Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
It was a man named Porter Hayes, thirty-three years old, and checked himself in yesterday. He had been through intake, though it had taken him a long time. He had the shakes when he first came in, a clear sign of alcoholism. They had gotten as much information from him as possible, including insurance, but they hadn’t managed to get very much of his medical history. No previous surgeries, no information about allergies or family history of cancer.
It would be up to me to fill out the chart as much as I could when he was able to recall this information. They had put him in room 204C—that meant alcohol and drugs. I flipped down the pages of his chart, already empathizing with him. For him to check himself in with no additional supporters, when he had the shakes, nonetheless, spoke of power and self-awareness. Most of our patients came through court referrals or police commissions. We didn’t get a lot of people who realized they had a problem and asked for help. That said a lot for Mr. Hayes’ chances of a sustainable recovery.
After the initial visit, I had a few patients requiring daily monitoring and three who were being released. Porter’s case was the most important, as he was in that vital seventy-two-hour window that could mean life or death to a recovering addict. I spritzed my hands with sanitizer and hiked up the stairs to the second floor.
Room 204C was opposite the nursing station, one of the first rooms in the critical wing. I checked inside through the safety glass in the door. I didn’t see any movement inside, so I turned the knob and went in. There was hardly anything within the detox chamber except a cot and a chair, and both were bolted to the floor. There was a toilet with a sink and a curtain for privacy, but not a wall. I scanned the room carefully. Six years of experience had taught me that no matter how good my motives were, patients could still sometimes be dangerous.
What I discovered lying on the bed was far more dangerous than a man bent on destruction. The patient lying there was beautiful. Sometime during the night, he had removed his shirt. That was normal; in the extreme discomfort and profuse sweating that withdrawal causes, people often seek to make themselves feel better by casting off clothing. I was accustomed to finding patients, especially those in the early stages of detox, half-naked.
But this man was something else. He was cut, from his chest down to his waist, muscles clearly visible beneath tanned skin. The typical junkie body type was skinny, even wasted away. This man was strong, as if he had managed to get regular exercise while getting stoned out of his mind.
His sandy-brown hair was washed and spread out over the pillow, unlike so many who found their way to our doors. His jaw was unshaven, dark with stubble from one or two days’ growth. He could be a former model for all I know.
I caught myself staring. I wondered if I had walked onto a television set, if I had been cast as an unsuspecting nurse in a police drama. But as soon as I realized I was ogling him, I cut myself off. It was absolutely unacceptable to have such thoughts about a patient.
He was here to save his life and at his most vulnerable, and I had to show him the respect he deserved. As I watched, he curled up around the pillow, and the spell was broken. He became another lost soul in anguish, landing here after hitting rock bottom. I sat down on the chair, leaning forward to smile encouragingly. He tracked me with his eyes, but I wasn’t sure he was really seeing me.
“Porter?” I called.
He didn’t answer but relaxed his grip on the pillow, seeming to sense another person in the room. I caught a glimpse of his striking features, his dark eyes soulful as they searched in vain for an anchor to reality. His lips parted, but no sound came out.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured him.
There were regulations about touching the patients, even gentle caresses or holding hands. Lawsuits happened when doctors took their privilege too far, and I didn’t want to break any of the rules. I did want to reach out and stroke his hand, though. Something within me was moved to action by his quiet desperation. I wanted to comfort him, to speak to him with a language more basic than words. But that was forbidden, and I restrained myself.
Instead, I began speaking in soothing tones, using my voice rather than my touch to comfort. I went through the intake procedures, even read out parts of his chart. I used the training I had to give positive affirmations to help calm him.