Patient Number One: Lucia Espinosa.
Time since heart transplant surgery: 48 hours. ECG shows her heart rate is stable at 84BPM, blood pressure 117/79, and oxygen levels are stable at 96%. Most importantly, her body isn’t rejecting my heart, meaning the transplant was successful.
Lucia is being discharged from the hospital today. Her parents are here to take her home, as well as that girl I saw visiting just after Lucia’s surgery. Her name is Sophie, and it seems her and Lucia grew up together and are best friends.
Although, judging from how Lucia’s heart rate increased when Sophie came in makes me think Lucia sees Sophie as more than a friend. Yay, my own soap opera.
The car journey is relatively uneventful, filled with Lucia’s parents talking about the coming party celebrating her heart surgery.
“We’ll be inviting the whole family of course. Although your cousin Mira might not be able to travel, her baby is due any day now of course.”
“Should we do a buffet for the food? There’ll be over 70 people if the whole family comes, and you know how your nephews eat!”
“We’ll also need to consider Lucia’s school friends. Inviting all of them could put the number to over 100 people! Should we hire out a venue perhaps?”
Lucia interrupts her parents at this. “Mama, the Doctor said I should take it easy for a while. Besides, I don’t think my school friends will be that interested in coming.” She seems unsure and uncomfortable.
“Oh nonsense, Chica. Why wouldn’t they want to celebrate your life?” Lucia’s mum dismisses her daughter’s protests.
Sophie steps in. “We’ve lost touch with a lot of our old school friends, Mrs. Espinosa. Maybe instead we could have a block party? A potluck where all the neighbours bring something?” Lucia smiles at Sophie gratefully.
“Sophie please, I’ve told you to call me Carla! But that is an inspired idea! What do you think Edmundo? The whole neighbourhood celebrating our little Chica!”
Lucia’s parents continue planning, while she and Sophie roll their eyes and share a laugh.
Patient Number Two: Mike Greene.
Time since liver transplant surgery: 48 hours. Heart rate of 96BPM, blood pressure is a little high at 122/80, oxygen levels are stable at 96%. The doctors want to keep him in longer for observation, but Mike seems adamant about being discharged. His body does not seem to be rejecting my liver, all his blood tests were clear, and he’s signed all the waivers stating the hospital is not liable for any declining health he experiences due to leaving against their advice, so the doctors discharge him.
Mike gets a cab back home. He lives in a seedy motel just off the interstate. Inside, it doesn’t seem like he knows the definition of ‘clean’. Ugh, this is disgusting! Empty beer cans, old takeaway dishes, papers piled up on every surface! How the hell are you supposed to recover from a transplant surgery in a dump like this?! This bastard is wasting my liver!
He slumps down on what can barely be called a couch and turns the TV on. Wow. Why the hell did that doctor fight so hard to give this alcoholic bastard my liver?!
The news is on TV, showing the latest war US soldiers are fighting. Mike sighs heavily, running a hand over his face. He stands up, walking over to a stack of rubbish I soon realise is a cabinet covered in trash. Pushing some of the loose papers and unopened mail aside, Mike picks up an old, dust-covered photo frame. It shows a much younger Mike in army gear, alongside six others, guns over their shoulders, with desert in the background.
“It all seemed so simple back then.” I hear Mike mutter, looking at the photo, wiping away the worse of the dust. He sets down the photo, accidentally knocking a pile of papers off the cabinet with a loud clatter. Mike swears, bending down to pick them up, before stopping short. Amongst the papers that fell was a square, black box. It had fallen open during the fall, and a silver medal had fallen out. Mike picks up the medal. It’s a Silver Star. Oh. That’s why the doctor fought so hard for this man.
Mike scoffs at the medal, throwing it into a drawer. It seems there’s more to Mike Greene than I initially thought. I’ll have to keep an eye on him, try to stop him from ruining my liver, and his life.
Patient Number Three: Richard Wilkes.
Time since kidney transplant surgery: 48 hours. Heart rate of 82BPM, blood pressure 118/79, blood and urine tests all came back clear. It seems Richard Wilkes has not rejected my kidney and it is functioning properly. Great.
He’s just completing his discharge papers now, but he seems more interested in that nurse who had been in a few times to check his fluids while he was in recovery. Thankfully she seemed to get a bad vibe from him, not difficult considering the lewd remarks and the way he constantly leered at her whenever she was in the room. She managed to pass off his treatment to other nurses and doctors most of the time, but right now she’s the nurse overseeing the outpatients.
“Well, well, well, nurse Anna,” ugh, I hate how he overpronounced her name. He’s such a creep! Richard Wilkes has finished his discharge form but is refusing to let go of the papers. “I truly am going to miss you. Almost as much as I’m sure you’ll miss me.” He’s got a disgusting smirk on his face, and nurse Anna visibly leans away from him, looking around to see if anyone else is there who can take over from her.
