The Nurse in the Downfall of Healthcare

The nurse walks down the near-empty hall of the cardiac intensive care unit. Her brand-new black clogs clack rhythmically on the marble flooring. She hums to herself as she logs out of work and waves good-bye to the arriving night shift. Today was rather slow. The only patient in the unit is a man in his late fifties who just got out of heart surgery. He had had an arrhythmia that was repeatable under stress testing, and the doctors ordered the implant of a pacemaker. The implantation was successful, and the patient is being watched for a few days.

The nurse grabs her fine, fleece-lined coat from the jacket hold and wraps herself warmly in it. The temperature is down in the low thirties tonight, and the weatherman suggested that it might snow. It’s doubtful there will be any kind of snow, maybe some ice on the road, but the South is not known for its white wintry weather. What isn't doubtful is the weatherman's pitiful condition. In the nurse's expert opinion, he is sick. It was obvious even through the television screen. The dark bags under his eyes that makeup could not hide, the occasional body-wracking shivers, the glisten of sweat beads on his wrinkled forehead, and the hacking cough are all indicators of pneumonia. It’s highly contagious, and he should go to a hospital to be treated before he passes it on to his coworkers, the nurse thinks as she climbs into her car on the first-floor parking garage. If he can afford it, that is.

Lamps throw flickering yellow light on the mostly empty streets. Shattered lamps leave pools of shadow on the road. Old rock music plays on the radio, and the nurse turns it up several ticks.

It’s best to listen to loud music when she passes through the poor parts of town. She can’t avoid this part of town on her way back to her three-story house on the edges of the city. The hospital is of course, smack dab in the middle of the poor area.

The barricades have been moved again, the nurse notes, as she drives through another mile of clear street. She hears it before she sees it. The low pitch of moaning and crying and begging all mixed together. Up ahead, she spots the yellow barricades and the silent police cars.

She slows down near the cop cars and waits for one of the men to come and talk to her. The officer, an older man with very suspicious-looking ink black hair that does not match his wrinkles, steps up to her window. She presses her hospital ID to the window. The cop tips his head to her and hurries to rally a couple of cop cars together.

While he does that, the nurse finally turns her eyes to the mass of people congregated just outside the barricades, so many of them with dirty faces and rags for clothes. She turns the music up louder, trying to drown out the sound of misery coming from the crowd.

She takes a deep breath and thinks back to something she was taught in medical school. It is not a nurse’s job to treat everyone; a nurse’s job is to follow orders and treat those they can. Why would she treat someone for no money and no recompense? Doing so would get her fired, and then she would just be in the same position as all of those sad souls outside the barricade. All she needs to do is keep her head down and keep her job. With the rise of healthcare and the decrease of patients, her duties get progressively easier and easier. Some nights there are no people to treat. Those nights all of the nurses and doctors and other medical staff get together and drink themselves blind.

Four cop cars drive into formation around her, surrounding her like a cross. A group of the remaining cops move aside the barrier, their batons and guns at the ready to keep the crowd from getting inside the Hospital Zone.

Fortified with her music, she follows the cop in front of her as they plunge through the barricades and into the masses. The people make way for the cars and do nothing more threatening than screaming and yelling at them. The nurse focuses on the tiny slip of gray concrete she can see in front of her vehicle. She listens to the music slamming through her radio and places her full trust in the police to keep her safe from the rabble.

At one point, a song ends, leaving a half second of silence. In that moment, she hears the piercing shriek of a child in terrible pain. She flinches at the sudden sound, and her eyes dart towards the source. A little girl, perched on the shoulders of a frail-looking man, has her tiny mouth open in mid-shriek. The little girl is dressed in a faded-pink rag that might once have been a dress. The man carrying her looks no better, dressed in a strange patchwork of rags. The little girl’s face is red and puffy, and her entire body shakes violently in the freezing temperature. Her hair, which might once have been blonde, is dirty and matted into a rats’ nest. The man looks tired, his face sunken and waxy as he trudges slowly through the crowd. The little girl screams again and waves a fist at the nurse, who averts her eyes immediately.

It is not a good idea to make eye contact with the rabble. They can sense weakness a mile away and would make her pity them until she helps them. She refocuses on the small gray stretch of concrete in front of her as it slowly passes beneath the car. She wishes the cops could speed up. She really hates this part of her commute.

A loud clacking noise on her windshield makes the nurse jump out of her skin. Her body trembles violently as she looks at the new crack in her windshield. The crowd are not allowed to throw rocks at her. The cops must have seen something because one of the officers in the car behind her leans out the back window with his gun. He fires a couple shots into the crowd, causing hysteria as they trip over each other in a desperate attempt to get away. The police are using rubber bullets, which won’t kill anyone unless they are just super thin-skinned.

The nurse swallows thickly and grips her steering wheel until her knuckles turn white. Three songs later and they finally make it to the opposite edge to another set of barricades, which are quickly opened to let them through. She waves gratefully at the police officers and continues down the road. Another song more and she is pulling into her garage.

The windshield needs to be replaced, she thinks as she puts the car in park. It has a nick from a rock popping up from the crappy roads a few days ago. She should have made the call the day the rock hit, but she’s been too lazy to do it. She is not looking forward to the inevitable confrontation. She hates when people beg her for medical assistance instead of money when they do work for her. A windshield replacement is not worth her medical expertise, let alone her job. It makes her feel bad when she has to turn them down and force them to take the cash.

The nurse gets out of her car and inspects her damage. It’s a sizable crack, about an inch long. When she leans closer to snap a picture for her insurance, something metallic glints in the fluorescent garage lighting.

The object, which is likely the culprit of her broken windshield, is snuggled against her wiper blades. When she pulls it out, she realizes what it is. It’s a golden heart-shaped locket on a broken gold chain. The corner of the heart is dented, probably from the impact with her car. Any decorative engravings have been long rubbed away. She opens the locket, which is no larger than a half inch. Inside is a picture of a baby girl with blonde curls. She runs a thumb over the picture deep in thought. The idea of returning the locket to the little girl despite the dangers runs quickly through her head. A glance at her broken windshield forces her from her daydream. The nurse snaps the locket shut and tosses it into the garbage can in the corner of the garage. Nostalgia and guilt are for the weak and feeble-minded, and the nurse has no room in her soul for such things.