I was used to helping, but this was ridiculous!
I had to fight back nausea as I “helped” Ani rouse Type One NFP-20 patients from their darkpox beds in rooms E91 through E93 and escorted them back to Ward E’s admissions lobby. Every other sentence out of my mouth to them was “I’m sorry,” and it was pathetic, like closing up an amputated limb with a single, flimsy piece of gauze.
But you know what the worst part was?
We had to go back.
It wasn’t enough that we had to look aching, frightened, ailing people in the eye—people who we’d already begun to help—and tell them that they had to go back into the jungle of business, politics, and selfishness that we had for a healthcare system. We had to go back. Ours was a walk of shame. I imagined every one of the patients Ani and I had helped—at least, the ones that were still conscious—was praying that maybe, just maybe, they would be the one who somehow lucked out, only to have their hopes ripped out of them along with their IV lines. And—get this—according to safety protocols, we had to dispose of those IV bags, many of which were over half-full. All those painkillers, anti-inflammatory medications, and antifungals? They were thrown out along with the baby and the bathwater.
It was pure torture, and there was no way to make it bearable, but… talking about it helped. And sharing stories helped even more. Though I wasn’t a (physical) trauma physician by any means, I was well aware that sharing stories was one of the most powerful tools EMTs, coroners, surgeons and other healthcare goremeisters had at their disposal for coping with the morbid details of their profession. I’d read a book about it in college, in a psycho-anthropology course.
Telling stories to one another helped bridge even the most overwhelming gaps; it made the unfathomable into something we could invoke and command; it helped people reach out—to one another, or to something greater than themselves—where they might find communion and the solace, sympathy, and affirmation. Myth and religions were stories that had become storytellers in their own right. They created our understandings of the world. Belief was their gift, and, man, I need some of my own, as did everyone else—but especially Dr. Lokanok. So, I told Ani a story, one that was as true as it was real.
Ani and I were pushing a non-darkpox bed down the hall. The patient in it had come from E93 and was currently non-responsive. Fungal growths had begun to emerge from her chest; her skin had the hue of moldy bread. Though the woman’s breathing was ragged and labored, with the help of a ventilator, the pulse oximeter showed that her SpO2 was in the low 90th percentile range. We’d probably have to increase the ventilator’s output again, and we were nearing the maximum setting. Amazingly, the only reason we were not legally required to detach the patient from the ventilator was because doing so would kill her, and that was against the law. Apparently, the legality of leaving patients to drown to death in their own fluids depended on how long it took for the patient to die.
All the more reason for me to get started with my story.
I glanced over at Ani. “Did I ever tell you about the first medical crisis I weathered as a professional?” I said.
She looked even more despondent than I felt—and that was saying something.
Ani shook her head. “No, I don’t recall.”
Exhaling, I let my shoulders go slack. “That’s because it was the Codman’s Wharf Bombing.”
Ani’s eyes went wide. “The one by the Innocents of the Mountain?”
Her disbelief was understandable. It made the recent mass shooting in Dressfeldt seem like play-acting by comparison.
“You know,” I said, “if the IOM’s lawyers were here, they’d write you up for not qualifying that with an allegedly.” I shook my head.
“Better them than a supremacist like Duncan Breszmil. That horrible man would take laws meant to protect people’s freedoms and turn them into weapons to smack down anyone who opposed them.” She shuddered.
Duncan Breszmil. Now there was a bottomless pit of blind hate if I ever saw one. He was one of the youngest elder statesmen of the Neo-Nater movement, though he’d slimily deny that title if you tried to call him out on his vile antics. Sometimes I wondered whether old-fashioned terrorists like the IOM might be preferable to serpents like Breszmil. Lassedile supremacists like Breszmil did everything short of outright violence, because they understood that the well-to-do middle classes were fine with theofascism as long as it didn’t dirty itself with acts of unbecoming violence. The IOM weren’t wise enough to strive for popularity, and that closed off their ideology to all but the most desperate or deranged. In the short-run, open violence was always more dangerous. But, in the long run?
