5
Monday, June 5, 2006 – 5:52 p.m.
Aspen Memorial Hospital
Fatal Beauties, Chants of Maledicta, Adrift, Kindred Spirits and other unusual Gothic CD’s sat neatly arranged in a CD holder next to Spike Michels as he wheeled into Aspen Memorial Hospital for work Monday evening. He worked the night shift as a male nurse on the fifth floor. He’d gotten into the Goth lifestyle a few years back while trying to find out who he was. The whole gothic thing, the dark clothes, the pale skin and body piercings, the unusual and sometimes weird hairstyles made a statement to the world. ‘This is me and I’m different,’ or ‘Notice me because I don’t go along with the norm,’ were Spike’s preferred sentiments. His lanky six-foot frame, gaunt face and sunken eyes surrounded by the customary dark eyeliner made him appear that he should be working in the morgue, not as a nurse for the living. His spiked black hair and black fingernails added to his image. Although he would have preferred to wear his normal black outfit all the time, hospital policy dictated that he must wear the usual hospital issued light blue and white scrubs. He got away with keeping his earrings on, but the piercings were not allowed while he was at work. His hair, too, had to be tempered for the sake of the patients’ well-being and their right to be able to trust their caregivers.
As Spike, who was given that nickname because of his hair and the various body piercings he had either tried or had done over the years, parked his car, Marilyn Manson’s In the Shadow of the Valley of Death roared from the stereo. “Seems like an appropriate song to start the workday,” Spike thought as he slipped the gearshift into park. Glancing at the digital clock on the dash, Spike’s mind unconsciously registered the time as 5:52 p.m. His shift started at 6:00 p.m. That gave him eight minutes to get to the neurology wing upstairs. He worked twelve-hour shifts, three days on three days off. This was the first day of his next three. Getting out of his car, Spike crossed the parking lot to the entrance of the hospital. Ahead of him was the main hospital building, five-stories in height. To the right of that a one-story emergency wing was attached. The hospital itself was shaped like the telltale cross that identifies the Red Cross organization when viewed from above with the ER extending out a bit farther from the right arm of the cross. It was constructed mostly of brick with some concrete interspersed here and there to enhance its’ appearance and give stability to the structure. It wasn’t a fancy building, but was clean and neat in appearance and served its’ purpose of saving souls or extending the lives of others. Sometimes, it just served as an oversize coffin until the real thing was available to take away those whose lives had ended.
Entering the main lobby, Spike noticed the clean, recently buffed floors. The Housekeeping department always prided themselves in keeping the hospital looking like new. The waiting area was spotless, the magazines all neatly aligned in straight, perfect rows, the chairs and table all symmetrically arranged in respect to each other, and the carpets vacuumed for the third time today. If nothing else, the hospital had a reputation for cleanliness.
Taking a right at the reception desk, Spike scurried down the hallway toward the elevators. A few people passed him with a quizzical and wary look, some even moving to the side of the hallway as he passed. Most, however, just ignored him. Reaching the end of the hall, he turned left and pushed the elevator button. A little girl stood waiting with her mother.
“Mommy, look at that man,” the little girl whispered.
Her mother just shushed her and scooted a little farther away. Spike knew she was looking and talking about him, and a half-smile of delight creased the corner of his mouth as he thought about his ability to inflict fear into others. Not that he wanted to scare them or make them afraid, but just the idea that he stood out enough that others would notice him, even if it was in a negative way, gave him an aura of confidence. It helped build his self-esteem and made the negative view he had of himself melt away.
The elevator doors opened and Spike entered. Reaching out to hold the door, Spike said, “Going up?”
“Uh, no, no. That’s okay, thanks. We’re, uh, waiting for someone else. Thanks anyway,” the little girls mom said.
As the elevator doors shut, Spike heard the little girl say, “Who are we waiting for mommy?”
Behind the closed door, Spike stood there alone, pleased with himself. As a child, others had always made fun of him. It seemed that no one accepted him for what he was. Because of his small frame, the other kids always teased him. He was never picked for games, rarely acknowledged even when in a crowd, and was usually ignored. Now, although taller but still small in stature, skinny and gaunt-looking, Spike at least demanded the attention and respect of others, even if it was done by simply donning a different look and life-style.
