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DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?
Do you know what's happened to you?
Do you want to live this way?
The first time Jamie had ever been in a hospital (well, at least a time she could remember), it was after her father had been shot.
She wasn't sure what point she had come to pursue the career as a surgeon; the biggest possibility was when her siblings started to do just that one-by-one. The chase for validation– maybe even some type of acceptance from her so-called family. She knew it came later– much later.
In that moment, as she stood waiting for her mother, tears stained against her cheeks and shirt stained with blood, she hated hospitals. The nurses passed charts and doctors rushed past with an elegance that she would never understand. They all seemed so unbothered while she fought against another sob for her father. As a shaken nine year old, she could only process the metallic tang choking her airways and heavy weight of blood deeply knitted into her clothes dragging her down. It was almost as if it was normal for them. She didn't understand that.
Jamie had stared into the room where the doctors yelled over erratic beeps and nurses glanced at one another. It was unlike anything she had ever seen. They threw down what seemed like towels to the ground, wadded with blood. The room seemed to pause as she watched her father crack his eyes open, wide and his body jolted with fear. (What do we do when we're scared, Jay? He always seemed to whisper that whenever she was hidden under her blankets. We take a deep breath and–)
Jamie flinched back when she heard father, very briefly and very loudly, scream.
She had spent nine years of her life believing that he was completely invincible. He could look at danger head on and survive. The monsters under her bed stood no chance against the tall man with a flashlight and soothing words. It was nine years of her life that she was blissfully unaware of the horrors and monsters that roamed the streets– several weeks before her tenth birthday did she watch her father stand in front of two monsters, arguing over a stupid watch, clutching the ice cream she'd begged for only five minutes prior, then she'd watched the gun jolt. She'd watched the men argue between themselves, asking why the one would ever actually pull the trigger (why is it fucking loaded?!) and then they ran.
She wasn't sure how long she had sat in her father's blood but it was enough to soak into her clothes and her skin, a permanent tattoo of him. He just guided her. Years of listening over dinner tables about how her mom's work, her dad was able to put it into use. Her tiny hands pressed against the wound, his pale face still trying to give her a small smile in exchange of her shaky words. The door had been pushed open by the police, who looked briefly disturbed at the sight of a little girl keeping this all together. The police tugged her away as her father reached out, reassuring her, briefly, that everything would be okay.
Then why did everything seem so wrong?
"James!" Her father rasped from the room, pushing hands away from him as he stared at his trembling daughter. Suddenly, eyes shot to her and some of the staff looked oddly disturbed by her presence. "Please... she's just a little girl..."
She didn't understand at the time why he was saying that. Later, sitting in those rooms with fake smiles and walls decorated in children's paintings, did she process that he was trying to protect her image of him. It'd been too late. The damage had been done and his terrified eyes had been ingrained into her mind for the rest of her life. Every time she closed her eyes, she would see his stained fingertips reaching out for her, silently willing her to go. It was like her very own ghost.
The nurse that pulled her away attempted to speak to her but her mind was muddled. It was as if her head was underwater, sloshing and muffled. She was stuck and she couldn't escape. Jamie tried– by god did she try– but the woman's lips continued to move and she just couldn't force her ears to connect with her mind. The woman had given up at some point, distantly demanding who had contacted "the GSW's wife" and then barked an order for social services to come down. The little girl watched as the woman whirled around, the cape-like gown she had fluttered and she was gone with dust floating behind her.
Jamie had found it all disorderly. They were meant to be nurses and doctors, the people her parents so adamantly stated were destined to save people. Yet they were moving so slowly as if they knew something she didn't. Something wasn't right. Nothing about this was right...right? She would wake up and this would all be one big nightmare that she would cry into his chest about then everything would be okay.
Breathe. Breathe, everything's okay.
But what if it wasn't? What if her father was in that room and he was really dying? Would the world stop, or would it be like when grandpa Karlile passed away? So fast and so sudden that Jamie didn't see him until he was laying in his wooden bed in that dark suit? She didn't want that for her dad. It almost seemed inhumane for some random men to try to steal his watch, shoot him, then run off while his nine-year-old daughter cried and held her hands against his blood bleached shirt. Did they have no empathy? Did their mothers or father not love them enough? What had led them to steal one of the dearest people in Jamie's life?
(There'd be no good excuse in Jamie's eyes.)
"Jamie?"
