Despite It All

Chapter 10

"Huh. I'll come see her and we'll talk about it in rounds. We might just order more furosemide until then," Brett says, nonplussed. "Albumin doesn't really make sense in her situation."

"Okay. Well, sooner rather than later would be great," I know my voice is a little stern, adamant.

***

I cannot get out of this room today.

Blood transfusion. Furosemide. Platelet transfusion. Furosemide. Antibiotics. Lab draws. Fever. Vomiting.

Every time I am finally able to leave Deandrea's side to attend to one of my other two patients, her nurse call light goes off. Or her monitor beeps, alerting me that her oxygen levels are decreasing—again. Or the doctors place a new order for me to implement.

I have an unattended 4-month-old who needs to be fed every two and a half to three hours, and each feed takes almost 20 minutes.

I also am responsible for a 6-year-old boy who is here with very high fevers and no immune system.

To say I'm overwhelmed would be an understatement. I feel like I am spread so thinly that no one is getting 100% of me. I've been running myself ragged, and to no avail. Deandrea is still on the decline.

"Hey Laur, is your phone dead?" Holly asks.

Checking my pocket, I nod. "Sorry, yeah. I'll change the battery now."

"Um, or you'll come with me into 708. Her oxygen level is 72%," her steps are now quick, purposeful.

Deandrea. Shit.

After applying our protective masks and gowns, we enter to find Deandrea in the bed—very, very blue looking.

Dread.

"Push the Staff Assist button!" I direct to Holly.

Grabbing from the emergency supplies in her room, I apply a non-rebreather face mask to her face, pumping up the oxygen flow. Holly is taking her blood pressure, temperature, and checking her pulse.

Deandrea's mother is in the room, and she is crying—yelling. Chaos floats around us, only overridden by urgency and an underlying sense of fear.

"Deandrea, babe. Hey? Can you nod for me?" Somehow, my voice comes out steady, calm. Her monitor blares.

A slow, lethargic nod.

Her chest rises and falls, heavy with the burden of breathing.

Her oxygenation improves, but not by enough. She's maxed out on her oxygen settings and her reading is only 81%.

Deandrea's head lifts slowly, and her eyes find mine. Her eyes are wide, a look of pure terror on her face. She grabs my hand and squeezes.

My heart is racing, and tears are threatening to fall.

Finally, an influx of doctors and support personnel arrive, ready to help.

The attending physician for the pediatric ICU performs his assessment on Deandrea, listening to her lungs and evaluating her vital signs. He listens to a verbal report about her background and history from the heme/onc physicians.

"Why didn't you do anything when you noticed she was retaining so much fluid?" His tone is curt, accusatory.

I close my eyes, slowly exhaling. I'm wondering the same.

"We weren't notified of the extent of the problem."

My eyes snap open, fire burning in my veins. I am shaking with anger, despair, frustration.