Chapter One
Emma
Iquickly hung up the phone after finishing the transfer call with the nurse from the cardiac cath lab.
“Sounds like you’ll be busy today,” said Becca, one of the other nurses in green scrubs. She was tall, with dark hair and perfect dark eyebrows. I envied her every morning as I penciled in my blond brows so they could be seen. She claimed that she’d trade them for my natural curl and that being blond would be more fun. I wasn’t so sure about that. It wasn’t like I had a stellar social life to back up the stereotype.
She set down an IV bag on the desk next to me and folded her arms, ready for a short break before a patient alarm sounded. We had to grab small moments when we could; there was always an emergency in the TICU.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Forty-five-year-old Caucasian male with greater than a 90% occlusion in the left anterior descending artery.”
We shared a quick look. “A widow maker,” she whispered.
I gave a quick nod. That artery was the heart’s main source of blood supply and oxygen. Without help, this patient wasn’t going to make it through the next two hours.The cath lab couldn’t get a stent placed, and the patient needed a bypass.I said a silent prayer for him, using the name I’d seen on his chart. Mr. McNabb. I wondered if there was a Mrs. McNabb and a little McNabb. Dang, I hoped he made it out of surgery okay.
“He’s young,” she tossed out. We spoke in shorthand a lot. It saved time and saved lives.
My hands flew across the computer to finish the transfer order. The list of things to do wrote across the whiteboard in my head—a product of extensive training and years of experience. Double-check the patient’s allergy list, verify any preordered medications from the transfer, etc.
“You okay?” Becca asked as she gathered up the IV and started walking. “Need help?”
“I’ve got this.” I grinned at her.I liked making a difference in someone’s life. And this was someone who had a lot of life ahead of him … if we did our jobs right.
Ever since an anatomy class in high school, I’d been fascinated with the human heart. Nothing had changed as I’d gone through nursing school. Sure, some of my other clinical sites had been fun, but nothing could hold a candle to the heart. It was the source of life for the body, and the work I did here in the Thoracic ICU (TICU) made a huge difference in people’s lives—every single day.
Procedure dictated that the patient should go from the cath lab straight to surgery for his bypass. Time was heart tissue. The more time was lost, the more potential permanent damage this man could have. Once the bypass was completed, he would come to my care.
I’d finished reviewing the orders and was headed over to the supply closet, passing serene pictures on the hospital walls, when I heard the elevator open behind me. I didn’t think much of it, because the floor was busy today. On my way back from the supply closet, I screeched to a halt outside of room 17. There was a bed in there.
Room 17 was for my new patient. I turned quickly and entered the room.
The orderly was busy situating the bed to accommodate the patient as if he expected him to hang around a while. I didn’t know this particular orderly; every hospital had turnover, and this was a big hospital. Although I appreciated his care and attention to the task. He didn’t rush, but he wasn’t slow. More confident in his movements.
I didn’t want to alarm the sleeping patient if he could hear me, so I spoke in a soft voice. “Excuse me, but I think you have the wrong room.” I took a quick look at the patient, who appeared to be unconscious, but I’d heard plenty of stories of nurses who’d thought someone was asleep and had spoken out of turn only to regret it later.
“Nope, ma’am, just came from the cath lab, and they told me to bring this patient here.” He nodded his shaved head toward the bed.
I glanced at his name tag. “I’m sorry, Freddie, the patient that will be in this room is headed to surgery right now. All direct cath lab transfers usually go to the CCU. I think you have the wrong floor.” He didn’t know the procedure. But that was okay; I’d help him sort it out.
Freddie reached for the clipboard at the foot of the bed to verify. “It says here TICU room number 17. A Mr. McNabb, correct? Date of birth 1/17/1975?”
My mouth fell open, and I stared at him in shock. That was my patient. There was no mistaking the name. But what on earth was he doing here? “That’s right … I’m so sorry, let me help you get things situated. Then I’ll go figure out what’s going on and find out where the miscommunication is.” Because this was a big mistake. A clock started ticking in my head, loud and insistent. Every moment it took us to figure this out could mean more damage, more tissue, a harder recovery—or no recovery at all.
Freddie quickly wheeled the bed into place and set the brakes while I got the IV pole situated. Mr. McNabb was in fact unconscious but breathing on his own. Not for much longer, though, if what I had been told was correct. Vitals were … somewhat stable for now, so I sprinted over to the phone to try to call the cath lab. Freddie moved on to his next assignment, waving on his way to the elevator.
I lifted the receiver and noticed a woman in tears coming down the hall. She paused outside room 17 and took a deep breath. Instinct told me that this was my patient’s wife. Her hair was pulled back into a hasty ponytail with bumps and whisps all poking out. She had dark mascara smears under her eyes and a wrinkled Chicago Cubs tee shirt on as if she hadn’t planned on leaving the house today.
I took a deep breath, slowed my pace, and turned back to speak to Mrs. McNabb. She might have the answers I was looking for about why her husband was here and not in surgery.
The clock in my head continued totick tick tick. I had to calm down. Rushing this conversation would only make Mrs. McNabb’s day harder.
“Hello, ma’am, are you Mrs. McNabb? I’m Emma, your husband’s nurse.” I handed her a small pack of tissues I carried in my front pocket.
“Yes, thank you. I am Mrs. McNabb,” she said through her tears. “I’m so sorry, I’m usually a lot more put together than this.” She swiped under her eyes, and the tissue turned gray.
“It’s okay. I bet today hasn’t gone as planned for you.” I gently led the broken woman into the room with her husband. Her feet shuffled, as if she dreaded going in, but her eyes searched for him with urgency.
“No, I was definitely not prepared for my husband to die today,” she said. She choked on a sob, and I motioned to the chair beside the bed for her to sit down.
