The truth was powerful.
That admission, even to me, was one of great magnitude. Susan opened and shut her mouth twice before speaking. Concern and something else I couldn’t quite place registered on her face.
“That’s your cope Tori, you see that right?” she asked.
She wasn’t looking at me now. It was more of a rhetorical question, her own personal “ah-ha moment” that I was watching unfold before my eyes.
“All these months I’ve been trying to stir something in you, something deep and real. Any emotion at all would have been encouraging to me, but you are shut down, locked out of your own grief. I pushed you, harder than any new RN or young resident on this floor. I was trying to get you to break, to crack under the pressure so you’d release what’s behind this dam you’ve built up. But nothing breaks you. I couldn’t figure out how you were able to keep it all in, but it finally makes sense now. You don’t keep it in...you fight it with pain,” she said, turning to me again. “Show me your feet.”
I could feel my mouth gape in surprise as I stared at her.After a second of processing I said, “Dr. Bradley, I really don’t want-”
“Show me your feet, Green.”
This was no longer my friend Susan, but my attending doctor who spoke to me.
She locked the door to the lounge as I sat in a chair and slowly took off my shoes and socks. Her face contorted in what could only be described as horror, which quickly shifted to pain and then finally to what looked like understanding.
We both stared down at the torn flesh, red swollen scabs, and blisters. It was the first long look I’d given them. My socks and shoes had almost always covered them, so the moments for scrutiny were short-lived, during my shower time only.
No words formed in my head. I had never told a lie to Susan. She was too smart for my deceptions, too quick for my diversions.
“I won’t scold you, Tori. I refuse to be your mother, but I will be your friend. I know that I am almost twenty years your senior, but I get you. I really get you. Our stories aren’t so different, you know? I didn’t have a tragic accident that ended in the death of a child, but I lost my husband almost fifteen years ago and I know what it is to grieve a loss. I’ve grieved the loss of the life I loved and the loss of the lives I’ll never know—the ones he could have fathered if I hadn’t been so selfish about the timing of our family,” she said, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I’m alone, Tori. This job is my whole life, and sometimes it’s a very sad and lonely life. Don’t waste yours on this. Don’t waste yours on what you can’t earn back...guilt doesn’t fade with time. Take that lesson from me.”
With that, Susan opened the door and walked out. I sat staring at my ugly, disfigured feet, replaying her words in my head. Susan had allowed me to think she’d always been single. Hearing her speak of a husband was a shock, but hearing her own words of grief and guilt were even more mind-blowing.
Susan knew.
She understood.
Our connection had been based on more than just our Texan heritage, but on what could have been the greatest common denominator of all: death.
EIGHT
Friday morning had come too soon. I watched the second hand tick on the far wall of Dr. Crane’s office. With each rigid movement my anxiety increased.
Today I would tell her about Anna.
“Victoria, I’ve made quite a few notes during our last two sessions together. I’ve compared them with some notes from your file, but before we talk more about those, I’d like to hear the last part of what happened the night of the accident. You had stabilized the driver of the other car and noticed the empty booster seat on the passenger side, is that correct?”
Wow, well I guess we’ll just jump right in, then.
“That’s correct,” I answered.
“Where did you find the little girl, Victoria, and what was her condition?”
“The six-year-old female was found about five yards away. I was able to get to her quickly because the headlights were shining in the grass where she...landed. Her condition...was critical,” I said, focusing hard.
“Was she breathing when you got to her? Go ahead…tell the story in your own words. I’ll hold any other questions until the end.”
I didn’t hesitate this time. The longer I paused, the worse it was to re-tell. I wanted to detach, to speak the words without having to think about them.
I can do this.
“It was difficult to find her breath because the rain was still coming down hard. I checked for a pulse and couldn’t detect one. She had a severe puncture to her right side and lacerations on her forehead and left leg. I took off my shirt and used it as a compress, and then started CPR immediately. I tried to keep pressure on her side in between chest compressions,” I said, pausing only briefly before continuing on. “When I heard her mother open the car door I was hopeful she could assist me. But, as soon as she took a step out, she cried in pain and fell to the mud, unconscious. I don’t know how long I was out there. I had no phone to call for help…it gets fuzzy after that.”
I stopped then, unsure of what to say next. Dr. Crane sensed my uncertainty, and filled in what she knew from the report.
“The ambulance came then. The report said a rancher was out looking for livestock in the storm when he heard the impact and called 911. All three of you were transferred to Mercy North. It was there that Anna Watson—the little girl—was pronounced dead on arrival. Her mother was treated for a severe concussion, a broken ankle and minor abrasions. You were both released the on same day, is that correct?” Dr. Crane asked.
My mind skipped over the scenes that haunted me the most: the EMT who pulled me off Anna, the moment I awoke in the hospital room with full recollection of what had happened, and the doctor who told me Anna’s fate. Those were the worst. Those were the hardest for me to think about, much less talk about. I fast forwarded my memory to the day I was released from the hospital. I nodded in response to her last question.
