“I’m sure I will,” came the reassuring answer floating somewhere behind her now. Oh, if she could only just turn around and look into those dark, soulful eyes one more time, but she dared not. She had to look professional. She had to appear busy. And yet…
“See ya,” Gin added, moving quickly down the hall and hoping beyond all hope that she would indeed see him again soon.
That reverie was quickly interrupted by the sound of the unit secretary’s voice. “Ginny, ER just called up another admission—a 991 call with seizures, cardiac arrest, and loss of consciousness. Some friends called for an ambulance. ER confirms coke overdose. Guy’s awake now, but somewhat disoriented, with continuing tachycardia and elevated BP. They want us to monitor him till he stabilizes, then off to rehab. Is 210 ok?”
“Sure, that’s right across the hall from my last admission. Tom’s crazy night’s now landing on us!”
Minutes later, the elevator door opened, with Marcus attempting to subdue a rather scruffy-looking middle-aged man who was screaming at the top of his lungs. “Get me outa this goddamn place! I don’t belong in here. I just overdid it a little, that’s all. No big deal. Who the fuck is she?” he shrieked in Gin’s direction.
“That’s Ms. Morrison, suh,” Marcus stated almost in a whisper, attempting to calm his patient down. “She gonna take care o’ yo’ ass while you up hea’, get it? Now you jus’ settle yoself down or we gonna settle you down—take yo’ pick, brotha.” Marcus didn’t like it when patients were rude to Gin.
She smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Marcus. Let’s get this gentleman to room 210, ok? What’s his name, by the way?”
Before Marcus could answer, the patient came to his assistance. “Scumby, Frank Fuckin’ Scumby. Now will somebody please get me outa here? There’s nothin’ wrong with me—just a little too much coke, that’s all! And that ain’t no soft drink neither, sweetheart,” he added, struggling with Marcus to get off the gurney.
“Hmmm…that name sounds familiar,” Gin thought out loud. Then she remembered—he was the guy in the psych ward her senior year in nursing school. Jerk then, and still a jerk now. “Well, Mr. Scumby, I believe we have met before.”
Frank stopped struggling for a moment and looked over at Gin with an evil grin. “Oh yeah? Well, hike up your skirt and spread your legs, sweetheart, and I’ll see if I recognize you!” Then with a bit of a sneer, he added, “I’m sure I’d remember those tits, too, if you’d just uncover ’em a bit! Don’t remember if I ever made it to your pussy, but I’ll be happy to take a peek anyway, darlin’.”
Gin felt her face flush as she fought to control herself. “Nursing student, psych ward, two and a half years ago, Mr. Scumby. Unfortunately for you, there’s no instructor between us this time,” she continued convincingly.
“Ahhh…I remember now. Mother hen and the little chickees. One little redheaded chickee that almost lost it. Mama had to shoo her away from ole Frank here. Oh yeah, sweetie, I remember you. Haven’t changed much either, looks like.”
“It appears that you are the one who hasn’t changed much, Mr. Scumby. Still doing the same self-destructive things that require other people to bail you out. Why don’t you just grow up and actually become a contributing member of society? Now that would be something worth remembering!”
“Ouuu…little sensitive, aren’t we darlin’?” Frank jeered. “I’ll tell you what—you unbutton that blouse and give Frankie just one peek at those perky tits of yours an’ I’ll be a reformed man for sure!”
Without hesitating, Ginny replied, “Mr. Scumby, if I thought for one moment that showing you my breasts would turn your life around, rest assured these scrubs would be on the floor faster than you could open your eyes. Unfortunately, I find you to be one of the most vile and disgusting men I have ever had the displeasure of meeting, and quite frankly, ‘Frankie’, I doubt that you will ever be anything but a useless, wasted, poor excuse for a human being. Marcus, please take Mr. Scumbag to his room before I say something I might regret!”
With that, Gin turned and walked down the hall, smiling to herself and leaving Marcus with his eyes as big as saucers and Frank feeling for once that he had lost the upper hand. “Bitch!” he hissed at her back. “Fuckin’ redheaded bitch!”
As Gin walked toward the nurses’ station, she heard the secretary’s voice beckoning her once again. “Ginny, your new admit in 211, Mr. Kingsley, has been calling for you. Seems a bit apprehensive and anxious to get back to work. I told him you would be down as soon as you can.”
“Thanks, Marla,” Gin replied. Looking over at Mick, who was positioned in front of a bank of cardiac monitors, she asked, “Hey, Mick, anything unusual with 211?”
Looking up, Mick replied, “Hey, Gin…wow, you’ve been busy this morning! No, not really. PVC here and there, probably just under a lot of stress. Oh, he did have one short burst of atrial flutter, but it resolved quickly.”
“Not surprising—he was complaining of fluttering sensations in his chest. You ran a strip for the doc, right?”
“Of course.”
“Yeah, I’m sure he’s under a lot of stress, probably mostly self-induced. He needs to make some serious changes in his life or he may not be so lucky in the future. I’ll go down and talk with him. Thanks, Mick.”
“Sure Gin…better take it a little easier yourself. Heard you got pretty worked up with that last admit—Scumby the Dopehead, or whatever his name is.”
“Yeah, our paths have crossed before. He’s about as low as a human can sink. He should just kill himself and get it over with—make the world a better place for sure. Hopefully he’ll be out of here and on to rehab soon. I’m goin’ to check on Kingsley…”
Terry Kingsley was not a man to waste time. Since his arrival on the telemetry unit, he had been on the phone constantly with his office. As Gin entered the room, he was sitting up in bed with two laptop computers on his overbed table and a cell phone lodged between his shoulder and his ear. “Tell them no deal,” he stated firmly. “That’s in a great building with a fabulous western view. It’s worth well over 2.5 mil.! I’ll get back with you,” he added, noticing Gin in the doorway.
“Ms. Morrison, how much longer do I have to stay in here, anyway? I’ve been here two hours and have been poked and prodded from just about every angle. Anything showing up on your fancy heart monitors?”
“Well, Mr. Kingsley, we are seeing a few PVCs—actually, more frequently than is normal. And you did have a short run of atrial flutter.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Well, basically that you’re having some irregular heartbeats. The atrial flutter will cause you to feel something like palpitations.”
“Yeah, that’s what woke me up this morning and why my wife brought me in. What causes that?”
“Oh, any number of things. Could just be the stress of your job or, possibly, something more serious. I’m sure your doctor will get to the bottom of it, though.”
“And what’s a PVC?”
“I’m sorry. Premature ventricular contraction. It means that a part of your heart called the ventricle—the part that pumps blood out to the rest of your body—is contracting a little irregularly.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Well, it certainly can be if it persists or worsens. Poor diet, stress, lack of sleep…things like that are often responsible. I’m sure you have none of that in your life, though, right?” Gin tilted her head down, raised an eyebrow, and looked a little skeptically over at Mr. Kingsley.
“Well, what am I supposed to do? I’m a principal broker with a large real estate firm, and it’s