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Things finally calmed down around five in the morning, and I was utterly wiped when it came time to clock out at seven.
Another nurse had taken over Graham’s file, and I’d tried to put the entire encounter out of my head as I finished my shift.
“You can’t keep me here.” Graham’s agitated voice filtered out of a nearby treatment room.
He didn’t sound angry, more frustrated, but I could sense he was swiftly escalating toward pissed off.
“What’s going on?” I strode into the treatment room.
Graham stood next to the bed clutching his bundled-up clothes to his chest with his hurt arm, which was now in a splint. A pair of scrub pants were draped over the bed, and someone had given him a robe to put on over his johnny.
“Dr. Carlisle said he can’t leave without someone coming to get him.” Indra, one of our newer nurses, wrung her hands together and turned to me. “He’s supposed to be monitored for a concussion.”
“And what’s the problem?” I glanced at Graham. He shot back a glare.
“He wants to leave AMA. Said he doesn’t need anyone to pick him up or look after him.”
“I’m fine.” Graham swayed on his feet, his face pale.
“I’ve got this.” I stalked past Indra, who then scurried out of the room.
I usually waited for my colleagues to give me some sort of sign they wanted help dealing with a patient, but I was out of fucks to give tonight. By the grateful look she’d given me, I doubted Indra minded me stepping in.
“How are you going to get home?” I asked.
“Uber, or cab, or whatever.” He swayed again.
I swiped his file off the chair next to the bed and gave it a cursory read.
“What about when you’re home? Do you have someone who can monitor you for the signs of a concussion?”
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that, but you’re really not.” I snapped the file shut. “A sprained ACL”—I pointed with the file—“a sprained wrist, a possible bone bruise to the ulna, and a suspected concussion. Those are serious injuries.”
“No, they’re not.” He took a step toward the door. “I’m—”
The johnny was just short enough on his tall frame that his braced knee was visible as it wobbled, and as he pitched to the side, I caught him, then propped him up against the bed. “You’re not fine.”
“I am. It’s just been a long-ass night.”
“Graham.”
He glowered at me.
“Head injuries aren’t something to mess around with. The trauma from your assault could be masking the severity of it. The next forty-eight hours are critical in making sure you don’t have a brain injury.”
“I didn’t get hit that hard.”
“You have a history of head injuries. Each successive concussion takes longer to heal and can cause life-threatening complications.” When he gave no reply to that, I switched tactics. “People die from concussions. And with your other injuries, it’s almost a guarantee you’ll fall on your ass, or head, while you’re recovering if you don’t have someone to help you. I know you’ve had a long night, and you’re in pain and just want to be away from all this, but you need someone to watch you for the next three days.”
“I want to sign that form. The one that lets me leave.” He leaned more heavily against the bed, some of the fight leaving him.
“I can’t stop you from leaving AMA, but I want you to seriously think about the consequences. Do you have a friend or partner you can call? Your family?”
He pressed his lips into a flat line and looked away.
“Fine.” I sighed. “You can come home with me.”