Exiting the elevator on the fifth floor, Spike stood face-to-face with the neurology admitting desk. The time on the clock hanging on the back wall read 5:57 p.m. He was three minutes early. He worked with two other nurses on the same shift, Darcy, a tall dark-haired and lovely woman of about 25 years of age, and a 63 year-old woman who, it seemed, had been a nurse when WWI started. She was overweight, set in her ways like a fence post in concrete, demanding, unfriendly, unforgiving, unbending and unreasonable. She never smiled, or at least Spike had never seen her do so, bossed the other employees around, whether they were interns, candy stripers or even doctors, and always had the disposition of a sour lemon. Her name was Gretchen. Unfortunately, Gretchen was the one sitting behind the desk when the elevator doors opened. Spike had hoped she wouldn’t be, because no matter how hard he tried, when he was around Gretchen, his whole façade of power and intimidation seemed to melt as if he were an ice-cream cone being held in front of a blow-torch, his stature and confidence draining away like water in a bathtub.
“Well, it’s about time you arrived for work,” Gretchen said, a scowl on her raisin-like face.
“I’m three minutes early,” Spike said trying to hide the slight stammer in his voice.
“Unacceptable young man. When you arrive at work, you should be here early, not right at the last minute. Pushing yourself to the limit like that causes more stress. Damages your body. Makes you start your day uptight, taut like a piano wire. Although, I don’t think it could damage your body anymore than those ridiculous earrings and the nose ring you wear. And that tongue stud, what’s the point? Gets in the way of your talking, messes with the taste of your food, looks horrid. What’s wrong with young people nowadays?”
“Ignoring Gretchen’s comments on his life-style and appearance, Spike simply replied to her comment about being stressed. “I’m fine. It doesn’t affect me that way. As long as I’m not late, I don’t see a problem.”
“Well, I do. You best be more conscious of your time and arrive earlier from now on. You’ve been here what, six months now? And you think I don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“No ma’am,” Spike said respectively.
“I’ve been here for 42 years and I’ve never been late yet. And,” Gretchen emphasized, “I’ve always been at least 15 minutes early every day. Gives me time to get situated, change my clothes, relax a little before work starts. Let me tell you, it works. I should know.”
Spike had been through this before and knew he couldn’t win. He simply nodded his head in affirmation and said, “I need to get started. I’ll see you around.”
“Yes, you will,” Gretchen said, a sarcastic and demeaning note in her voice. She watched as he rounded the desk and disappeared into the staff lounge where he would don his scrubs and start his twelve-hour work night.
After changing his clothes, removing his nose ring and toning down his spiky hair, Spike cautiously peered out of the staff lounge door and into the admitting area looking for the shriveled, non-gregarious grape. Honing in on Gretchen’s back as she disappeared into a patient’s room across the hallway, Spike quickly went to the patient assignment board for the evening. Tonight appeared to be quiet. There were only two patients currently on the floor. One was an elderly man who had fallen out of bed and had hit his head on a nightstand. He was being kept overnight for observation. His room was the one Gretchen was currently in. The other was a young woman, 28 years old who had been brought in on Friday and had been in a comatose state ever since. Spike, having been off the last three days, knew nothing of these two patients. The patients that had been in his care on Friday morning when his shift had ended had since been discharged. Darcy was currently in the young woman’s room. Wanting to avoid bitty-woman, Spike turned and hurried down the hall to room 505 where Benita Noveen was currently resting.
