Page 36 of Asystole

It’s only Tuesday, and I’m getting my ass handed to me. I’ve been behind since six a.m. I’m due in the OR in ten minutes, but I haven’t finished dictating from rounds, and I still have an entire in-basket of messages to answer.

I’d wallow in self-pity, but there’s no time.

As I’m racing to the OR, Jackson falls in line next to me.

“Hey, man. Can we talk?” he asks.

“Now’s not a good time. I’m about to scrub in with Fetterman, and I’m already stressed as it is.”

“Okay, sure. I just…you haven’t been home in like three days, so I was just making sure we were cool.”

“Yeah,” I say noncommittally. “I’m just crashing with a friend. But I really need you to clean your shit up before I come back. Like, clean out the fridge, take out the trash, and Lysol every surface in that place.”

Jackson rubs the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I hear you. But um, I was actually wondering…is, uh, is there any chance you could crash with your friend, like, permanently?” he stammers.

I come to an immediate halt. This fucker moved in with me at the start of the year, not the other way around.

“Are you serious right now?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, still rubbing the back of his neck. “We just found out my girlfriend’s pregnant, and there’s no fucking way I can afford a place close to the hospital and the cost of a newborn on a resident’s salary.”

“The fact that you didn’t wrap it up isn’t my problem, Jackson. That’s my apartment you’re kicking me out of.”

“I’m not kicking you out. And I know it’s yours. I just…never mind. I don’t want to make you late.”

I watch Jackson retreat down the hall for a moment before sprinting for the scrub sink.

Would Logan let me stay? Do I even want to? His place is nice, and I’ve actually been pretty comfortable there, never having to worry about what I’m coming home to. My parents’ rules suddenly make more sense, and I’m glad I’ve followed through with their stipulations.

I table the rest of my thoughts for later because as soon as I push through the doors of the OR, nothing else matters except the body of a twenty-something-year-old male who has a deep gash in his side. It smells like iron and Betadine, and it takes every ounce of brainpower I possess to compartmentalize and focus on the objective tasks that need to be performed, but it doesn’t work. I didn’t have a chance to eat this morning because I was trying to leave the house quietly so I didn’t wake Logan, since it’s his off-week. Plus, I haven’t contributed to the groceries or anything yet. By the time the case ends, I’m light-headed, and my hands are starting to shake and grow clammy.

Upon exiting the OR, I collapse into a chair in the physician’s lounge, knowing there’s more work to be done, but needing a minute to myself.

“Chase?” Logan’s voice pulls my head from my hands.

“Hey. What are you doing in here?” I say, trying to recover even though I have no excuse for the sweat dotting my brow.

He holds up a plastic container, but I can’t see inside.

“I brought lunch. For you. Um, I know you didn’t eat breakfast because I wasn’t missing anything in the fridge or the pantry, and I’m sure the hospital food gets old after a while. Not to mention, even a quick trip to the cafeteria takes time you usually don’t have.”

“You made me lunch?” I ask, totally bewildered.

“Uh, yeah, but it’s no big deal. I mean, I have to eat too, and cooking gives me something productive to do. I freeze a lot of it so I don’t have to cook during the busy weeks. It’s labeled, and I was just going to leave it in the fridge, so here.”

He’s rambling like I do.

“Thank you, Logan. I really appreciate it.”

He shrugs. “Like I said. It’s not a big deal.”

I hold out my hand to take the container, but it’s still shaking from my system reset.

“You okay? You actually look a little pale,” he points out.

“Just repaired a perforated colon in a twenty-year-old. Guy got mugged while he was getting gas.” The next words I speak are brutally honest, and they’re spoken without my permission. “Most days I fucking hate this job.”