She heard her mother before she felt her. She came down the hall like the bullet that had ripped through her father, falling to her knees before the little girl and gripping onto her shoulders in fear. If Jamie hadn't been at the small corner store herself, she would believe her mother had been there to witness it all from start to finish; her eyes were wide and bouncing around her face as her cold hand (which had been subjected to the car's poor air condition for forty minutes) almost felt like a heaven send against her plump and tear stained cheek. Jamie blinked at her, she appeared so suddenly compared to the people that let their presence be known, rushing from one side of the room to the other. Briefly, in her mind shadowed with the events of that day, she worried about her mom's knees that had collided with the tiles.
Carolyn's eyes were glittering with tears, worry seeping through every stroke of blue and soft hints of green. "Jamie, baby, what happened?"
Compared to the nurse, it was as if her mother was yelling. Her strained voice was so much to Jamie's eyes she felt as though she would need to press her hands against her ears to block it all out. The little girl's lower lip wobbled as she looked down.
"Oh, you're just...covered..." Carolyn's voice wavered and her hand hesitated to touch the end of Jamie's shirt. Jamie couldn't help but look at her hands, stained and sticky, she was scared to see how much they shook. Tremors that almost compelled her whole body to follow. "We'll-We'll get you home–"
"Dad got hurt..." Jamie mumbled, her eyebrows scrunched as she looked at her mom's shoulder. "I asked him if I could have ice cream before dinner, so we stopped and– did I do–"
"No." Carolyn brought her into her arms and Jamie shook in her hold. There was something so calming about her hold as the little girl allowed herself to softly sob, her face in her shoulder as Carolyn lifted her. "This is not your fault."
Jamie would never admit it (at least not any time soon) but she felt like all of this was very much her fault. If she were to stand trial, they would ask her in her testimony, what was your involvement in this crime? She had delivered her father to the place where he would be shot and she'd witnessed everything that had transpired. She'd been the very accomplice in the attack and what would ultimately be called–
"Mrs. Shepherd?"
(A murder.)
The nurse from before suddenly looked dejected and rather somber as she approached. Jamie finally met her eyes and she balled up her mother's shirt as she turned around and the girl was forced to instead stare at a wall. She may not see the woman's eyes or the hesitant step forward she took but Jamie knew by the drop of her mom's chest that something terrible was happening.
"I'm so sorry...."
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"Do you know who you are?"
It was required to ask. Trauma patients were usually quite oblivious to their situation as they've just experienced, probably, the worst day of their life. Establishing a grounding system and who they are so they're family could be contacted. They'd be able to say goodbye– the final goodbye that was painstaking and made one feel as though their heart's been ripped right out of their chest.
"Do you know what's happened to you?"
To establish awareness of their current situation, it established that they were highly aware of their surroundings and could recall the details that would help their ER do its job. Establishing where the patient belonged; whether it be surgery, psych, oncology, dermatology, ect. was a great start to getting them better and out the door. There's multiple possibilities and, if they were dying in any way, it'd be better to get the information sooner rather than later.
"Do you want to live that way?"
This question was possibly the most haunting. How was someone supposed to just decide in a moment, where the pain is too much, the chemicals in their brain flushing around like a smoothie, that they wanted to die? What if they wanted to live and they were just making a mistake? There's no going back from that decision, no turning back time and reminding them the weight of this choice– the people and lives they were leaving behind without too much of a warning. How does someone decide their last words? The very last things they'd imprint in the universe for the rest of their lives?
She didn't know. She wouldn't assume anything, she wouldn't judge them because she didn't know their whole story. She usually found they were painstaking and riddled with tragedy. That's all hospital seemed to bear for people: bad memories and death–
"Jamie?"
She blinked and looked back to the man sitting across from her, his glasses low on his nose and his eyes were vaguely concerned. He was much older than she, highly esteemed and someone who had met her mother in passing, exchanging information because of how much she cared for her little girl. She couldn't help but feel disdain while his eyes drilled holes into her own.
"Do you want to live this way?"
His question was nice and soft but the meaning behind it was malicious, borderline concerning. If she answered correctly (and yes, there was always a right answer) then she'd be free to return back to life and tell her mother that, mentally, she was okay! If answered incorrectly she'd face weeks of prevention therapy, maybe some cognitive therapy that would help her communicate her feelings and true self to her surrounding family. Or she could give a vague ass answer that left them both in the dark for the next steps.
Yeah, that sounded nice.
"No."
But it wasn't Jamie's reality.
AUTHOR'S NOTE. . .
we're not going to say a word about how this is another rewrite.
falling to my knees in walmart.
( rewritten: 3.13.2022 )