It was hard. Incredibly so. I spent a lot of time consoling a destroyed mother and placating a very angry father. I had been both punching bag and shoulder to cry on. But that was my job and I bore everything the family threw at me.
I worked with grief services to coordinate counseling. I talked with Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair about their options for Ryan’s on-going care.
We discussed instituting aDo Not Resuscitateplan.
But Ryan didn’t die.
And he didn’t remain a vegetable either.
I visited with his parents day after day while the little boy fought with everything he had.
One of my fondest memories would always be the morning they pulled the tube out of his tiny, little throat and he began breathing on his own.
I had been standing beside his bed, Mrs. Sinclair had been holding onto her husband. All of our eyes were trained on the tiny body lying in the bed. The doctor slowly, carefully pulled the tube from his mouth.
And we waited.
And waited.
The minute his chest began to rise and fall, his mother fell to her knees sobbing. His father covered his face and wept.
And I stood there; smiling so wide that my cheeks ached for hours afterwards.
Ryan eventually woke up. Remarkably, with no long-term brain damage. His recovery had baffled his doctors, but not his family.
“He’s the strongest person I know. Of course he’ll be fine,” his father had said proudly just after Ryan had finally opened his eyes for the first time since before the accident.
Ryan Sinclair had been discharged from the hospital two weeks ago. Happy, healthy, and ready to go back to school.
“They’re an amazing family. I’m just glad I could help them in whatever way I could,” I said simply, embarrassed by the compliment.
Jason shook his head. “You give yourself too little credit, Imogen.”
I cleared my throat and shuffled through the new paperwork again. “I guess I should go check on the new patient then.”
“The police were back an hour ago and took a picture of him. They’re going to start trying to ID the man. Or at least get a name. They already notified the homeless coordinator so I’m expecting a busy day for you.”
“I should get a jump start on it then. Tracey gets a little territorial over these cases. If I want to get a leg up I don’t have any time to waste.” I got to my feet and grabbed the folder.
Tracey Higgins was the local homeless coordinator and we had worked together a lot over the years. She proclaimed herself the knight in shining armor for the city’s homeless. Her ego made it impossible to like her. Her self-indulgent savior complex made physical violence a very real possibility. But I had perfected the art of smiling politely all the while thinking of very horrible names I’d like to call her if given the opportunity.
“Don’t let her push you around. We all know how Tracey gets when she feels self-righteous and entitled,” Jason said firmly.
I patted my well-meaning boss’s arm as I passed by him on my way out of my office. “I can handle Tracey. I’ve dealt with worse people than her.”
“I know you can, Imogen. You’re one tough cookie. After everything you’ve been through lately with Chris—”
“I’ve got to get upstairs,” I said, cutting him off. I didn’t want to talk about my ex-husband. Or my upcoming divorce. Or how Ishouldbe dealing with the end of my five-year marriage.
I sure as hell wasn’t going to admit to Jason Valerio that I felt very little about any of it. It wasn’t like I was numb. I was just indifferent.
The truth was that had been what killed the marriage in the first place.
My overall lack ofinterest.
Jason frowned, but didn’t push me. He knew better. “Okay, well I’ll check in with you later.”
“Thanks, Jason,” I said sincerely, closing the office door behind us. With a final wave, I headed towards the elevator.
