Comfort Zone

Chapter 17

Monday morning brought the news of Ms. V's death. She'd become more breathless Saturday night, and since medical treatment was maxed out (and, as Tatiana said, given the amount of lung disease the woman had, the tube wouldn't do jackshit anyway), a morphine drip was started to ease her discomfort. The patient's son was called to come in, and by nine the next morning, Ms. V had had enough. The morphine dose was raised, and she had promptly died. The increased medication had likely hastened her death, but as long as the intention had been to ease suffering, it was permitted in every ethical tradition Miriam knew.

"Nice lady," Tati commented, surprising Miriam, as her judgments were usually more biting. "And the son was fine, too."

Miriam wasn't surprised by the death, or the heaviness in her chest. "Less work for the day," she weakly joked to Tati before hanging up. She finished getting ready and walked over to her breakfront, reaching down to fish something out from a low shelf, next to a shell from Miami Beach, a rock from Santa Fe, and a feather she'd found while hiking somewhere as a teenager.

A decade before, she'd visited Muir Woods, a dreamy, magical park of redwood trees just north of San Francisco. She'd bought a small wood souvenir box there, as weathered and natural as the tree from which it was carved, intending to give it as a gift. Instead, she kept it for herself.

She didn't remember exactly when the ritual began, but the beautiful box now contained a sheet of paper, folded and beginning to yellow. She wrote the name of every patient who died on it, slowly printing the letters in ink.

She did a rough estimate. Approximately forty-five deaths recorded. And those were just the ones she knew about. People moved around all the time; she'd left former practices and many patients had left her present practice. Who know what happened to them?

Not all the deaths were medical. At least one had died in a car accident caused by a drunk driver, another in a fire. Still another had died by his own hand.

She'd kept the list secret even from her then-husband, thinking it was probably a morbid thing to do. It's too easy to forget people, she always thought. Even the ones we care about are eventually forgotten, the hectic present running over their memory. She wondered if JK would stay lost and how long it would take for the hospital, and Miriam, to stop missing him.

A lot of her patients, especially the young ones with HIV, didn't have loving families to remember them. When she wrote a new name she saw the old ones, and it brought them back for the moment. Whether the memory was bad or good didn't matter. Some were easier to love than others, and some she hardly knew, but she wrote them down anyway.

It was funny. With living patients she usually used their last name, considering it a matter of respect, but after they died it was usually Bruce or Linda or Sam.

She wrote "Maria Velasquez" slowly in black pen. Goodbye, Maria, she thought, closing the lid.

Muir Woods is so very beautiful.

Belle, knowing about the death, greeted her with a hug and cup of coffee. "You did good, doc. It was her time. She hated living her life tethered to that oxygen machine."

"It's for the best," Miriam said, a sentiment echoed by the patient's son during a gratifying, if painful, condolence call later in the day.

Conversations the rest of the week would prove only somewhat less painful and also less gratifying. The hospital was still buzzing with rumors and speculations.

"I can't believe JK would be involved with stealing drugs," the urologist said in the elevator.

"Well he was always here late," someone else said. "It's not normal to have so much energy and stay in a good mood."

"Let's not talk about him – he's not here to explain or defend himself!"

"Exactly, he's not here. Who gets lost in this time of GPS tracking and overly social media? Don't forget they never found a body..."

Despite the turmoil, medical life continued, the hospital routines unabated, because every day brought daunting new challenges. Midweek, Miriam squeezed in a walk on the beach with a neighbor. If she hoped for a serene talk about inconsequential things, her hopes were dashed as soon as the women's sneakers hit the sand, instead finding herself thrust back into uncomfortable thoughts.

"What's going on in that hospital of horrors of yours? Haven't they solved the murder yet?"

"It's notmyhospital," Miriam protested. "And--no, they haven't."

"And what about that cute doctor of yours who disappeared? Did they find his body yet? He sounded pretty dreamy."

"He wasn't mine, and no, they didn't."

Miriam thought of JK. She'd noticed when the ring he wore on his left hand when they met suddenly disappeared, and sometimes thought he had a thing for her, but suspected a lot of women felt the same. He had charm, knew how to make a person feel special. And how about me? she asked herself, as her neighbor chatted on. Did I have a thing for him?

That was the confusing part. There were moments she felt herself falling under his spell, but something held her back, and she wasn't sure why. Well, now he wasn't around to wonder about. No more Wonder Woman, she thought.

The two women were dressed alike in shorts, sneakers and T shirt, with bathing suits underneath. By the end of the walk, drenched in sweat, they tore off their outer layers and ran into the ocean. Despite the questioning, she felt much better by the time they made it back into their building, both promising to walk regularly. Exercise is great for stress, Miriam could hear herself saying to her patients.

Finally, Friday afternoon. This time, Tati signed out.

Miriam would be covering not just for the weekend, but for Tati's whole vacation week. So far neither woman had anyone in the hospital, a gift, and Miriam planned to sleep in all weekend if possible. In July it was just too hot to do much anyway, and she avoided the beach as her skin tended to burn in the sun, even through layers of sunblock and protective clothing. Why did you move to Florida? everyone asked.

Blame a plotting husband who found her an unusually high paying job (the better to support his case for alimony), and convinced her that Florida winters and year-round sailing would compensate for the sweat, humidity and palmetto bugs. She'd left the job and the husband, but somehow hadn't yet pulled herself away from the tropical state.

Saturday morning was as quiet and peaceful as she dreamed, and she started to believe her luck would hold until her answering service called her late afternoon.

"Dr. Gotlin, please call the Miami Health ER to speak to Dr. Paramo."

Damn! Nothing good ever came out of these calls, even if she knew she should be grateful it wasn't three AM.