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Amir rolled over and sat up. “You’re right. I’m your senior resident. You’re my student. I would never want to make you uncomfortable,” he declared with regal composure, calmly assessing the naked girl on the bed.
“Thank you,” I responded, summoning a bit of dignity. “You must know that I really like you.”What? Which voice was that? I sounded like I was back in middle school and delivering that comment from a mouth full of braces.
He kissed me on the forehead like a parent would and picked up the afghan from my bed. He awkwardly swaddled my body as if I were a baby just having been delivered. Then he noiselessly stood up and started to slip out of my bedroom.
“Lock your door, sweet girl.”
18. Nurse Teapot in a Tempest
Another night of erotic dreams. My brain waves raced into the deepest celluloid state. I was Princess Jasmine, in turquoise palazzo pants, midriff cunningly displayed, floating away on a magic carpet with my love, Aladdin. He was dressed all in gold, the purple feather in his turban fluttering through a Technicolor wind. In dream state, he looked fuzzily like Amir.
I awoke with a start at 9:30 a.m. Oh shit. Although Sundays were rarely busy, with only the occasional emergency case, performing rounds was obligatory. I had drifted off without setting an alarm. I now had twenty-eight minutes to dress and drag my well-rested ass to the hospital.
Commando quick, I threw on my scrubs, clogs, and pullover, and looped my ponytail. All done in ten minutes. On an empty stomach, I ran out and jumped in my Jeep. All the way to the hospital, the windshield stayed clouded from the night’s dew; there was no time for defrosting.
I arrived just three minutes late, hit the floors, and began my morning routine of collecting patient vitals.
“Hey you, med student,” a deep voice beckoned from behind. I whipped around. My fears were allayed; he was still dazzling. We could barely maintain eye contact without cracking a smile, but we needed to round.
Together.
When Amir took a step or two toward me, I stepped back, and vice versa. Morning rounds felt like a hot salsa dance. Heat ricocheted between us. We floated through the daily logistics, from patient to patient, and finished in the room of Mr. Peterson, a man suffering vasculopathy with a touch of dementia.
“Good morning, Mr. Peterson,” Amir chimed. “How are you feeling?”
Mr. Peterson was postoperative on the first day following an above-the-knee amputation. I was always saddened to see patients who had lost limbs, particularly those with advanced vascular disease, which also reduced the blood supply to their brain, bowel, and heart.
First it robbed them of their limbs, then their life source, until it stole their time on earth.
We tag-teamed Mr. Peterson’s dressing change. Amir started to remove the top layer of his Ace wrap while I braced what was left of his leg. Just then came blood-curdling screams! “Stop, you’re crushing me to death, you motherfuckers!!”
We were being as gentle as possible. How could we have hurt him with this light dressing change? Mr. Peterson’s screams reverberated down the hallway, mobilizing the nursing supervisor.
She stood in the doorway, left hand settled on her large hip in an exaggerated pose of annoyance.
“What is going on in here?”
“Nothing, ma’am.” Amir tried to calm her. This type of episode was what we called the handle of the teapot creating a tempest within it. “We’re just performing a routine dressing change. He’s a vasculopath.” Amir circled his index finger near his temple in the cuckoo gesture, medical shorthand to suggest that Mr. Peterson’s brain was not receiving adequate blood flow.
A few screws had loosened up there.
“Well, we’ll see about that!” The supervisor was trying to assume authority that she didn’t have, which only made her angrier.
“Okay, ma’am. Well, thank you for your service,” Amir said. “We have other patients to see.” He dismissed her and prepared for our exit as well. Fortunately, Mr. Peterson had been diverted and silenced by our minor drama.
We power walked down the hall and escaped to the safety of the stairwell, where we burst into hearty, unprofessional laughter. He turned to me and tenderly stroked my face.Then abruptly, at gale force, we were kissing hungrily, heartily, and completely unprofessionally.
Residents and med students were threatened with expulsion if they became intimate with each other in any way off campus, not to mention at the hospital itself.
Lost in the windy landscape of his kisses, I did not hear the door opening. It was Nurse Teapot looking to create a further tempest. I caught a glimpse of her white uniform at the top of the landing, just as the door sucked shut behind her. We tried to collect ourselves, but the sight of my right bra strap hanging askew out of my scrub top might have confirmed her suspicions.
“Who fucking cares what she saw?” Amir was fearless, but I wasn’t. I could feel my zombie dreams coming to haunt me.
My mood didn’t revert to the carefree, sexual attitude of moments earlier. I knew instinctively that Amir was not a good idea, most likely another engrossing, predatory bad boy who would get us both in trouble.
There was a sense of despair welling up in my throat, almost like an acid reflux, leaving a rancid taste in my mouth. We needed a break, so we headed down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. Deep in the bowels of the hospital, seated alone in this greasy cafeteria, I could feel myself reviving under Amir’s concerned and watchful eyes.
This was like a first date, and I wanted to learn more about him, when I was sober and dressed.
