I honestly thought Harris was going to die.
He looked worse than the first time he was admitted, ticked all the boxes for septic shock. The prognosis for that is bad, like really bad: mortality can be as high as eighty percent. Barb kept putting a hand on my shoulder and reminding me that Harris wasn’t my patient, that I was just a trainee, that none of this was my fault.
It just reminded me of the opportunity I’d had to speak up when he left last time with his dad. What has Harris endured over the last fortnight? What the hell happened to him?
I should have said something earlier. I should have acted.
He teetered for fourteen hours. Part of me understood that if Barb was really worried, she would have transferred him straight to Mildura ICU. But I’ve seen it before: patients who come in looking okay can take a sudden perilous turn. Like three months ago, with Mr Janssen – he’d seemed fine, then he had a secondary stroke, deteriorated within the space of hours, and we lost him.
And it wasn’t only a physical battle with Harris. His eyes looked dead. Sometimes it’s the mental and emotional war that takes more effort. He didn’t look like he had any effort left to give. When I came off night shift, he was responding to treatment from people way more qualified than me, so I went home. But what he said when he was admitted gave me a bad feeling. I ended up coming in for my shift early on Saturday evening so I could see how he was getting on.
Which is how I came to be verbally abusing a patient, then telling him one of the most personal painful memories of my whole life. If Barb had caught me she’d have had my head, not to mention my lanyard.Don’t get caught up in it, it’s not your job to save the world– that’s her mantra.
In this case, though, I couldn’t be detached.
Harris started taking fluids again, and keeping them down. I stayed with him until it was time for me to go on duty, then I slipped into the staff toilets to change into my work clothes. My whole body was shaking from holding that conversation with Harris inside myself. I was tired and distracted on shift, and Harris’s words seemed to echo in the hospital halls:I think we might kill each other if I stay.
But by Sunday morning, he appeared to have turned a corner. Seeing him get his strength back was an enormous relief. Every time I passed his room, a tiny nuclear charge went off beneath my ribs.
Now it’s Monday – he’s sitting up and eating a bit, and when I go in to check his case notes, there’s a chance to talk. Not talk-talk: neither of us has acknowledged the things we said to each other on Saturday evening. Some things have their own moment. Take them out of that moment and they tarnish, like precious metals exposed to the harsh air.
But I can broach the subject of him getting regular attention when he’s discharged this time. Not that he’s enthusiastic about it.
‘Check-ups? Seriously?’
I look at him once, before turning back to check his antibiotic IV. ‘You tried to walk halfway across the Mallee on a badly infected post-op injury, then you got into a fist fight at the pub… You’re not taking proper care of it, Harris, or you wouldn’t be in here again. Which means we’ve gotta make sure it’s taken care of.’
His face turns to granite. ‘I’m not a charity case.’
His expression is so cold and glowering, I’m reminded why half the blokes in the district prefer to stay on his good side. It also makes something inside me ache: he really doesn’t get it.
I feel my own expression soften. ‘Harris, it’s got nothing to do with that. This is a hospital. We have a duty of care. Barb’d rather cut off her own arm before she’d let you walk outta here, knowing you could be back next week.’
‘That’s not –’
‘Listen. If your leg gets infected again, that could be it. You could lose your leg.’ I try to convey the heart of it. ‘We’re trying to look after you, mate. Do the right thing by you. Same as how we wouldn’t leave you dying outside on the street.’
He takes this idea in. The wary suspicion in his eyes starts to fade. ‘Okay, then.’
I force myself to grin. ‘Jeez, don’t mind me. Just trying to help you out here.’
‘I don’t need helping out.’ He says it with less conviction.
‘You’d look a bit different with one leg.’
‘Shut up.’ He sighs. ‘Fine, okay. Whatever. Check-ups.’
‘I’ll talk to Barb about it. See if we can make it a bit easier for you, yeah?’ I don’t wait for him to reply. ‘Now – lunch. Will you try to eat more?’
Harris makes a face. ‘I guess.’
I consider the congealing items on his tray. ‘Tell you what – I’ll warm this up for you. You eat half of it, then for dinner I’ll bring you chicken and chips from that joint on Main Street, okay?’
‘How you gonna get that?’
He’s squinting at me, but if there’s one thing I know about guys from all the time I’ve spent with my dad, it’s that their mood and their appetite go together hand in glove. I can practically see Harris salivating.
‘I’m going up there for a slice of pizza later.’ I keep my voice nice and casual, but I’m pretty sure the wordpizzais now pinballing around inside his head, to devastating effect. ‘Didn’t bring dinner in tonight, thought I’d pick something up on my break. Do we have a deal?’
