The lights are off, with the exception of a dim glow in the corner, just enough for the nurse to see her computer screen as she types.
She turns her head to the sound, smiling, silently welcoming me into the room with a smile and a nod. Her graying hair is neatly tied in a long braid down the center of her back, the award pins on her badge clinking as she moves.
“I’m Meg,” I whisper, pulling the door shut behind me. “Marissa’s–”
“Guardian,” she finishes my sentence. “I’m Ramona. The Residences mentioned you were meeting her here.” She adjusts her glasses, her warm smile sedating some of my fried nerves.
My gaze falls past her shoulder to the hospital bed behind her, my bottom lip trembling at the sleeping form curled under a thick layer of heated blankets. My feet are in motion, reachingfor a small, faded maroon rolling stool in the corner and taking a seat near Marissa’s head.
I reach a hand up to smooth the hair away from her forehead, finding her skin warm and damp. I let my hand slide down her shoulder, squeezing it once before moving the rest of the way down to clasp her hand in mine. “Hi Missy,” I whisper softly into her ear. “It’s Meggy. It’ll be okay. We’ll figure out what’s going on and get you feeling better. Promise.”
I don’t expect a response, I haven’t been foolish enough to expect a real response for the last few months now, but that doesn’t stop me from talking. On a good day, I get almost smiles and sluggish eye rolls, and on bad days, it’s like this. I know that deep down, somewhere inside the synapses of her brain, that she heard me. She understands that I’m here even if there isn’t the slightest physical reaction to my voice.
The blood pressure cuff wrapped around her upper arm inflates, the familiar hum of the machine filling the room, followed by the slow tick, tick, tick as it deflates. The monitor beeps angrily as her numbers crawl across the screen, and I squint my eyes to make sure I’m reading them right.
The nurse looks over her shoulder at the flashing red numbers as well.
“Sepsis?” I question, judging by the vital signs on the screen.
The nurse nods, looking back and forth from the monitor to the computer as she types. “She has an elevated white blood cell count, and her urine is pretty foul. We suspect it’s secondary to a urinary tract infection. The doctor ordered a urinalysis and blood cultures, which we are still waiting on.”
I lift the layers of blanket covering Marissa’s shivering body, finding the catheter tube secured to her leg. I follow its path down to the bag hanging at the foot of the bed, noting her urine is nearly the color of coca cola. “What in the actual fuck,”I mutter. “What did the facility report? Did they send any paperwork or notes?”
She hands me a stack of papers sitting atop a manila envelope, and my blood roars as I peruse the nursing notes.
Jackson and I visit Marissa at her facility at least three times a week. I call on the off days to ask for updates, and not once has someone mentioned that she’s not eating, that she’s been running fevers that could cause serious damage to someone in her condition.
A week's worth of notes are held in my hands, documenting issues that I should have known about days ago. Infections can brew within hours, I know that. But when I called yesterday, I was told there were no changes.
Ramona leans over the head of the bed to grab a package of oxygen tubing off the wall. She tears through the packaging and I reach for it, tucking the cannula in Marissa’s nose as the nurse turns the oxygen to three liters.
“We got lucky with the doctor working tonight. He works in the ER because he loves the pace but has a background in Neurology. He’s certified from some fancy board and has a special interest in traumatic brain injury patients. He’s been back and forth with the staff at the facility since she came in. Once he finishes next door, he will be in to talk with you about his other findings.”
My brows pull together. “What other findings?” I flip through the papers again, quickly scanning the nursing notes from the past two days.
Ramona ushers me over to the other side of the bed. I toss the paperwork on the counter next to me before crossing the room. She leans over as she begins lowering the head of the bed, keeping her voice low and calm as she tells Marissa that she’s going to roll her on her side.
Some of the ice surrounding my heart melts away seeing this nurse take care of my sister. She’s not manhandling her or pretending that she’s a vegetable and no longer a person. She’s treating her the same as she would someone who is wide-eyed and talking.
Once she rolls her to her side, I help rotate a leg over her opposite knee, and Ramona lifts the bedding to show me her bottom. I’ve seen a lot of nasty, infected wounds in my nursing career, yet I still can’t silence the gasp that escapes me.
I nod once, maneuvering Marissa’s body back into a more comfortable position, pulling the blankets up to her shoulders.
“The doctor is ordering further imaging to ensure the infection hasn’t reached the bone.”
It’s all I can do to nod, thankful the doctor is being overly cautious. I wish it wasn’t the middle of the night, and that I had the address for the facility administrator so I could march down to their house, rip them out of bed, and tear them a new one for their obvious lack of care for my sister.
“Can I get you anything?” Ramona prompts, breaking me out of my daze.
I return to my stool, using my feet to move closer to the bedside and resume my position, lifting Marissa’s hand into mine. “No, thank you. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”
She nods. “Once Dr. Charlebois is finished next door, he will come and talk with you about his recommendations.”
“Thank yo—” I cut myself off. I knew he worked here, in the ER, but with the rush of the phone call and the late hour it never occurred to me that he might be the doctor working tonight.
A knock on the door sounds, both of us turning to see the familiar head of golden blond hair enter.
Jim gives a soft smile to the nurse before turning to me, his expression falling.
