My Bad Boy Doctor

2

I open my eyes to dim lighting and beeping monitors. The room is too big to be something from Urgent Care, and I can only assume my eaves-dropping ass has a concussion to go with the bruised rib. The bed is raised in a forty-five degree angle, making it somewhat easier to rest, and I can't really feel much aside from a slight pinching in my back and a throbbing head. The IV in my hand i must be pumping some good drugs and fluids to keep me hydrated because I feel pretty great compared to earlier.

My purse is nowhere in sight, and I freak out for a moment, thinking it was left behind at the UC. I've never actually gone straight to the hospital from another office, so I have no way to know if someone was kind enough to send my belongings or if someone filched my worn canvas bag and took what meager savings I have in my bank account. With my luck, I wouldn't be surprised if that happened, though it's not like I have a fortune or nude photos on my phone to sell to some lonely horn-dog on the internet. If anything, the thief would realize their loss and dump my bag in a trash bin somewhere.

There's a whiteboard on the wall with something scribbled in big, loopy green letters. I squint in the dark, trying to make out the words. My eyes gradually adjust, and it says, 'Hi, my name is Rose. I am your 3rd shift nurse.

Good to know. I've heard handwriting says a lot about who a person is, and there are dozens of studies on the subject, filled with a full personality analysis. With nothing better to do, I try to figure out as much as I can about Miss Rose. Is she a redhead like Kate Winslet in Titanic? Vibrant, vivacious, voluptuous? Instead of continuing my game that I made up, I wonder what else starts with the letter V and why I landed on that. There are tons of other adjectives to describe people. V...V...Vee...Vvvvvv...who decided that should be a sound in the alphabet, anyway?

And just like that, my mind stops working and I stare into space for a while. I feel like Dory in the original Finding Nemo movie where she tells the clownfish to "Relaaaaax." But it's kind of boring to just keep swimming on my own right now. I have nothing to do, and I'm not in the mood to watch TV unless Netflix is playing on my phone in the comfort of my bed.

As much as I don't like doing the 'people' thing, I press the call button. A nurse in pink scrubs with little dark baggies beneath her eyes from too much work on the zombie shift walks into the room. Covering her face is an animal mask with sheep sleeping next to lions.

I immediately decide I like her. I could imagine her as one of those grannies who feeds the hungry, makes little animal toys for kids, and nurtures the whole world. Her walk is perky, and her smile within her eyes is beautiful because she legit looks happy.

She flips on the light and approaches my bed, checking my vitals as she speaks. "Hi, Kelly, I'm Rose. How are you feeling? You took a pretty nasty tumble there at the Urgent Care center."

Drugs flowing faster than fish downstream in my veins, I consider this. I roll my shoulders and wiggle to the left before moving to the right. That spot in my back shifts again and pinches the muscle like it's stuck, and I can't help but think I didn't tear something. Not only that, but I feel stiff and noodley. My rib cage feels like a herd of wildebeests trampled it, and my limbs refuse to work.

I puff my cheeks out like a blowfish and release a slow breath. "I dunno," I slur. "I went in for..." I pause, trying to recall what I did this time. My brain seems to be driving in the slow lane tonight. Then, a little lightbulb shines above my head. "I hurt myself."

Rose giggles. "Well, that's generally why one goes to an urgent care center. Most people don't wake up saying, 'I feel good today. I think I'm gonna waste my money on an overpriced visit to the doctor.'"

I laugh out loud even though it hurts. She's got a sense of humor for someone half awake in the dead of the night. When my back pops back into place, I hiss and wait for the sharp pain to subside. Once certain I can speak without screaming, I say, "I think I tore the intercostal muscle in my rib. There's no bruising, and it hurts like a bitch to move."