PART 2
Room 314 was one of the larger private rooms at St. Catherine’s Medical Center in Virginia.
The kind the hospital liked to show donors when they toured the cardiac wing in expensive suits and patriotic lapel pins.
I checked suction.
Oxygen.
Crash cart seal.
IV pumps.
Warming blankets.
Monitors.
Above us, helicopter blades beat the roof so hard the windows hummed.
By the time the trauma team burst through the double doors, I already had gloves on.
The patient was young.
Too young.
That was my first thought.
He was strapped to the gurney, face bruised, skin pale under the fluorescent glare. Blood had dried near his hairline. A ventilator bag pushed air into his lungs while a paramedic shouted vitals over the noise.
“Marcus Kim,” the medic said. “Twenty-nine. Navy. Severe head trauma. Possible internal bleeding. Multiple rib fractures. Found unconscious after training incident.”
Dr. Richardson took over fast.
“On my count. One, two, three.”
We transferred him to the bed.
Machines beeped.
Tape tore.
Someone called for blood.
Someone else yelled for CT.
Marcus didn’t move.
But his jaw was set tight, even unconscious, like his body still refused to quit.
I had seen that look before.
My brother had it when he came home from Afghanistan and pretended fireworks didn’t bother him.
Marcus Kim was not just another admission.
That was dangerous thinking for a nurse.
We are taught to care, not attach.
To respond, not absorb.
To walk into suffering and still eat lunch twenty minutes later.
But some patients get under your ribs.
Marcus did before I even knew his story.
He went to surgery for six hours.
Internal bleeding.
Brain swelling.
Fractures.
Bad numbers.
Worse silence.
May you like
I stayed late without being asked.
And Denise noticed.
