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When we cut his clothes off and I see the lean, ripped, muscular build of his tattooed and naked body, I am pretty sure my assumption about him is correct. He is a fighter. Not just a fighter, but an underground fighter. For a month now, we have seen an increase in patients coming in looking like this. From what I have been told, the fights always increase in the summer months.
Violence is senseless. At different times, it brings on different emotions from me: either fear or anger.
As I sit next to him, even with the assumption he is a fighter, I can’t help wondering if he isn’t a victim. Maybe he was out for a jog, and some random criminal jumped him. Maybe some person with no conscience or consideration for human life decided he didn’t deserve his. Then I become angry. I am angry someone hurt him.
As I carefully clean the blood from his wounds, I sigh and whisper, “You’re going to be okay. We’re going to make sure of it. You’re not alone.”
After he is cleaned up, stabilized, and all vitals are solid, I sit next to him, making good on the promise that he won’t be alone. The entire time, I tell him repeatedly that he will be okay.
After a while, his eyes begin to flutter and appear to be preparing to open. I quickly go out to the hall and grab a doctor.
I stand on the patient’s left and the doctor on his right when his eyes open for the first time and he groans.
“Do you know where you are?” Dr. Bennett asks him. He is my favorite doctor here. He is good with everyone and has a great bedside manner, which many seriously lack. We also have a close personal relationship since his son dated my sister.
“Hell,” he groans. “Kill the light.”
Dr. Bennett gives me a wink, then looks back at the patient. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Not right now,” he grumbles in a sleepy, deep rumble.
“Thank you for staying,” Dr. Bennett tells me. “Things have quieted down out there. You should take off; it’s way past the end of your shift.”
“You sure? I don’t mind,” I say, looking from Dr. Bennett to the patient.
I love my job. It is my reason to get up every day. I swear, if they let me, I would live at the hospital. Helping save lives, fix breaks, clean wounds, ease pain, and comforting those in need are what make me feel something other than tragedy. It’s odd, I suppose. Who finds comfort in crisis?
“Take off.” He nods to the door. “Get some sleep, because who the hell knows what we’re in for tomorrow.”
“I have the afternoon shift; I’ll be fine.” I can’t help looking at the patient, battered, beaten, but still breathing. There is no greater moment in my profession than when I see a patient’s eyes open, since in all reality, it’s never a given it will happen.
“Take off. I promise I can handle it,” Dr. Bennett jokes.
I walk into the nurses’ lounge and wash my hands before grabbing my purse and coat out of my locker. I make sure to fish my keys out before I leave the building.
I head out into the parking lot and make my way to my little white Ford Focus. It’s not yet dark, and I am grateful for that. If I hurry, I can be home before the sun goes down.
Twenty minutes later, in a suburb outside of Rock City, I pull down my street toward my house on a cul-de-sac in a once middle-class neighborhood where kids played in the streets until after dark, riding skateboards, playing basketball, riding bikes, or skipping rope.
Four years ago, that all changed. Now, as I drive slowly toward my two-story colonial, childhood home, I see security system signs in every yard, bars on windows, and no children playing outside. Yards are not immaculately landscaped anymore; there is debris in the gutters; and darkness seems to have settled over the house at the very end of the road.
I hit the garage door opener and race into the garage, quickly hitting the remote to close it behind me. I wait until it is completely closed, look around the well-lit garage, and see Boots, my gray cat with four white feet, sitting on the stairs, waiting for me.
I take a deep breath and get out, closing, then locking, the car door behind me.
“You happy to see me?” I ask as I stand in front of the entry door to the kitchen, allowing him to walk in a figure-eight pattern between my feet as he rubs against my legs. “That’s a fine welcome home, Sir Boots.”
I squat down and scratch under his chin, behind his ears, and then run my hand down his back a few times before standing up, grabbing the bat that sits by the door, and then punching in the code to unlock the house.
