𝐃𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒! | harry styles

𝐗𝐈𝐗

I'M exhausted.

I'm eight hours into the day after a restless night and one cup of weak coffee. One of my patients has been screaming her own name over and over ever since I walked onto the floor. Nothing, not even bribery or a healthy dose of Ativan, can calm her. I have another patient who's confused and in restraints after snatching out three IVs, and finally another who keeps complaining of worsening pain in her AV graft. It was declotted yesterday, and now it's becoming red and painful. The Hydrocodone isn't helping and Dr. Psycho Chart-Thrower—I mean, Dr. Biers—is on-call and won't call me back. Of course.

I call her nephrologist. "You can give her 0.5 of Dilaudid, but if it looks infected you need to call her surgeon." Like I haven't already tried that, dick. He hangs up on me before I can explain this.

The Dilaudid helps a little, but doesn't last long. Dr. Biers calls me back almost two hours later.

"Some pain after a declot is normal," he says impatiently. "You can give her another 0.5 of Dilaudid."

"But the first dose didn't help."

"That's why you're giving her more." He's itching to hang up the phone; I can tell by the restraint in his voice. It's amazing he hasn't done so yet.

"The incision looks red and swollen," I argue. "I don't think it's normal. Someone really needs to come see it."

"Start her on 1 gram of Rocephin IV daily and get a white blood cell count. If it gets worse, call me back." He does hang up this time.

I do as he says, but I make Cameron come look at the incision with me. I swear it looks worse than it did an hour ago. It's red and warm and hard all around the site. Cameron observes quietly while we're in front of the patient, not wanting to upset her, but out in the hallway he says, "That's definitely fucking infected. Who the hell is her surgeon?"

"Dr. Biers is on-call. Dr. Styles did the surgery yesterday." I've gotten so used to the idea of Desmond being a dick that I can say his name quite confidently without fear or a waiver to my voice. Harry and I are just fine despite his behavior, and that's all that really matters. I've dealt with assholes before. Desmond is no different from the rest, really, and practically a saint when compared to Dr. Biers.

Kind of sad, really.

"Have you called him?" He's referring to Dr. Biers.

"Of course I did. He refuses to come see her."

"Call Harry and get Daddy Styles' cell phone number then," he suggests, like it's no big deal at all. I'm kind of horrified at the suggestion.

"I can't do that," I quickly argue. "He isn't on call."

"It's still his fucking patient."

"Do you have a death wish for me? I told you how big of an asshole he was that night, right? If I called him on his cell he'll probably come butcher me with a scalpel or something. And he's a surgeon, so I bet he'd go straight for the jugular."

"Better get used to that shit, Pockets. That asshole's gonna be your daddy-in-law one day." I'm clearly getting no sympathy from him. I roll my eyes and go see another patient. Since the antibiotic was given, I'll just wait and call Dr. Biers back if it gets worse, which I plan on doing either way unless the area improves. If that plan falls through, then… well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

By the time an hour passes, the patient's second dose of Dilaudid has worn off and she's crying and begging me to do something. Her arm actually looks worse. I've never seen an infection spread so quickly. Over half the limb is painful, hard, and inflamed.