The pediatric ward is on the third floor, and I take the stairsbecause the elevator feels too confining, too much like the supply closet where Carson...
No.I'm not thinking about that. Not today.
Charge nurse Rachel meets me at the nurses' station, looking up from a stack of charts with efficient eyes. She's older, competent-looking, the kind of nurse who's seen everything twice and still shows up every shift without complaint.
"Maya Rivera?" she asks.
"Yes."
"Welcome to Hartford Gen. I'll show you around, introduce you to the team, and get you oriented." She hands me a tablet, warm from her grip. "We run electronic charting here. Are you familiar with EPIC?"
"Yeah. I used it at my last hospital."
"Good, that makes the transition easier." She starts walking, and I follow, trying to memorize the layout even though my brain feels like static. "We've got twelve beds, a mix of medical and surgical. Today you'll shadow Kristin. She's been here five years, knows the floor inside out."
Kristin's young, black hair, and is friendly in that genuine way that makes you trust her immediately. She walks me through the layout with easy confidence, explains protocols and shift changes, and where they hide the good coffee, introduces me to doctors and other nurses whose names I immediately forget because my brain is screaming at me to run.
"First patient," Kristin says, stopping outside room 304 and pulling up the chart on her tablet. "Mia Lane, six years old, was admitted yesterday with pneumonia. Responsive to antibiotics, oxygen sats are improving. Pretty straightforward case."
Six years old.
Lily was six years old.
My hands start shaking again, and I shove them in my pockets, fingers curling into fists.
"You okay?" Kristin asks, and there's concern in her voice.
"Fine. Just nervous."
"First day jitters. Totally normal." She pushes open the door with her hip. "Let's go meet Mia."
She's in bed with an oxygen cannula in her nose and a tablet in her hands, playing some cartoon with bright colors and loud music. Her mother sits beside her in the visitor's chair, looking exhausted in that way only hospital parents do. The kind of tiredness that comes from days of worry and uncomfortable chairs and bad cafeteria coffee.
"Hi Mia," Kristin says cheerfully, checking the IV bag hanging beside the bed. "I'm Kristin, and this is Maya. We're going to be taking care of you today."
Mia looks up and assesses us with serious dark eyes. "Okay."
I approach the bed and check the monitors automatically, falling into rhythms I learned years ago. Oxygen sats at ninety-four percent, good for pneumonia. Heart rate is normal. Respiratory rate elevated but not alarming, nothing that sets off warning bells.
"How are you feeling?" I ask Mia, keeping my voice gentle.
"Tired. My chest hurts."
"That's the pneumonia, your lungs are working hard to fight the infection. The medicine is helping your body do that. You should start feeling better soon."
"When can I go home?"
"Maybe in a couple of days, if you keep getting better like this."
Mia nods, seemingly satisfied with that answer, and goes back to her tablet.
We leave the room, and Kristin walks me through Mia's chart. Antibiotic schedule, vital checks, when she last ate, any allergies, or special considerations. It's thorough and organized, everything color-coded and flagged, better than the system at Pinewood.
"Think you can handle her assessments today?" Kristin asks.
"Yeah. I've got it."
The morning passes in a blur of tasks, each one grounding me more firmly in the present. Medication distribution, vital checks, charting, talking to worried parents, and reassuring kids who hate needles. My hands steady as I fall into familiar rhythms, muscle memory taking over where my anxious brain can't quite keep up. This is what I know. What I'm good at. What Carson couldn't take from me, no matter how hard he tried.