“Was there any interaction between you and...Johanna Watson, Anna’s mother?”
The question rattled me as a shiver traveled down my spine.
No one knew about that—no one.
I hadn’t told a soul about the conversation I’d had with Johanna—not even Dr. Bradley—so where was this coming from?
Intuition, maybe?
A mere coincidence since we had both been released on the same day?
“No.”
I wasn’t willing to be pushed any further, not on that one. There were some things that no amount of therapy tricks could get me to reveal. Dr. Crane’s head snapped up in attention as she assessed my stiff posture. I could practically hear the debate going on inside her head. I held my ground.
She was too smart to press me on it.
“Victoria, you asked me last Monday what it was that we were doing here—you and I. I didn’t answer you due to our time restraint, but I wanted to be fair to you and answer that today. I’m a big believer in trust-based therapy. If I’m not open with you, then I shouldn’t expect it in return. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Sure,” I said, still a bit miffed at her last line of questioning.
Though a big part of me wanted to tune her out, my curiosity had already been sparked. What impending diagnosis could she possibly reveal?
I’m a lost cause.
“As I stated before, I’ve taken a lot of notes. Most of them are not on what you’ve said, but how you’ve said it. How your body responds as you speak is actually more important to me than what you say most of the time,” she said.
I nodded, though I didn’t understand.
“The brain is a very unique organ as I’m sure you know from your anatomy studies. There are so many parts of the body that it controls: our speech, our sight, our hearing, our heart-beat, our emotional well-being. Its ability to connect it all is what keeps us in balance—in sync. You, Victoria, are not in sync. The trauma you’ve experienced has left you in a state of disconnect
ion. Your life prior to the accident looks very little like your life today.” She shifted in her chair and put my folder back on her desk.
“You’ve mastered—for now—a complete compartmentalization between your emotional responses, your mental responses, and your physical responses to what happened that night. This kind of response to trauma can be expected anywhere from a few days to even a few weeks after a traumatic event has occurred. Once that initial response period has passed though, the brain should settle and the shock should dissipate. I think you and I both know that is not the case with you, Victoria. Would you agree with that statement?” she asked.
I knew there wasn’t a chance I could deny it. Every word she said was not only accurate, it was nauseating. It was like watching a horror movie and stopping it in the middle of the climax. Would the heroine be rescued? Could she still be saved?
I was more afraid than ever to hear the answer.
Too much time had passed. I couldn’t even remember the Tori before the accident. A different kind of death had claimed her that night. It was the kind of death that no pulse could conquer, the kind of death that stalked its prey like a dark, hungry shadow. That Tori was gone.
“Yes. It never dissipated,” I answered, stunned by the sound of my own voice.
“Victoria, when was the last time you cried? Can you remember?” She was leaning in toward me again, getting closer by the second.
Is she waiting to add my answer to her clinical calculations?
“About a week after the accident.”
Anna’s funeral.
“That’s about what I had figured. I’m certain that what you’re dealing with is a form of PTSD—Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,” she said.
My ears felt like they were stuffed with a hundred cotton balls. I couldn’t understand her words.
“What?”
What did she say? PTSD...like a war veteran? That can’t be what she means.
No way.
“PTSD. And yes, it happens more than you realize, in everyday people who experience the worst that life can throw at them. It’s not just a post-war diagnosis. So many people walk around with it thinking it will lessen with time, but it doesn’t. Those people just find ways to cope. Usually, very unhealthy ways like abusing drugs or alcohol, or isolation from family and friends. They can also develop other mental disorders, as well. Some have even been known to commit suicide as a way of escape, but it doesn’t have to be that way—not for you.”
Dr. Crane spoke with such conviction that if I hadn’t known any better I would have sworn I was in church.
“It will take some hard work, Victoria, to un-hinge the compartments holding back your emotions and your ability to feel, but I am willing to guide you through that process. I think you’re an extraordinary young woman who has far surpassed any heroic validation I could offer, but I also know that if you’re not helped...the trappings of PTSD will consume you. So, let’s make a compromise, shall we?”
Compromise?
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Dr. Crane?”
My head was spinning in a million different directions.
First she tells me I have PTSD like I just got back from a bloody war field in Iraq, now she wants to play “let’s make a deal”?
“Having you here against your will only defeats the progress we can make together. So, I am willing to sign off on your overtime hours, if you are willing to agree to treatment. That means that you will be the one making the appointments with me, doing the homework I assign, and showing up here willing to work. I know this is a lot to think about, but I can’t help you until you decide for yourself that you want my help.”
She pushed back her chair and stood up. I was still in a daze when she placed her hand on my shoulder and looked at me with deep sincerity.
“Anna doesn’t have a choice to make, but you still do. Her death doesn’t have to mean your death. There is no even exchange, Victoria. If you won’t do it for yourself...think about doing it for Anna.”
NINE
“There is no even exchange...do it for Anna.”
