Dying to Live

Chapter 8

  ⏳ ZOE, March 

I visited Adam a couple times on Sunday during my shift and I was glad to see he was recuperating well. He was out of bed and sitting in a chair the first time I came around and the second time I found him lurking the hallway and looking out of windows at the overcast city.

The third time I went to see him, it was about half an hour after my shift ended and I was dressed in my regular clothes. I found him in bed flipping through channels on the TV and he did look miserable, but only for a few seconds. The moment he saw me in the doorway he grinned.

"Save me Zoe!" he said dramatically. He stretched his arms out toward me, reaching like he was lost at sea and I was the first plane he'd seen flying overhead in months. "I'm so fucking bored!"

Wow, OK, so tonight he was in a pretty cheerful mood. That was good.

He was wearing flannel pajama pants and a black muscle shirt with huge arm holes that made his bandages easily accessible for the nurses. Something as simple as washing his hair and changing out of the hospital gown made him look so much better. He looked healthier. He looked... for lack of a better word, kinda hot. 

"You look good," I said before I could stop myself.

"It's all an illusion, I actually feel like shit," he replied and ran his fingers absently through his long hair, which still looked a little bit damp. It must've felt so good to finally be able to wash. "How was work?" he asked me as I came to sit in the chair that his mother usually occupied. I knew from our conversation earlier in the day that she was watching her grandson tonight and she wouldn't be back here until morning.

"Work was pretty good! I got two new drawings for my collection. Oh and I didn't get puked on today so that's a win right there," I told him as I looked through my bag for the manila folder that I kept handy for whenever kids in my ward gave me some of their artwork. I had a lot more of them at home in a filing cabinet.

It was kind of my thing.

When I found them, I moved over to the bed and sat down next to him.

"That's adorable—is that supposed to be you? Digging the hair," he said, his finger running over the bright orange swirls on the page. He gingerly picked up the drawing to look at the one underneath. It was a pretty accurate representation of a horse. "Hey wow, that kid can actually draw!"

"You can't say stuff like that Adam, they're kids! They're all talented for their age," I giggled and took the drawings away from him so that he would stop judging the kids so harshly. God, he'd make a terrible kindergarten teacher. The kids would be in tears by snack time. "That's Kyra. She's eleven. She's spent most of her life in the hospital, so arts and crafts are kind of her thing. She's the cutest little girl though and her mom is really nice, she's been through so much. The one you dissed, that was Riley. He's six. He had surgery on his legs. He's in a body cast so he's not really doing much physical activity either. He's been as bored as you." Adam was grinning at me with such mischief in his eyes that I felt almost defensive. "What?" I asked, smiling despite myself.

"You get very invested in the kids, don't you?" he chuckled.

"I know. Everybody tells me that," I mumbled and felt myself deflate a little. I knew it was wrong to get emotionally attached to my patients. I knew too much about their lives when I should be paying attention to what was written in their charts. It wasn't the first time somebody told me that and I knew it certainly wouldn't be the last. I was a caring person! So what? "It's not a bad thing! I'm just not a robot that can easily treat people like they're just numbers or case files! Even sick people are people and they deserve better."