Medically Speaking

Chapter 24

The consistent breeze rolling in off the coast was a blessed apology for the sweltering heat that had settled over Charleston by noon today. Though the water had to be somewhere in the mid-80s, it cooled the wind down enough to be a reprieve for however long it blew over the city. With it came the light scent of saltwater, a faint reminder of my first home.

Faint because the rivers that dumped into the Gulf of Mexico where I lived made for a murky, sometimes horrid stretch of water where you couldn't even see the blue in the distance standing on the edge of the shore. With it came bacteria in the heat of the summer and occasional fish kill offs. Combine it all together with a booming chemical plant and shipping industry, and it was a bit of a toss-up on if the sea breeze was going to smell like tranquility, a chemical release, or a rancid fish market.

Even with all of that, the beach was one of my favorite things about where I grew up. One of the few things I missed. Watching the dolphins chase the boats up the waterways into the port. Sinking my toes into the sand after a hard week. Walking to the ends of the jetties, past where the flat concrete for the tourists and fishermen had ended, down to where nothing surrounded you but the water and the sounds of waves crashing against the chunks of stone. Staring out at the horizon and the endless possibilities it seemed to tease at. A hidden gem that most everyone besides locals avoided because the bad days really were horrible and prettier, but more crowded, beaches were only an hour away.

There were tourists, but they were almost as temperamental as the tide. Some years there were so many you could hardly get onto the island village. Other years, especially in the first year or two after a hurricane, it was a miracle the singular bar and restaurant were able to stay open.

Where I had grown up was littered with rivers, bayous, and wetlands that all led to the place I had felt the most at peace. That beach was more of a home to me than the house I grew up in and today, sitting up on the roof of the hospital in the play area, the sea breeze was a gentle companion. A reminder of the water that had loved me so well for so long.

A good memory from home was a blessing after the last 24 hours. I barely slept and when I did, nightmares had plagued me. I had rushed to get ready for work, hoping to hear word of how Bethany was doing. She'd be in the PICU, so I had made plans to slip in during lunch and visit her and Bailey. I was sitting in my favorite chair on my patio, scrolling through my news app while drinking coffee that would hold me over until Marc could make his daily peace offering only to see a headline detailing how the teenager from yesterday's shooting had succumbed to her injuries.

The end result was a call to Danny telling him that I was going to be late and a call to my therapist for an emergency appointment. Fortunately, she'd been able to squeeze me in after her first appointment of the day. Stasney's a member of the Academy, which probably played a role in it, but this morning I was grateful for it. In order to be the nurse I needed to be today, I needed to get my head on straight.

By some miracle, I'd been able to make it into work but during lunch, instead of visiting Bailey, I locked myself in my car and called April. I didn't tell her what was wrong, but she seemed to have an idea, nonetheless. She prattled on about her life—her job, her boyfriend, the visit she'd had with her grandma—and I just soaked it in. On a day-to-day basis, I didn't give it much thought, she was just my best friend. But sometimes I needed the reminder that she was living her life and happy.

Hearing how normal her life was these days helped me get my thoughts in order and move from self-deprecating to a more stable mantra. I may not have been the one that saved her, but April was safe all the same. I can't save them all. Losing a patient that reminds me of April doesn't mean that I've lost her. Tragedy is a part of this job, a part I've learned to live with, for the most part. It doesn't mean I've failed.