The Nurse

A cautionary tale from Downtown Memorial Hospital

I push the door open to Room 1306. It’s dark and quiet in there except for the hum of the heart monitor.

The old man opens his eyes as I approach, and manages a smile when he sees me.

“You again, young miss?” he struggles to speak.

I smile and nod, checking his vitals, and fluffing his pillows. The old man is not long for this world; I hope his family makes it.

I sit and hold his hand for a few minutes, catching him up on the news, anything to take his mind off the inevitable.

As I leave, the old man catches his breath to ask, “What was your name again?”

At least, that’s what I think he said. His voice is getting weaker, and it is hard to make out what he’s saying.

“It’s alright; I’ll be back tomorrow,” I softly say.

I go to the sixth floor next. It’s the labor and delivery unit. I’ve been summoned for an emergency; a young mother with a difficult pregnancy. They’re inducing the birth early because she has developed eclampsia symptoms.

As I rush in there, I hear a faint, weak wail. The baby has just been born. One of the other nurses wraps the child up, shows him briefly to the father, who looks terrified out of his wits, then whisks the baby out of the room.

I give the father a compassionate glance, but my attention is on the mother. She’s having seizures and is bleeding heavily. I go to her side, and she looks at me between episodes with a wild, frightened look in her eyes.

“You’re going to be alright, and so is your baby,” I tell her gently and firmly.

She can barely nod at me, but she instantly looks a little calmer. Her eyes take on a faraway look, then she rolls them back and has another seizure while I hold her hand.

I walk by the nurse’s station, where three new interns are chit-chatting with a couple of the younger nurses. They are exchanging silly hospital ghost stories. I’ve heard them all, but I’m amused anyway. I stop by the front desk and pretend to be busy filling out a chart so I can eavesdrop.

“The scariest one is an actual true story,” the petite brown-haired nurse, Isabel, says.

The others press her for the story. She tells them a fantastic tale about a nurse who plunged to her death when the elevator shaft malfunctioned thirty years ago when the hospital was brand new. Apparently, she’s been haunting the hallways ever since, calling on patients.

But only patients who will die see her.

I stifle a snort — I’ve heard that story many times. It’s been circulating among the staff at Downtown Memorial for about as long as I’ve been here.

The intern Charlie guffaws loudly at this. He’s the one who manages to be adorable, even with a messy blond mop on his head and thick black glasses that keep sliding down over his nose. He’s clearly trying to flirt with Isabel, and she is clearly more interested in his fellow intern, who’s taller and less geeky.

I feel sorry for Charlie.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he says. “I bet this nurse would appear if we stood in front of a bathroom mirror here and chanted her name, huh? Like Bloody Mary. What was her name again?”

Isabel rolls her eyes but answers him, “It’s Evelyn — Evelyn Hargrave. Why don’t you try it and let us know? We’re all gonna die someday anyway.”

She turns and says she has to go back to work, breaking up the group chat. Charlie looks like a disappointed puppy as he trudges away. My heart goes out to him; I remember being that age and in love. I almost go after him to offer a kind word, but then he disappears around the corner, and I get called on to check on another patient.

Maybe later.

My twelve-hour shift is almost done for the day, but I have one more patient to tend to before I can leave. It’s the ER this time — a young, white male has been hit by a truck two blocks from our hospital.

I know that unruly head of blond hair and the broken black glasses before I even enter the room. It’s Charlie, our intern, I realize with a shock.

Amazingly, he’s still conscious. For now. I can tell they’re not sure he’s going to make it. He’s babbling incoherently, going on and on about making sure we find the matcha latte he dropped, and get it to Isabel.

Dear lord, the boy went to Starbucks to get her a treat and got hit by a truck.

My heart rips open. I wish I’d stopped him in the hallway before.

But it’s too late now; I do the next best thing I can do. I hold his hand kindly. He turns to face me and immediately stops babbling.

“It’s okay, Charlie,” I say in my most reassuring voice. “I’m going to help you.”

His eyes flit over to my name badge and then straight into my eyes. In that one moment, I see a thousand things flash through his quickly fading mind — fear, pain, despair, and finally, peace.

“Evelyn.” Charlie mouths silently at me, “I’m ready.”