He laughs, and I lean forward on the couch, pushing my hands to the sides of his legs so I can lean over and steal his glass of water. I down the last of it, holding the glass to my chest as my mind floods with ideas of what Chewy had stuck in him. “This one will stick with me for a while. Okay, okay.” I playfully slap his knee as I get closer, tucking my legs next to his. “Now time for an exciting story.”
He scratches a palm over his two-day-old scruff, eyes flicking to the television that’s been on mute all evening. Since Jackson went to bed, Jim and I crashed on the couch with the rest of the wine, catching up on anything and everything as if we hadn’t seen each other a few days ago.
“Honestly, it was mostly your routine cases—chest pain, abdominal pain, shortness of breath, suspected infection. It didn’t happen today, but my coolest case ever was just last week when I cut someone’s chest open like a clamshell.”
I sit forward, hands coming out to cling to his forearm. “You what? You sawed through someone’s breastbone? Or how does that work?”
“We had a young guy bring himself in, got stabbed a few times in the chest and guts during a bar fight. Somehow managed to drive himself to the ER and was sitting up, talking. We weren’t moving as fast as we should have because the way he was acting it seemed superficial.
Mid-sentence he suddenly couldn’t breathe, turned ghost-white, and started coughing up blood. It was insane. None of the basic treatments we did would help. I tried to decompress, but there was so much blood now literally pouring out of him. He was on the verge of cardiac arrest, we needed to get inside to find the exact source of the bleeding, so in a split-second decision I decided on the clamshell.”
“I made a horizontal cut along his chest.” Jim’s hand runs under his left pec, across his chest to curve under his right pec. “Once the cut was made, we opened him up, divided the muscles out of our way, retracted the ribs—by that time they had paged cardiothoracic surgery so I wasn’t torturing the guy. They came around the time I was about to saw through the sternum, so I handed it over and watched as they sawed a horizontal line through the sternum, cracked it open like a clam and exposed his heart and lungs. It was awesome. They were able to find the source of the bleeding, nip it in the bud, regulate his heart rate, and get him somewhat stable enough to transfer to the OR to finish up.”
Jim pauses, finally looking at my face and I stare back. Completely in awe, slack-jawed at his story. How he can talk about the craziest thing I have ever heard as if it was just another Tuesday at the office. If I was a part of that, I’d tell that story at every cocktail party and use it as a fun fact to introduce myself for the rest of my life. Even on my most exciting day on the med-surg unit, I never saw anything nearly as cool. “I think for the first time in my life…I’m speechless.”
Jim laughs. “I think that’s why you need to come work in the ER. Ryan mentioned that you were interested in that sort of thing.”
I furrow my brows, trying to remember when Ryan and I had a recent conversation about changing jobs. It was my dream long before Marissa’s accident, but her and Jackson’s needs changed everything. “Someday, yeah. I’d love a job like that. But right now it’s not in the cards for me.”
He reaches his arms out, opening them wide, and like a moth to a flame I crawl into his lap. My head rests on his chest and I burrow myself in, breathing in his scent and letting it relax me more than the most expensive glass of wine ever could.
“Give me one good reason it’s not in the cards for you.”
“Well, for one, Jackson.”
“If something happened during school while you were in the middle of a twelve-hour shift, there are other people who would be happy to help out.”
There would be. Jenna and Lainey have offered numerous times over the past two years. When I first told them that I was quitting the unit all three of us were working on, they begged me to reconsider, to talk to our supervisor about scheduling us all on opposite days, so there would be at least one person available if Jackson or Marissa had an emergency. Their offer was tempting, but the more I thought about it, I didn’t want anyone else to have to shoulder the burden I chose. I have my parents, who have been my biggest supporters throughout my entire time with them. I know they would take Jackson every single day if I needed the help, but I also see how they’re slowing down. Some days, my dad can barely walk, and even though my mom is hell on wheels, there are days when she deals with her own healthproblems. Shoving a rambunctious five-year-old on them would be draining.
Pretty soon Jenna is going to be a momma to four, and Lainey will be a new Nurse Practitioner busting her ass to prove herself. They will likely continue to offer help, because that’s the type of people they are, but I know deep down they’re going to be caught up in their own lives with little time to spare.
“I know, but I already feel guilty having to ask for help when an emergency comes up.” Asking someone to help out once in a while is different than expecting them to get Jackson to school, to pick him up and feed him dinner, help with homework once he’s older and occupy him until I get home.
“What if someone offered? Or better yet, what if someone demanded you work a job you love, and demanded you let them help with Jackson?”
I laugh, rolling my head into his chest. “Do you really think someone could demand something of me, and I’d give in?”
He wraps his arms around my core, playfully squeezing me a little too tight. His voice lowers, lips pressed against my temple as he speaks. “If memory serves me right, there are times when you like someone telling you what to do.”
My entire body heats at the memory of his rough words. I roll my head to the side to rest my chin on his chest, the position putting us dangerously close. He runs a hand over my hair, smoothing it back and over my shoulders with a delicate touch. I study his lips, the faint five o’clock shadow lining his jaw.
“When did you switch to twenty-four hour shifts?”
His eyes widen, hand pausing on the back of my head for just a second before he continues his movements. “A few weeks ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugs. “I guess it never came up in conversation.”
“Why’d you switch?”
His hand falls to my shoulders, lightly massaging, and I prop myself up a little on my arms.
“I had been thinking about it for a while. We used to work a week of twelves, then have a week off. I liked that when I was younger, but by the last few shifts I’m dead on my feet. I also didn’t like being tied up for an entire week. We then had the option to work three sets of twelve hour days, but it varied between days and nights. With this schedule I work every third or fourth day, and I can steal naps here and there if it’s a slower night.”
My eyes scan his face, looking for the subtle hints that he isn’t telling the whole truth. He gave the entire speech with his focus solely on my hair, never making eye contact. And for the most part, I’ve learned that Jim is a shit liar.
“Okay, so you switched only because you’re an old man and can’t handle going to bed past eight o’clock?”
