“Just stick it in, Doc,” Mr. Higgs grunts. “I ain’t got all day.”
“We are notsticking it in,” I say, sweating through my Egyptian cotton scrubs. “We are navigating a complex vascular landscape. Your veins are… elusive, Mr. Higgs. They are playing hard to get.”
I aim. I lunge. I miss.
Mr. Higgs yelps.
“Okay,” I say, dropping the needle into the sharps bin. “That was a warning shot. Standard procedure.”
The curtain rips open.
Dr. Lucas Silva stands there. He looks like a thundercloud in blue scrubs.
“York,” he says. “Why is the patient screaming?”
“He isn’t screaming,” I correct. “He is vocalizing his surprise. It’s a sign of a robust respiratory system.”
Luke steps into the cubicle. He takes one look at my shaking hands, the three failed tourniquets on the tray, and the terrified look in Mr. Higgs' eyes.
“Step away from the patient,” Luke orders.
I step back. Gladly.
Luke takes a fresh needle. He doesn't even look like he’s trying. He touches Mr. Higgs' arm, finds the vein by pure instinct, and slides the needle in. Flash of blood. Done.
“That’s how you do it,” Luke says, taping the gauze down. “Apologize to Mr. Higgs.”
“I’m sorry your veins were hiding from my needle, Mr. Higgs,” I say charmingly.
“Apologize forstabbinghim, York.”
“Sorry for the stabbing. It won’t happen again.”
Luke drags me out of the cubicle by the back of my scrub top. He marches me to the supply room door—a door I have learned to fear.
“You are useless with a needle,” Luke states.
“I have fine motor skills!” I protest. “I can tie a Windsor knot in under ten seconds. I can tell the difference between 120-wool and 150-wool by touch!”
“Can you find a basilicvein?”
“...No.”
“Then you are useless.” Luke crosses his arms. His biceps bulge under the sleeves of his scrubs. It is annoying how distracting that is.
“Since you can’t be trusted with sharp objects today,” Luke says, a cruel glint entering his eyes, “you are going on Scut Duty.”
“Scut Duty?” I ask. “Is that… administrative?”
“Open the door, York.”
I open the door to the Central Supply Closet.
I gasp.
It looks like a bomb went off inside a pharmacy. Boxes of gauze are ripped open. Saline bags are piled in precarious towers. Catheters are mixed with tongue depressors. It is a kaleidoscope of medical anarchy.
“This,” I whisper, clutching my pearls (metaphorically). “This is a hostile work environment. It violates every principle of Feng Shui.”