“You can leave the paperwork on the desk, Mr. Wilkes.” She says curtly, refusing to make eye contact. I don’t blame her. If I could yank this guy out of here I would.
Richard Wilkes lingers for a bit longer, leaning over the desk, until a security guard comes over and puts his hand on the desk right next to him. “If you’ve completed the discharge paperwork, you are no longer a patient, and therefore should leave, sir.” The security guard tells him firmly.
The security guard is much larger than Richard Wilkes and could definitely force him out of the hospital if necessary. Thankfully Richard Wilkes also realises this. “Of course, of course! I was just saying goodbye to the beautiful Anna here. Don’t worry, darling, my number is right there on the form for when you want to get that drink.” He winks as he saunters off.
What a disgusting piece of trash. I hope his body rejects my kidney.
Patient Number Four: Joanna Yang.
Time since bone marrow transplant surgery: 48 hours. Heart rate of 74BPM, blood pressure 106/77. White blood cell count is up, and Joanna is officially an outpatient. She’s got an appointment for her first check up in a months’ time.
There’s a police sergeant here to take her home, Sergeant Mills, according to her ID. “You ready, Yang?”
“Yeah, Sarg, I didn’t have much here to pack up.”
“Come on then, let’s get you home.” Sergeant Mills smiles fondly at Joanna, almost in a motherly way.
They drive in a companionable silence, with Sergeant Mills being the first to speak. “You’re still on sick leave, and will be for another couple of weeks, just so you can get back on your feet.”
“Oh, come on, Sarg, that’s way too long! I’ve been going stir crazy in that place! I even downloaded that dispatch app so I could actually feel like I was still a part of the force.” Joanna lets out a rueful little laugh.
“Hey, you’re always gonna be a part of the force. Everyone misses you and can’t wait for you to come back.”
“And there’s no way I can come back sooner? Hell, I’ll even take extra desk duty shifts!”
“Wow, you really did go stir crazy in there!” Sergeant Mills lets out a loud laugh. “I don’t remember you ever being willing to do desk duty.”
Joanna joins in the laughter before getting quiet. Hesitantly, she speaks again, “Hey, Mags, thanks for, you know, being there for me through … well, everything, I guess.”
“There’s no need to thank me, Jo, you’re family. Your mother was like a sister to me, and I miss her every goddamn day. No way in Hell I was gonna lose you too.”
Joanna smiles and looks fondly at a picture set in the dashboard. It shows a younger Sergeant Mills in a patrol uniform, next to a woman who looks just like Joanna, also in patrol uniform. I’m glad Joanna has people looking out for her. And I’ll admit, I’m as excited as she is for her to get back to work. I can’t wait!
Patient Number Five: Lena Bleu.
Time since lung transplant surgery: 48 hours. Heart rate of 98BPM, blood pressure 114/74, and oxygen levels at a record 95%. Seems like the hospital staff are throwing Lena an impromptu goodbye party as her parents are taking her home today.
At least, her mother is taking her home. It appears Lena’s dad had to work.
Doctors and nurses and orderlies line the corridor, cheering, as Lena’s mom wheels her out of the children’s ward. Lena is smiling brightly, probably the biggest smile I’ve seen on her these past couple of days.
At the end of the corridor Lena’s main doctor is waiting, arms holding something behind her back. “Lena, it has been a pleasure to have you here, and we are so glad you are going home healthy. We’ve got a little goodbye gift for you, to keep you company.” The doctor smiles, and brings out a fluffy, pink and yellow bear with a dark purple bow tie around its neck.
Lena gasps. “That’s the one I saw when those volunteers came with donations! Are you sure it’s alright for me to take this? What if another kid here wants it?”
“There are plenty of other toys that other kids love playing with. And everyone knows this one was your favourite. Please keep it, Lena.” The doctor reassures her, placing the bear in Lena’s hands.
Lena holds the bear, looking reverently at it, before looking up with an even bigger smile than before. “Thank you! Thank you, thank you!” She reaches out to give the doctor a hug, who returns, laughing.
“Thank you, doctor,” Lena’s mother says, smiling down at her daughter.
The two of them leave, getting into an old car which has definitely seen better days. “Daddy’s still gonna be working for a few more hours, but I managed to get the whole day off today, so we can get you back home, and have some fun. Light activities, the doctor said, so how about we do some baking, put some films on, I can do your hair! How does that sound, darling?” Lena’s mother talks excitedly. “And, when daddy gets back this evening, we can have a little party! Call for a pizza, have some cake?”
“YES!” Lena is excited and happy, hugging the bear to her chest tightly. Seems like the kid is gonna be alright for now. I am worried about how her parents will manage though. Her mom looks tired beneath her joy at being able to take her daughter home, and I can’t help but recall Lena’s familiar disappointment at her parents’ constantly having to work. Hopefully she’ll have some friends to keep her company.
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