Her voice, unnecessarily close, made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A pet peeve of mine: I hated hoverers.
“Which one? I have a few.”
“Bishop. Room 3.”
The time at the bottom of the computer’s screen read 4:38am. An hour and thirteen minutes post-op. Impressive to already be coming around from anesthesia so soon after being rolled into a recovery room. Not unheard of, but rare, nonetheless.
Especially, after needing a blood transfusion.
Pushing myself back from the desk, and rolling the chair back far enough to force her to scuttle away from me, I stood, readjusting my surgical mask up over my nose. “Nausea? Dizziness? Confusion?”
Wide baby-blues blinked back at me. “Uh, no? He’s pretty alert. Talking and asking the other nurses what happened with his partner. He wanted to talk to you, too, about recovery and how soon he could be discharged.”
Not surprising. A man willing to risk his life would certainly have impulsivity issues.
Technically, if pushed hard enough, the cop could discharge himself at any time. Typical recommendations for abdominal surgeries were anywhere from three to five days. The lower end of the scale were for planned situations: appendectomy, hernia repair or removal, or any other less traumatic events.
His and the way he’d come in half-dead on that stretcher?
He’d be lucky to be out of here by Monday.
Explaining the situation would predictably go one of two ways: acceptance and understanding for the need to follow proper medical protocol, or total lack of care and the demand to be let out of this place as soon as possible.
The latter was my least favorite to deal with and most likely what I’d be walking into.
Snagging a tablet from next to the computer, I nodded for Violet lead the way while I followed two steps behind. Ridiculous, of course, I could map this place in my dreams. ButI needed the brief moment of quiet to prepare for the inevitable annoyance.
Quiet voices trickled down the hallway, two patient rooms occupied on this side of the floor, both of them from the same incident. One room had two officers posted outside of the door, another on the inside—the perpetrator, as we’d come to find out once we had Bishop stable and out of the OR.
It struck me as odd for rescue efforts to be wasted on an individual accused of stabbing a cop. Suffering grand wounds of his own from two separate guns firing at him and taking him down at the scene of the crime.
Wouldn’t justice be served in taking out the one responsible for trying to kill your colleague permanently?
Why bother resuscitating?
Then again, the intricacies of the law weren’t exactly my forte.
There was no expected recovery for the man. Two many holes had been punched through his back for Dr. Jacee to do anything but make him stable enough for life support. And even then, not much could be done.
Perhaps it was all a show for legalities sake. A way to avoid a potential lawsuit if the precinct could claim efforts were made to ensure the survival of the perpetrator but were ultimately in vain due to his extraneous injuries.
What lawyer would risk their career trying to defend a potential cop-killer, though?
Not many, that was for sure.
We arrived at Bishop’s room, and I noted there was already a small light on inside, bathing it in a warm, tired glow. Typically, these were the lights used for midnight vital checks, not when patients were already sitting up in their bed, chattering away with their assigned nurses.
The room grew hushed when we entered. Violet picked up the chart at the foot of the bed while Claudia excused herself from Bishop’s bedside and quickly scooted out of the room. I settled into the guest recliner tucking a leg over my other’s knee, while Violet worked. The tablet rested in my lap, screen still black.
“I was told you’re looking to get out of here.”
Like Violet had described, the man was up and alert in the same manner I’d imagine he would be after waking up from a restful nap. His eyes were glued to my nurse up until the moment I spoke. Then, his gaze snapped to me.
A romantic would describe them as the color of the needles on a pine tree.
“Yeah. What’s the earliest recovery time?”
“Three days.”
