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With burn patients, it’s incredibly important that they eat and keep their energy up. They’re rebuilding tissue and muscle, and that requires a lot of protein. I know there are trained dietitians here in the hospital, setting the menu for our patients, but they care for hundreds of people, so they’re spread thin. I tell Jade I’ll be right back and I head down to the hospital’s cafeteria. I grab a chocolate milkshake and an Ensure, mixing them together to mask the taste of the protein drink.
Jade drinks it down quickly, propped up by a mountain of pillows.
“I like chocolate,” she says with a timid smile as she turns her face toward me. “I have a chocolate mustache.”
I chuckle. “You do.”
“I’m gonna lick it off,” she proclaims proudly.
When she’s done, I lean forward and take the empty cup from her.
“Hey, I was wondering, does Ariel have a last name?” I try to sound casual.
Still, she frowns in concentration, like she’s never heard a more serious question in all her life. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe she could have the same last name you have?” I volunteer lightly.
She shakes her head. “No, silly. That’s not how it works.”
Of course it’s not.
Since when are toddlers so precocious?
“Can we watch a movie now?” she asks, eyes glinting with unabashed hope.
I know she must be tired. She’s had an eventful day, and she should definitely get some rest. Besides, I need to get back to work.
“Later,” I say, pushing to stand. “You can pick. Okay?”
Her shoulders sag, and my heart breaks. I don’t really need to get to work. I could bring my notes in here. I’m about to do just that when I’m saved by a member of our child life team. She walks into Jade’s room with a small stack of books, asking if Jade would like to hear some stories.
I walk out of the room and meet Lois’ gaze. She’s at the nurses’ station, on the phone, and she shakes her head solemnly. No new updates.
I’m in a tough spot working in the BICU. This isn’t a field of medicine to be entered into lightly. It isn’t for the unfeeling or the faint of heart. There is no separating yourself from the patients here.
You take your work home with you, always.
Or, sometimes, you make yourself at home at work.
Evening rolls into night and I carry my laptop with me into Jade’s room. Somehow, she’s still awake. Still propped up by pillows. Still smiling. Two nurses are in the room with her. One is replacing her IV bags and the other is chatting with her, keeping her distracted.
“He’s a doctor!” Jade says when she spots me at the door. “A real one!”
The nurses laugh. One of them asks if I need anything. I confirm with them that she hasn’t been in pain, check the dose of her IVs myself, and then take a seat in the chair beside Jade’s bed as they leave her room.
“Are we going to watch a movie now?” she asks, hopeful. “You said we could.”
“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” I ask, genuinely concerned. When do three-year-olds go to sleep?
“Oh, I don’t have a bedtime. My dad lets me stay up however late I want.”
I perk up with interest.
“So you live with your dad?”
“Yeah. In an apartment.” She sounds the word out slowly like she’s just learned it.
“What’s his name? Your dad?”
She grins. “King Trident.”
Ah, so the game continues.
I ask her what movie we should watch even though I’d be willing to bet a million dollars on what her answer will be. The Little Mermaid plays on the small TV mounted on the wall across from her bed, and she makes it five minutes in before she nods off. I dim the overhead lights and use the remote on her bed to lay her flat. Then, I sit back down with my laptop.
I don’t have a real mission.
I should go home and get some sleep. I have a full day of work tomorrow, including back-to-back surgeries.
I really consider it. I close my laptop and am prepared to stand when I glance back over at Jade. She looks tiny huddled under the blankets on that hospital bed. I frown, thinking over how odd today has seemed. In normal circumstances, a toddler would be crying for their parents or crying because they’re hurt or crying because they’ve found themselves in a setting they’re not accustomed to. Jade did none of those things. She accepted today like it was just like any other, and that’s what worries me.
Nurses pass in the hall. One comes in to check on Jade and nods at me.
“Lois said to tell you there haven’t been any updates.”
I thank her and glance back at Jade. She’s rolled onto her side toward me, cradling her bandaged hand against her chest. We never did get the full story from her about what happened to her hand, but I’ve seen enough burns to have a good guess. The wound is consistent with ones caused by low-voltage electrical outlets. Chances are, there was an exposed wire at her dad’s apartment—probably a lamp—and she came in contact with it. It injured her palm, but the burn is only skin-deep. She’ll recover quickly.
