Page 22 of Sweet Heart

My heels click against the floor as I make my way to the office with a fresh cup of coffee in my hand. It is one of those days when everyone seems to be acting extra stupid and getting hurt, which means the ER is flooded with patients. The tension in the hallways is palpable. The whole staff is suffering from frayed nerves, racing pulses, and irritation. Everyone is on edge.

I’ve been on for over fourteen hours straight. My feet are screaming at me, and for the first time in my career, I eye the scrub nurses’ clogs with envy instead of disdain. I should feel tired. Annoyed, even, that I still have all these notes to co-sign, but instead I find myself longing for that moment of solitude in my little corner of the hospital.

I press the door open with my hip, slide inside, and turn on the computer without ceremony. My phone buzzes just as I log in. The vibration spreads through my hip. I know I shouldn’t smile, this is the biggest mistake of my professional career, but I already am. Before I can stop myself, I fish the phone out of my pocket and unlock it.

01:19 p.m. – Mary Mary

If you had to choose between sushi and French fries, which one would you pick and why?

I roll my eyes but chuckle softly regardless. She has been sending me random questions like this for days. At first, I didn’t see the purpose, but I answered them anyway. I still don’t know why. That’s not who I am. Before Mary, I hardly touched my phone at all. Now it’s practically glued to my hand.

I shake my head, and my gaze lands on the Co-Sign folder. Oh, right. This is absurd. I can’t keep getting distracted like this. I am a trauma surgeon, Dios! With a huff, I put my phone face down on my desk and click the first chart.

My eyes dart over the discharge summary. A small liver laceration. The patient was stable, so I cleared him early in the morning. The resident did an excellent job on the note. It’s clean, to the point, important details included, no fluff. I scroll and click Attest. If only they could all be like this. But when I open the next one, I already know I am in for an even longer evening.

The chart was drafted by one of our first-year residents. A girl—woman? No, girl—who knows all the right terms but not how to put them to use. There is no clinical instinct there, and the chart is a direct reflection of that.

I stare at a description of a patient who fell from a ladder. Two left rib fractures, ribs six and eight, and a small hemothorax. Patient admitted for pain control and monitoring. Respiratory status stable. No acute complications. I blink and scroll back up. Where is the pain score? When was the repeat exam? I frown and scroll back down.

My jaw twitches as soon as I reach the lab results. Glucose 3.3 mmol/L at 03:13. My fingers instantly scroll back up. The discharge was ordered at 04:32, but there is only one lab. A result that clearly shows the patient was hypoglycemic. But there is not a single note about it. Not a repeat, not a comment, nothing that indicates protocol was followed.

When I click the medication records, I see two glucose tabs were distributed, but there isn’t a single follow-up. Where is the repeat check? Why wasn’t this mentioned? I lean back slowly and run a hand over my face. My cheeks are hurting from the sudden tension, and I roll my head back to relax my neck. How can the people who work in this hospital be so careless with their patients?

My mind drifts back to the triage nurse who practically dismissed Mary without so much as a glance. If I hadn’t been there… This is sloppy, and sloppy can endanger patients. It could have just as easily been Mary. I don’t need that kind of behavior among my staff. It is unacceptable.

“¡Joder!” I curse through clenched teeth as I curl my fingers inward.

Everything in me itches to call the girl into my office to confront her about her carelessness. What if no one had rechecked the patient’s glucose? He could’ve walked out still hypoglycemic. And that would be indefensible. Completely on us. What if I hadn’t caught Mary’s twitching fingers in time? She was two breaths away from unconsciousness.

“¡Coño!” I say a little louder this time while the heat of anger flushes through my system. This is how good people get hurt.

I flex my fingers against the cold wood of the desk and take in a deep breath. The resident is still on rotation. I can have her in here within minutes. Respira, Katherina. I breathe in again. This incompetence is getting to me. Just as I am about to reach for my keyboard, my phone buzzes again. I grab it without thinking.

01:32 p.m. – Mary Mary

Not a fan of either, then? What about steak? Please tell me we can at least go to a steakhouse?

A huffed laugh falls from my lips, and I startle myself with the sound. It only makes me laugh again. The tension in my neck finally releases a little, and my fingers fly over the screen.

01:33 p.m. – Katherina

French fries and steak. Match made in heaven. But nothing can beat a good Ropa Vieja with beans.

01:33 p.m. – Mary Mary

Oh? What’s that?

01:34 p.m. – Katherina

Strips of steak in tomato sauce. It’s to die for.

01:34 p.m. – Mary Mary

That does sound delicious. Any idea where I can get that around here?

01:35 p.m. – Katherina

There is a small restaurant at the Old Havana. Best Cuban cuisine in the area, other than my mother’s.