Rainbow Gold: A Narrative Fiction

“I’m Anna and these are my friends Paisley and Posa. You are in Clear Lake, Iowa “ Anna informs him

It was June 12, 2016, one of the deadliest mass shootings at Orlando, FL. It wasn’t like any other day; after a tragic event I was called into work around 5:30am. I finally reached ORMC amidst of all the chaos, there wasn’t any pleasant welcome, every face mimicked a variety of emotions with some worried and sad, while others confused and suspicious. I was floated to the trauma unit to accommodate victims after surgery. I could sense the sturdy whiff of blood as I walked into the unit which I was not so familiar with. Even though my heart was aching by witnessing the sufferings of those innocent victims, I had a strong impulse to help and give my all. I took my assignment sheet and walked into my patient’s room. As he slowly opened his eyes, the nurse repeated the questions:

It was nurses that got us through that time with our sanity intact. Nurses checked on my mother—and us—multiple times an hour. They ran tests, updated charts, and changed IVs; they made us laugh, allayed our concerns, and thought about our comfort. The doctors came in every now and then, but the calm dedication of the nurses was what kept us together.

Imagine yourself, a family member or even a friend of yours laying in a hospital bed, in the gowns the nurses give you attached to machines all around the bed and hooked up to ivs. As you’re reading this you’re probably thinking why would I want that thought in my head but the horror doesn’t stop there, routinely your doctors and nurses are coming into check on you. They’ve come in so many times you now know who’s knock is who’s. As you’re trying to fall back asleep from the time the nurse came in an hour ago to prick at your finger or move around your iv or even give you more drugs, you get the question how are you feeling? You’re now running on the slightest amount of sleep not only from your caregivers waking you up but from the unbearable

I wandered throughout the hospital hallways. An unfamiliar place to me, thus I began to explore. It was 9 am and some patients had already lined up to see their physicians. I was shadowing Dr. Waterman, a family medicine resident. I followed her on the morning patient rounds, she would introduce me to her patients, asking for their permission for me to observe. As the shadow, I tried to remain imperceptible but observant. That day, I got exposed to different medical disciplines. In one case was an 83-year-old Caucasian female with dementia. She had come with her two children who broke down in tears when she couldn’t even remember who they were. Dr. Waterman’s response transcended beyond patient care and got families involved. She would report

“I was doing some research and they have one of the best doctor. You know for surgery and procedures. We don't know if she's going to need surgery yet, and the doctor down here can't really tell me much”

Mary’s, the hospital I volunteered at my freshman year of high school. One of the nurses in the emergency room taught the course, and I begged her for weeks to let me attend. She eventually said yes. In the weeks leading up to the class, I spent hours studying. I listened to videos on my computer while I did my chores and wrote pages upon pages of detailed notes. I heard a knock on my door at five in the morning on the day of the class. My friend’s mom often gave me a ride, she worked in sterile processing at St. Mary’s. When she opened the door she handed me a pair of her scrubs and said “Well, what are you waiting for, go put them on!” It was the best day in the world; I felt just like a real doctor! I sat in the passenger seat of the car with my scrubs and a cup of coffee in my hand, watching the sun rise over the horizon, gently illuminating the

I had a never ending list of patients to see, all of which also had a never ending list of questions to ask. Going through my routine, I worked my way down the list of patients. Then I found a familiar looking name, Sarah T. LiCari. Walking into the room I did my usual greeting. I noticed that she looked a bit different, but I could not quite put my finger on it. Had she lost weight? Did she do something to her hair? Was it just the new winter jacket? Regaining my focusI began to look over the lab results that were sent back from a hospital in Pittsburgh. They did not look good. There was no reason to try and sugar coat the situation, so I told Sarah outright what the results concluded. I could see the slight drop in her features. Knowing there was not a cure for the disease I told her about a new drug trial that was going on that she could be a subject in. This appeared to catch her interest a little, but I could see that her eyes drifted to focus on the model that sat on the windowsill behind me depicting a liver with cirrhosis. I felt some pity for the girl. She was quite young to have developed liver cirrhosis. I could tell she had zoned out by now, so I wrote down everything I was telling her to look at when sh got home. Sarah and her mother then left. It was just another day at the

