Lillian bit her lip. “We don't have a date yet. It will be this summer. His brother kind of got engaged in January, and we have to work around that.”
“Were you engaged first? Don't you get, like, first dibs?” Clarissa was sure Sean popped the question over New Year’s.
“Other than on TV, I don’t think that’s a thing. His brother’s wedding is going to be a big to-do.” Lillian got this soft smile. “Sean and I, we don't need that much. White dress and a church with our friends and family.”
“I will be there. I guess I should tell you I’ll need a plus one since I’m seeing someone,” Clarissa added. “It's new but not new. And it's also complicated.”
“How complicated?”
Clarissa hoped her confession of the first part would go over well. “Remember the whole nursery incident and I got rescued by Chief Marin of anesthesia? We’ve been quiet hospital official since Valentine’s Day.”
She shouldn’t have doubted Lillian, who clapped her hands. “So awesome! Not everyone’s romance needs him to impersonate a security guard or have a police surveillance team sending you messages on his behalf.”
“I kind of have my own surveillance problem. Remember Tristan, my jerky Navy SEAL brother? Chief Marin is his best friend. Also, he misdirected Tristan by saying he was dating my roommate Willow because dating the sister is a fatal bro code violation.”
“Replace misdirection with what he really did—he lied.” Lillian was more concerned about the lie than the likely fatal ‘dating my little sister’ bro code violation.
“Simone feels the same way. Willow says it’s an allowable fib in the pursuit of the greater good since Tristan keeps texting me randomly asking for info on her.” Clarissa held up the long chain of Tristan’s attempts to hope she’d slip up and reveal something.
“Not how most people’d react to this,” Lillian observed dryly.
“She’s not most people,” Clarissa agreed, because Willow had come up with an entire plan on how she’d handle Tristan if he ever managed to find her. “Does this mean my complicated trumps your complicated?”
“Definitely not,” Lillian said sans hesitation. “Maybe we can let our complicated guys compare notes.”
“That’s a great idea. Maybe we can get together for my twenty-seventh birthday next month?” Best not to add that she’d be on NICU next month. The idea was beyond depressing, so she hadn’t even checked to see if she got her birthday off.
“Sounds good to me. Good luck tonight.” Lillian waved goodbye, on her way to her hot, complicated cop.
Since the pagers were possessed by voodoo monsters, Clarissa immediately got a page with direct admission into the Heme-onc floor.
CHAPTER 7
The page was unusual since most heme-onc chemo admissions were scheduled during the day through clinic. Nights were typically limited to the unscheduled admissions of febrile neutropenia/sepsis workups through the ER.
However, the reason for the admission became clear after she talked with the heme-onc charge nurse. Hermione Pfouts, a thirteen-year-old with difficult to treat acute lymphoblastic leukemia, hadn’t arrived for her scheduled salvage chemo admission during the regular clinic hours. In order for chemo to start before midnight, Clarissa needed to complete the admission H and P now. The nurse recommended she use the computerized chart record to speed along her paperwork.
Or not speed along, because the record hadn’t fully loaded despite the computer retrieving records for a good ten minutes.
Rather than reinvent the wheel, Clarissa pulled up the latest summary of care that had loaded and understood why the files were this massive. Hermione’s ALL had a difficult to treat MLL gene 11q23 chromosomal translocation. Since her diagnosis at five years old, she’d never achieved consistent remission despite many rounds of chemo and three bone marrow transplants. Salvage chemo with increasingly high doses of increasingly toxic agents were the only remaining tools.
Reading up on every single treatment wouldn’t be useful tonight, so she opted to go in and get the required sections done now.
“I’m Dr. Morgan with pediatrics. I have a few questions to ask as part of your admission,” Clarissa said, washing her hands in the sink just inside the second set of doors of their positive pressure room.
“Yes, I’m not sick. I love chemo. Love being here. Couldn’t wait!” the thirteen-year old girl in black yelled the last part.
“Hermione, don't be rude.” Her mother was calmly unpacking blankets and personal supplies.
“Who cares? She doesn't care. Are you gonna feel sorry for me and my sad, puffy, cancer face?” Hermione stood, pointing at her cheeks. Years of chemo had given her a certain body shape that was typically unseen in the general public. The chronic steroids made her face round, her tummy big, and shortened her height. The constant starve/vomit cycles had thinned her limbs and prevented puberty from occurring.
“I'm fine,” Clarissa said. The chemo was scheduled to last a week, suppressing Hermione’s immune system. After tonight, any staff member in the room would be gowned, gloved, and masked.
“She's fine,” Hermione mocked and took off her blonde wig, chucking it toward her mother. “We should have skipped this. I wanted to stay home!”
“We're late because you refused to leave! Sit down and stop messing around,” her mom retorted, laying out pillows. She’d be stuck in the same room with Hermione to avoid bringing in more germs.
“I hate it here. I want to go home. I want to go to school. I want to go to the mall! I want to go outside!” Hermione screamed. She marched over and wrenched a black duffel bag away from her mother.