There had been several diagnostic claims made to me or about me over the last 17 months, mostly by disgruntled family members or co-workers. I had been called: cold, detached, withdrawn, ice queen…and worse. I had easily ignored every one of them. This one, however, struck a chord that resonated through the entirety of my body. It was a low blow to involve Anna’s legacy, but Dr. Crane had a point.
Did she really, though? Is therapy for PTSD—if that’s actually what I have—really going to help honor Anna’s life?
It was a question that I didn’t know how to answer. That fact alone gave me pause. As tempting and appealing as working overtime was, the flip-side to her compromise was downright bone chilling. The idea of more therapy was like looking into an abyss, strapped into a harness, and being told to jump. Sure, the harness provided some sense of security, but without knowing the depth of the free fall, what good was a harness at all?
What if I lose what little control I have left?
I may live in a prison now, but at least I know my way around it.
I knew I needed time to make this decision, but for the next twelve hours thoughts on PTSD and therapy compromises would have to be placed on hold. Nursing did not mix well with mental and emotional distractions. I tucked the thoughts away and hurried down to the locker room to change into my scrubs.
My stomach was suddenly aflutter as I pushed opened the door and rounded the corner to my locker. There, taped to the dull metal locker of #44, was a folded note. My name was written on the front.
I pulled it off slowly.
Tori-
I realized I never gave you my number, must have been too caught up in “playing doctor”. I’ll get yours from Stacie later today and text you to confirm a time for tomorrow. Everything is planned—just pack a bathing suit and a change of clothes. We’ll have fun!
PS. Don’t worry, no hot tubs are involved…I promise.
555-298-4463
Kai
Note still in hand, I slumped down hard on the bench.
This day is just chock-full of surprises. What had I gotten myself into?
And why did the idea of swimsuits and Kai make my heart race at a hundred beats a minute?
The idea that he had been in this very locker room looking for me, caused my anxiety to simmer. But there was something else mixed in with the anxiety, something that I hadn’t felt in quite a while: excitement.
My smile—even though I couldn’t see it—was ridiculous.
No, this is ridiculous!
Deal or no deal, family friend or not, it was obvious that Kai’s charming ways seemed to get him what he wanted, but that would change soon enough. Though his gesture was undeniably flattering, I knew it was misdirected. Stacie was the type of girl who ended up with a guy like Kai. He needed a girl who would giggle and swoon, one that was well-mannered and polished. He needed the type of girl that seemed to be created with some sort of magical “girlfriend pixie dust” that I didn’t possess.
There was a nagging voice somewhere in the back corner of my mind that seemed to disagree with my judgment. The fact that he had pursued me even after my less-than-gracious-moment at my parent’s house, and after my drowned rat exhibit in Stacie’s bathtub, did lend some credit to the opposition. But even with those truths in mind, I had no choice but to dismiss the notion that my judgment could be off.
There was no use playing a game that would ultimately end in disqualification before it even began. If he was hoping to get a Stacie Jr., he would be sorely mistaken. Our apples may have fallen from the same tree, but they had rolled in opposite directions.
**********
Meg Holt, the charge nurse in Emergency, was sitting at the nurses’ station buried in paperwork when I checked-in for my shift. Though my encounters with Stormy had been interesting at best, Meg seemed like she enjoyed her job and liked her staff. I had interviewed with her when I first
arrived back in Texas a couple weeks ago. It had been a fairly short interview compared to my detailed overview with Human Resources, but I quickly gathered that she was a down-to-earth type of gal. Though very capable of managing a demanding work environment, she was absent of the typical stress-case attitude that was usually married to it. When she told me she was from the Northwest—Oregon, I believe—the dots connected.
Meg partnered me with Bev Hatty for the day. Bev was a thirty-something socialite who, in my opinion, was far too interested in the lives of each and every staff member we passed. Though she wasn’t exactly instructional or helpful, she wasn’t a total stick-in-the-mud like Stormy had been either. Bev’s main focus was on a doctor by the name of Thomas, a doctor who I was fairly sure was married.
I wondered how much longer I’d have to be “supervised” as I administered my third IV for the afternoon while Bev stood in the doorway and texted on her phone. Apparently whatever was happening on that tiny screen was far more important than the lady who was crying from her kidney stones. Thankfully, the woman’s morphine kicked in within twenty minutes and she was now resting peacefully, waiting for the doctor.
The last six hours of my shift were filled with college students who were drunk beyond measure. Many needed treatment for alcohol poisoning, while the other obnoxiously noisy frat brothers filled the waiting room. Hospital security was higher on evenings and weekends, usually due to this exact scenario. Drunks didn’t seem to follow the rules as well as the old lady with a rosacea flare-up did. Being surrounded by several universities came with its perks—and its annoyances.
“I really don’t think I need to be here...I’m just a tad woozy.” One twenty-something frat boy had slurred to me. He had practically passed-out on me before we even got to his outpatient room.
“Just lie down right here, if you need a bucket-”
Too late.
Vomit was now all over the floor and bed. Thankfully, I was standing a good three feet away at that point.
All For Anna Page 6