Post by phoebe cate greene on Jul 15, 2012 0:08:26 GMT -6
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: dddddd; border: #cccccc solid 8px; width: 420px; padding: 15 5 15 5px;] I can't decide if I should knock down your door or on it Tagged: Talyn Sloan Words:762 Outfit:Scrubs Notes:N/A Everyone said losing someone would get easier. But it hadn't. Not yet, anyways. When Phoebe left the OR, the patient still on the table, the head surgeon cursing and angry, it made the hospital a hell of it's own. Every word in her mouth was bitter and metallic, choking on the sourness of the reality. That doctors, people who were supposed to med and heal, sometimes couldn't fix a person. Sometimes they made things worse. Even in the most perfect conditions, it could all fall to bits, mistakes would be made. Just split seconds, blinks of an eye, and it was all over. Like being turned upside down, standing on the ceiling. They said it was supposed to be easier, losing patients, but so far, it was just as hard as the first day. Listlessly, Phoebe washed her hands in the sinks, gazing into the OR from the window, the boy, not any older than 16 on the table. Cancer. It had progressed pretty far, mets in his lungs, but this wasn't supposed to happen. The surgery was supposed to be easy. Not easy, easy, but complication free, leaving him hopefully cancer free. But once they opened him up it was like Murphy's law. Nothing was how it was supposed to be. He started bleeding internally, and it was all downhill from there. His body was just under too much stress, too much pressure. But he was a kid. He had his whole life ahead of him. Or he did. And maybe that's why this one was bothering her more than usual, why this one was making her innards twitch in agony, why she wanted to punch something, some one, anything. Instead she was quiet, a few people talking around her, as she scrubbed her hands harder than was necessary, her legs begging her to carry her away. To run from the hospital, what was normally more home than anywhere else. But today. Because today it reeked of death and failure. All she kew was she was glad she was not the one who had to deliver the news to his family. It was nearly noon, only twenty minutes or so until the end of her shift. Phoebe wandered to the OR board, seeing what was scheduled for that day, wondering if she could stick around and assist on anything else today. Chance were slim, and she knew that though, having just been chosen to assist. But she still hoped it would happen, so she could get the bitter taste out of her mouth, replace it with the taste of a job well done, a life improved, bettered, saved. Phoebe was tired, and hungry though, as she always was at the end of a 48 hour shift. She hadn't eaten since before the sun had risen, hadn't slept more than 3 hours, really. It'd been a rough shift. If she wasn't going to assist on another surgery, she wished she could just be at her apartment now, with her dog, and a cup of tea. Or on a run, releasing the stress that had been building up. She knew when she got home though, she'd eat the easiest thing possible, and probably pass out on the couch, to wake up and study, practice, so she could do better net time. She filled nearly every free moment with medical texts and journals, always trying to give herself an edge on the latest technological surgical advance, or controversial clinical trials. Sighing, and running a hand through her hair, in a neat braid, Phoebe slid over to the nurses station, talking to one of her favorite nurses for a few minutes, who in turn handed Phoebe a stack of paperwork she had forgotten there earlier in the day. With a slight smile, she headed to the doctor's lounge to try and play catch up with the papers her attending had assigned her. She was very good at it. She hated paper work, everyone did, she'd rather be in the action, but she was damn good at paperwork. Her obsessive, perfectionist side made it impossible for her to leave any field less than perfectly filled out. It took her excruciatingly long, longer than most of the other interns, to finish it, but people could rarely say anything was wrong with what she handed back. So she found a chair, at a table. pulling a pen from th pocket of her scrubs and sat down, head and hand, concentrating wholly on what she was reading, trying to forget about the dead boy, trying to forget about how tired she was. |
