and all my friends are at the party. Blood dripping. Rushed and hurried voices. I hear the surgeon call for more blood. The family of the boy comes in. Eyes to the floor. There's a scrambling of finding enough chairs for cousins, friends, uncles.

The wailing starts. Grandma went down. Water will wait.

My pocket alarm sounds.

Time to change my dialysis, I head down the hall back to my sweet babe. A mother's cries echo.

My lips crack.

Water.

Two hours later and I'm sure my blood pressure is zero.

Water, now. Water.

My door creaks and my towhead cries for me to stay. Just one minute, sweet boy.

Across the hall the neurosurgeon breaks bad news. These cries hang heavy in the air and needle my core. The halls vibrate sorrow. Wailing. Deep guttural wailing. My stomach flips, I try to swallow but my throat is sandpaper and my eyes are sticky. Water.

It's 4am. Where did the night go? No time for pottying. There's an abandoned takeout menu and cash on the desk, well past closing time. No time for dinner anyway.

Ventilators alarm. Patients need saving. Medications are late. Diapers need to be changed. Patients are dying.

Water will wait.