She looked pale, lethargic, and dishevlled sitting in her wheelchair. The pungent odor from her 2 week old gauge was beginning to fill the room. It was clear she was suffering from a medical condition which was being poorly managed. Omar Staples,PA-C removed the bandages and the once fluid filled lesions had burst open and the contents were permeating the gauge causing a decaying odor. This patient was suffering from cutaneous complications due to poor management of her diabetes. Watching Omar talk to her while he was changing her bandages allowed me to observe why patients felt more relaxed and comfortable about sharing their health care concerns with him. I felt a deep sense of empathy for this patient that I had felt before as an undergraduate volunteering with the 'Adopt-a-grand person ' program. As project coordinator I worked to alleviate the loneliness among senior citizens in various nursing homes within New Orleans through games, arts & crafts, and friendly conversation.

Please don't call me doc; I’m a nurse she'd asserted. Her voice echoed with confidence. She was a stern woman. Mary was her name but I only ever referred to her as Commander Brown. She wore a kaki military uniform with a silver leave pin that you'd never see under her white trench coat she vastly moved in. Her assertive statement reciprocated in my mind through out the day; as several patients made the mistake to call her Doc. I was quite as I scurried beside her from room to room seeing patient after patient. I observed everything she did as a nurse practitioner. I was twenty years old, and a brand new EMT in the Navy words rarely escaped my mouth. As a Corpsman/medic my job in the navy was to rotate EMT duty, during the days I wasn’t on ambulance call I was busy assisting Commander Brown. As a newbie I was forced to work along side Commander Brown everyone in the clinic was a bit more seasoned and refused to work with her. She was demanding, strict, and scrutinized every detail. She was tough on everyone even her patients. Day in and day out I shepherd to her call. I worked diligently checking and rechecking orders, chart notes, and studying the diseases of her patients. I sensed I had to be impeccable to

It was a warm November day. I wanted to go for a walk, but I was afraid to because I have been hearing a lot of voices lately. I think that someone is stalking me, but I’m not for sure.

My supervisor, one of the head nurses, hurriedly pulled me to the corner of the bleach white hospital room and directed me to put on gloves, an eye mask, and a face mask. I felt as if I was preparing for war as I put on all of the required gear. The sound of expensive shoes click-clacked down the hallway indicating the arrival of two doctors who rushed into the room and shouted out orders to the staff while pulling the doors to the room shut along with the curtains. Two doctors, eight nurses, an intern, and a dying patient squeezed into the already claustrophobic ten by fifteen-foot room. The machine monitoring the patient’s vital signs continued to beep incessantly as my heart rate accelerated. Throughout my internship, I had never seen a patient in critical condition until that moment. I remembered my teacher’s advice if we were ever in a situation such as this: take a few deep breaths and sit down if you feel like you’re going to pass out. In that

(The boys are all on stage again, lounging on their rolling chairs. The revolving stage is not revolving. Their balaclavas are off.)

Nothing good ever happens in a waiting room. I pull up to the hospital with a subtle feeling of dread tugging in my heart, and the building looms above me like a grim castle atop a hill. I step to the doors and I am suddenly met with the familiar sterility that pervades every hospital. My footsteps seem to echo around these empty halls, and every sound is amplified, including the beat of my own unsteady heart. Truthfully, I already know where to go as I have done this many times, although I am not proud or happy to admit that. I walk through the winding hallways of the hospital as they lead me deeper into its heart. At last, I arrive at the cold, metallic doors that lead to the waiting room, and I place my hand on the metal as I prepare myself to walk in. After gathering my courage, I push the door open and I am hit with a scent that seems to escape my grasp even as I smell it.

It was an unpleasantly early morning in the hospital waiting room. Nurses buzzed around, busy attending to their patients while a faint beeping sound could be heard in the background. I was starting my second shift of the day at the hospital, just finishing working a shift in the dark, grimy morgue. Groggy, I sat down at my desk to begin another four hours of labor. My position was to assure that the paper work was properly completed and that all patients were attended too. While being a supervising nurse was a great responsibility, it left time to day dream.