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“Have you had a fever?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ll get your bloodwork started and put in an IV until the doctor can evaluate you, but you’ll more than likely need a CT scan.”
“I can’t believe this,” I mutter.
“Wyatt?” Jillian shouts as the kind young man from earlier passes the open doorway.
“Yeah?”
“Can you get Mr. Barrett’s bloodwork started? I’m pretty sure he’s going to need a scan.”
“Sure. I’ll gather up supplies and be right back.”
Jillian sets about asking the remainder of her medical screening questions, which go fairly quickly given I’m as healthy as a horse. “Do you have any personal or family history of abdominal issues?”
“No. The only health concern in my family that I’m aware of is my father’s drinking. He’s an alcoholic.”
“Do you drink?”
“Very rarely and none recently.”
“Any recreational drugs?”
I try not to take offense. Hopefully, these are general questions asked of everyone. But I can’t help getting a littledefensive. One look at a guy covered in tattoos and people frequently stereotype them. They assume I’m into drinking, drugs, and who knows what else they conjure up. Hell, they probably think I’m in a motorcycle gang.
“Smoke?”
“Yes.” The slightest upturn of her nose as she grimaces and continues to type isn’t lost on me.
“I’m quitting,” I announce.Why do I care if she finds my smoking distasteful? I’ll never see this woman again.
It’s at this moment Wyatt bolts into the room and pulls up a chair. Reaching for my arm, I observe him as he silently inspects my skin. I question whether he’s taking inventory of all of my ink until I realize he’s about to poke me with a needle. “Quick stick,” he utters before advancing and collecting the bloodwork he needs.
“Clearly needles don’t bother me.” I chuckle.
Jillian laughs. “Oh, if I had a dollar for every patient covered in tats who said they don’t do needles.” She turns to write something on the whiteboard with a dry erase pen. “It’s not the same,” she mimics. I watch as she writes her name and Dr. Jacobson on the board. “I get it. The motivation is a little different,” she adds as she turns back to me, flashing an angelic smile.
The air in the room grows warm looking up at her. It’s as if I’ve been transported to my favorite creek back in Italy, tossing pebbles in the summer sun. Not sitting on a stretcher having sharp objects thrust into my skin while my abdomen simultaneously feels like it’s being ripped in two.
Has she cast a spell on me?
“Yeah,” is all I can force out. This woman could be a Victoria’s Secret model. Even with the blueberry cobbler stained scrubs and a lab coat that’s seen better days, I can tell Jillian is the stuff dreams are made of.
“Code stroke, room twenty-five. Code stroke, room twenty-five.”
Jillian and Wyatt stiffen, silently hastening their tasks at the sound of the overhead announcement. My eyes ping-pong between the two of them to get a better idea of what that overhead message means.
“We’re going to send these to the lab and hopefully it won’t be long before you see Dr. Jacobson,” she adds before swiftly scooting out the door, Wyatt hot on her heels. Several other medical personnel rush by my open doorway. Man, is it like this on every shift? These people must be exhausted once they get home.
I return to checking my email to pass the time when my phone dances in my hand.
Bzzz. Bzzz.
“Luigi, my friend. How are you?”
“I’m good. I’m good. I know you usually pick up takeout on Thursdays and wanted to check in with you. We have a private party in the dining room tonight. I didn’t want you to be delayed if you were stopping by here to get dinner for Antonia and Domenico on the way home from work.”