Quietly opening the door to Benita’s room, Spike stepped inside. Darcy turned to see who was coming in, her face emitting an eerie glow as the oscilloscopes and other life-monitoring machines cast their pale light upon her countenance. On the far side of the bed stood Dr. Slaterbaugh. He glanced up briefly to see who had come in and then immediately dropped his eyes back to Benita’s chart. Stroking his mustache and shaking his head, Ken stood quietly in the dim light. Benita’s breathing was erratic. Her EKG showed signs of frantic activity, the sine-wave frequencies were compressed to an alarming rate indicating a racing heart, her blood pressure was pushing the limits of the elasticity of her veins and arteries and her EEG readout showed the delta waves coming at the rate of 90-110 per second, a reading that was above and beyond normal REM activity. Although the current condition of Benita indicated something extremely agitating was going on in her brain, her external body showed no signs of discomfort or stress. She lay there peacefully, the soft features of her face almost like those of an angel. The mixture of colors created by the electronic equipment and the low luminosity of the room added to the ethereal atmosphere.
Dr. Slaterbaugh reached out and gently held Benita’s right hand in his. His concerned face glowed softly in the dim light. As he stood there, Benita’s hand began to move. Her fingers began to tighten around Ken’s hand. Her left hand was beginning to scrunch the covers of the bed into a tight ball. Her body began to go rigid and her face contorted into a face of absolute terror. Adding to the already high-rate of activity going on in her body, her pulse, blood pressure and brainwave activity rocketed. Ken stood there, momentarily dumb-founded. He’d not seen this kind of a condition in a comatose patient before. He had seen comatose patients whose REM activity increased and decreased at various times during their inactive state, but never to this degree, and never with such severe fluctuations as he was seeing now. Benita’s mouth opened in a silent scream. Her body went rigid as if rigor mortis had set in. It stayed that way for 10-15 seconds and then suddenly went limp. Her vital functions quickly dropped back to normal and her body went back into a peaceful, restful sleep.
Ken quickly checked the monitors next to her bed. Heart rate, pulse, brainwave activity, breathing, all were within the normal range. It was as if nothing had ever happened. The only sign that something had been wrong were the nail marks in Ken’s hand where Benita had practically turned it to pulp. Still massaging his hand while peering at the monitors, the silence of the room was broken by Darcy’s voice.
“What happened doctor?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“Could it be some sort of brain damage,” she asked.
“Possibly, but it’s hard to say. Without being able to talk to her and ask her some questions, it makes diagnosis almost impossible. All I can do is guess based upon the symptoms I’ve seen, the tests I’ve run and the readings I’ve got right here in front of me on these monitors. Other than that, I don’t know.”
“Do you think it might be a reaction to something she’s been given intravenously?” Spike chimed in.
“Unlikely,” Ken said, his brow showing signs of concern and deep thought. “Saturday night, I began having fluids administered to keep her from dehydrating since she’s not waking up. I’ve run some tests and had a couple other neurologists look at her, but they’re also in a quandary just as I am. About all that we can do at this stage is keep her comfortable and continue to give her fluids.”
“What should we do?” Darcy asked. Her petite body and black hair almost hid her from sight in the darkened room.
“Just watch the monitors closely. If there is any change outside the normal range, or even an unusual climb or decrease within that range, call me immediately.”
“Anything special we should do in the meantime?” Spike interjected.
“No. Just monitor her. I’ll be running some more tests and doing a little research to see if I can figure out what to do. At this point in time, my educated guess would lean toward some kind of imbalance or abnormality in the neuro-transmitters of the brain. That may be why she suddenly went into such a rigid and highly agitated state. It’s hard to say though. I’ll be in first thing in the morning, around 6:00 a.m. Let me know then what’s transpired overnight.”
“We will Dr. Slaterbaugh,” Darcy said, her voice still hushed in the quiet of the room.
Ken turned to leave, and Spike and Darcy followed suit. They quietly shut the door behind them and walked back to the nurse’s station. Ken stopped in front of the nurse’s desk and pushed the down button on the elevator. Waiting patiently, he stood there staring off into space, his mind racing with ideas about what to do for Benita. The elevator doors opened, and he absent-mindedly stepped inside. As the doors were shutting, he heard Gretchen bellow at Darcy and Spike something about standing around instead of working. Ken shook his head in disbelief. Doesn’t that woman ever have anything nice to say? he thought. The elevator started its descent, and Ken unconsciously grabbed the handrail to steady himself as the elevator dropped toward the main level.
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