Wilted Petals

Chapter 2: When We Met... Again

On this cold, November afternoon, the heat from the friction of my fingers dancing across the keyboard and my thoughts is what I need. The clicking of my nails against the keys reminds me of a very unorganized tap dancer. 

My eyes and mind are only glued to the notes that I have to type up for the patients. Come on, a few more left, I think to myself, almost as a propeller to finish off strong. One wrong move and I would be slammed in the face with lawsuits, curses, and broken hearted people.

Finally, after all the notes are done, an unmistakable burst of satisfaction trickles into my bloodstream. Something about knowing that you've finished all your notes and did a good job on them is like getting an A on a test you studied really hard for. 

I slam my finger against the period key to finish off the sentence properly, and get up. "Rounds time," I tell myself, which honestly kind of sounds like a merry go round themed horror movie. I shoot up on my feet and crane my head to see how the ward is looking. Now comes what is either the most exciting or the most dreadful part of the day: talking to family members.

Each family member's face moves by in a flash. It's almost deceptively easy to debrief each of them, and it feels like they just snap in front of me and then disappear into thin air. It makes things a lot easier, since today is one of those days where I'd rather surround myself with blankets and Ben Jerry's ice cream pints. It's almost like a sluggish crawl towards the finish line, which I eventually inch towards. 

"Whew, last one," I think to myself, as I move onto the last patient's family members. I take a quick look at the patient's file so that I can jog my memory of what's going on. My eyes zoom across the file, as my feet carry me towards the patient's family. "Siddharth Bhatia. 60 years old, had a severe heart attack last night." 

They eventually dart up to face a woman standing in front of the room. Her thinning chocolate brown hair is clipped back, and at least 30 years of worry is etched into her face in the form of wrinkles. Her eyes are enlarged, glistening with worry, and frozen with fear. Clearing my throat a little bit to prepare myself, I step up a little closer to her. "Hi, I'm Dr. Balakrishnan." 

I extend my hand so that she can firmly shake it if she desires. The woman's eyes shoot towards me, with a little bit of the icy fear in her eyes melting away. After gently shaking my hand like she's taking every precaution not to rip my arm off, she says, "Oh, I'm so glad you're here, doctor. I'm Neelima, his wife. How is he doing? Is his condition stabilizing?" 

My fingers flip through the pages to get an idea of his vitals and how his heart rate is. "Yeah, he's stabilizing. He's almost there, and quite frankly, he's recovering beautifully. I don't think you have much to worry about." 

I can almost see the weight lifting off of her chest, along with the worry in her eyes dissolving, and I don't blame her. Any news of your loved one recovering back to a healthy state is good and welcome news. "Oh, that's wonderful news. When can we expect him back home?" 

Ah, the questions that require a bit of thought. What would a shift at the ICU be without them? With a few thoughts swarming in my mind, I'm able to decipher them and come up with a decent answer. "If I had to estimate, he'd probably be out of the ICU by tomorrow, and back home within three or four days." 

This time, all of her worries melt away and solidify into a grateful smile. "Thank you, doctor. That's amazing to hear. My son, Adarsh, is coming tonight and he'll be even happier to hear that." A gentle smile curls at my lips. "I can't wait to meet him," I reply, and this time, genuity is the only thing running through my voice.

Most people's days go by in a flash. It's almost like you just seem to blink and the day is over. Well, I wish it was like that for me. My day is like watching paint dry, but I think it's because I'm so used to detail and paying attention to the finer parts of things that it tends to make things go slower.