After a moment, Ani turned back to face me. “Was it as bad as the news made it out to be?”
I sighed. I averted my eyes, watching the paintings and other framed artworks on the walls pass us by.
“If anything, it was worse,” I said. “I was like you, Ani, going around to help whomever I could, even though I felt like I was completely out of my league.”
“What were you doing?” she asked.
“Same as always: counseling.” I tightened my grip on the bed’s railing. I groaned, letting out some acrimony. Thinking about it was making me riled up all over again. “I was just talking to people,” I said, slapping the railing, “and as a reward for my noble deed, they docked my pay.”
“No…” Ani leaned back in shock.
“Yes.” I nodded emphatically. “And I’m still bitter about it.”
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“I can tell.”
“The allegèd terrorists,” I continued, “that’s what their lawyers would have me call them—they were almost as bad as the shooting itself.” I waved my hand about, conducting my chamber orchestra of long-nurtured gripes. “Don’t politicize this, they said. Don’t blame the Church. The Church is of the Godhead, but it runs on the wheels of men, and—as all faithful, orthodox Lassediles know—especially the Angelical mainstream—mankind is, by our primeval disobedience, tainted by sin, temptation, and fallibility.”
Ani shook her head. “Who sicced the Beast on them?”
I snorted. “It gets worse. They tried to argue that Primeval Sin makes all mankind guilty of infinite wrongdoing against the Godhead and its will. So, you can’t hold anyone responsible for anything because we’re all to blame. And, of course, if the Moonlight Queen allowed the shooting to happen, it must have been because she had a greater reason which we, as mere mortals, cannot fathom, what with us not having access to the Tablets of Destiny, and all.”
Ani sputtered in disbelief, raising her hands and wriggled her fingers. “Wh-Where in the world do they get lawyers like that?”
“The kind that give stump speeches in front of landscape business,” I answered, with a smirk. “Thank the Angel, though, their arguments were eventually found to be lacking by the courts—by which I mean several months of ‘eventually’. Of course, I had to hold my tongue the entire time. I could barely do anything in the therapy sessions I held for the shooting’s survivors.”
“I remember hearing about it on the news as a kid,” Ani said.
I sighed. “At least doctor-patient confidentiality laws got strengthened after that debacle. Somewhat.”
“It’s still ridiculous,” Ani said.
We turned down the hallway, hitting the main traffic in Ward E. We had to slow down to make way for other travelers—beds in transit, supply dollies being moved around.
I guess it was time to broach the unbroachable.
“Ani,” I said, “we both know you need this job. I’m not going to let you lose it, or—Angel forbid—get thrown back to living with your forever-plastered dad. Especially when we need you, here.”
Ani stopped walking, forcing me to stop alongside her. The bed came to a halt.
“I can’t be a bystander, Genneth.” She looked me in the eyes. “I’m not going to let myself be part of the problem, and if they try and order me to be a part of it, I’ll do my best to find some way to work around it.” Her features stiffened with the resolve of her convictions. There wasn’t even a sliver of a tear in either of her eyes.
If only I could have said the same of myself.
I tended to get touchy-feely in moments like this, so I started to reach for Ani’s shoulder, only to stop myself when I remembered the whole “PPE, deadly fungal pandemic” situation we were in.
Life could be weird like that.
I sighed. “Will you at least give me this,” I asked, “if and when the time comes for you to take the fall for this, please let me help you, even if it gets me in trouble. I have enough clout and weirdness on my side to endure a fall or two.”
Ani chuckled. Behind her PPE visor, her eyes twinkled beneath the light. “And then your wife will find out, and think you’ve been cheating on her with me. Again.” Rolling her eyes, Ani bit her lips in a pained smile. “I already have to deal with people gossiping about what I’m doing with my hair, and putting me down for being too dowdy. I don’t want them to.” She sighed and shook her head. “Not again. Never again.”
