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Lois is among them.
“How was last night?”
She nods her head toward the room behind me and I glance back to find Connor inside, sitting on a chair beside a patient’s bed. His scrubs are wrinkled. His hair is unkempt and sticking up a little on one side, and he’s wearing a terse frown as he studies his computer screen.
“What’s he doing in there?” We don’t routinely post up inside a patient’s room like that. “He looks like he’s been there a while.”
“All night,” she confirms.
My gaze snaps back to her. “What?”
“Yeah. Didn’t want to leave. It’s a tough situation with that little girl in there. I guess he took it to heart.”
I ask what she means. She sighs and fills me in on the situation. Everyone was hoping for some kind of resolution overnight, but here it is, a new day, and they still aren’t sure who dropped the little girl off at the hospital and why they left her here all alone.
I don’t think I’m necessarily a hardened cynic. I tear up during dog food commercials and reality TV makeover shows. However, I’ve learned to train my emotions and focus on the task at hand. It’s imperative in this line of work. If I got attached to every patient who came in with a hard story, I couldn’t function as a surgeon. However, this situation isn’t normal. Kids don’t get abandoned here, and knowing there’s a little girl in there without anyone to care for her hits right in a soft fleshy part of my chest that’s absolutely defenseless.
It’s a weak spot for me: careless parents, adults who take their jobs as caregivers for granted. I know I might not ever be a mother. It’s a hard fact I have tried and failed to come to terms with. For the last decade, I’ve had to put my career first. Long-term relationships never last. I’m single and nowhere near marrying. I don’t have a partner or a boyfriend, and sure, I could just use a sperm donor and go about it on my own, but that’s not possible with my demanding job. I’d need help. And truthfully, I want a partner. I’ve never imagined taking on a child all by myself.
That being said, I feel particularly sensitive when it comes to the idea of parents having children, of experiencing that miracle, and then harming them like this. Not the burn injury itself—accidents happen. I’m talking about abandoning a little girl like that.
No wonder Connor stayed with her all night. I would have done the same thing.
“Any update on her parents?” I ask Lois.
“Diane and a few other child life workers are on it. Calling around to local shelters, interviewing anyone who might have witnessed her getting dropped off yesterday afternoon.”
I nod and head downstairs to grab a fancy coffee from the Starbucks in the lobby.
Back in the BICU, I head for the little girl’s room and walk in past the sliding door. All the lights are still off except one near Connor. The girl is still asleep, her blonde curls splayed out on her pillow, so I walk lightly toward him, careful not to bump the end of her bed.
He watches me, curious as I approach and offer him the cup of coffee without a word. Even after he’s spent the night in a hospital recliner, even with disheveled hair and in yesterday’s scrubs, I feel slightly unworthy of him. I’m in awe, really.
He accepts the coffee with an appreciative nod and immediately takes a sip. I doubt he got much sleep last night.
I’d ask him, but it doesn’t feel appropriate.
Nothing feels appropriate, really.
I know we both likely want to discuss the events of Saturday night. There is a neon-colored elephant in the room, but there’s also a fragile patient asleep in front of us who needs our full attention. I convince myself that’s why I avoid the subject of Saturday night. It’s not because I can’t find the strength. It’s because I’d just rather focus on the here and now, on her.
“How is she?”
“Stable,” he says quietly.
I nod.
“And her burns?”
“Minor. She won’t need surgery, and her labs confirmed the damage is isolated to her hand.”
“Good. Lois filled me in on everything,” I say, keeping my focus on the girl as I shake my head. “How can people do that to a child?”
It’s meant as a rhetorical question, but I see Connor lean toward me out of the corner of my eye. I wonder if maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut.
“Natalie…” He sounds troubled, and I can barely force myself to look in his direction.
No.
Not here.
Not in this room, with this little girl sleeping so soundly. I won’t have the conversation now.
“You go,” I say, suddenly forcing a small smile. “Go and shower. I’ll stay with her until rounds start.”