“Ani…” I tucked my head down a little, raising my eyebrows accusingly. I wasn’t going to let her make a martyr of herself. I’d already worked my butt off weaning her off that habit during her residency.
“I appreciate your help and concern, Dr. Howle,” Ani said, sniffling as she nodded. Then she let her lips curl into a smirk. “But… don’t you have your own patients to attend to? Jonan told me something about Type Two patients in Room 268.”
I furrowed my brow. “Don’t try to change the subject,” I said. “Evasive maneuvers are for aircraft and submersibles, not relationships.”
She nodded in defeat. “Guilty as charged.” She rolled her eyes. “Angel forgive me.”
“So,” I said, “you really want me to just leave you here to your own, merciful devices?”
The pulse oximeter on the patient’s arm beeped intensely as the patient’s oxygen levels dipped below 90%.
“I’ll get it,” Ani said. She walked over, tapped the touchscreen on the ventilator, and set it to maximum output. The machine got a little louder, and the alarm fell silent.
Ani turned back to face me, dodging to the side as a filled bed rushed past us.
“If I felt it would do any good,” she said, “I’d talk to Hobwell, but,” crossing her arms, she looked down in dejection, “as you can see, I’m up to my arms with patients,” Ani said. “And that’s only counting the ones I’m supposed to be helping!” She straightened her posture, rebounding with a smile.
“Talk to Hobwell about what?”
It appeared Dr. Derric had joined us. Oh joy.
“Angel!” Ani exclaimed, shooting her hands up in surprise. She turned to face her boyfriend. “You have amazing timing, Jonan.”
Dr. Derric kept to the opposite side of the hall, waiting for a bed to race past—the patient inside being hurried off to surgery. Then, he crossed over to join us.
“While that’s completely true,” he said, “in this case, I really did just happen to pass by,” he pointed down the hall, “and, seeing you two standing here having a deep conversation, my sense of responsibility told me I had to come to the rescue.” Jonan pulled his console out of his PPE gown’s pocket and held it up. The screen showed an overhead view of a map, along with a flashing dot with Ani’s profile picture on it. Ani’s profile picture was amazing. It had all the sparkly winsomeness of a smiling doctor on a direct-to-consumer TV medication ad, only with none of the corporate ooze or shameless profit-motive.
“Also,” Jonan said, “I saw Ani was standing motionless in a semi-major thoroughfare, and worried that something was amiss. But I only noticed that after I was already close by.” Nodding, he stashed his console back in the PPE pocket. “I keep tabs on my peeps,” Jonan added. “Particularly when I find out they aren’t over at Internal Medicine Module 3 like they’re supposed to be.” With a sigh, Jonan pointed down the hallway toward the E90s from where we’d come. “Now,” Jonan said, “would someone please tell me why the rooms over there have people with low SPNs getting high-class treatment? Or do I have to figure it out for myself?”
We answered his question.
“How mawkish,” he grinned, “I love it.”
I glared at him, clenching a fist.
“Given the in-roads I’ve made with Hobwell after suggesting the sequestration policy,” Jonan said, “I’ll be happy to see if I can’t get an exception made for these desperate unwashed masses of yours.” He gestured to the people around us. “However, there are some pharmaceutical errands I need to get to, first. But, before that,” he glanced at Ani, “you need to get a move on. The poor aren’t going to help themselves.”
Ani crossed her arms. “Jonan… you…” But she got herself in a jam, stuck somewhere between a laugh and a groan. She walked out back into the fray, taking our patient with her, but not before turning to me and saying, “Genneth, please go with him. I’ll clean up the rest of my mess; you can help keep Jonan from making it worse.”
She winked, and Jonan responded with an enthusiastic nod. “Oh boy,” he rubbed his hands together, “company!” He looked around excitedly, and, for the life of me, I couldn’t tell whether or not he really meant it.
Jonan gestured to the path ahead. “Well, then,” he said, “after me.”
As we walked down the halls, past the suffering masses, I wondered how many of them might have noticed the old chord-suspended light fixtures swaying in my wake, like chimes in the wind.