Page 4 of Playing the Field

Chapter One

Anastasia

The squeak of rubber soles on the waxed tile floor makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I hate the sound almost as much as I hate doing shifts in the CCU. They’re long and grueling, and often end with me covered in some bodily fluid I don’t care to acknowledge. The shrill alarm of the heart monitor reverberates through my skull as I skid to a stop in the doorway.

Mr. Jenkins is coding again.

For the third time since he returned from his emergency liver resection.

Fuck this shit.

I shoulder through the nurses already starting the code and turn the monitor so I can assess the rhythm. “He’s in V-tach.” I reach over to feel the pulse point on his neck. It’s weak but present. “Get the defibrillator!” I take the bag mask from the nurse behind me and place it over his face.

There’s a shuffling behind me as I turn back to the monitor and I know they’re setting the defibrillator up.

Shockable rhythm detected.

I don’t take my eyes away from the monitor, mainly because I’m trying to compose myself before I turn back to the team. I trust the staff in the room to know how to handle a defibrillator. “Clear!” I shout, watching the erratic waveforms on the monitor. I will them to change with the electrical pulse, but they don’t. “Peterson, you’re on compressions. Someone get his airway secure.”

“Can someone hit the playlist?” Peterson calls as he rolls up his sleeves and reclines the bed.

The intro to Staying Alive by the Bee Gees erupts from someone’s phone as I shove his IV stand out of the way and draw up an emergency dose of epinephrine. Peterson huffs out the lyrics as he pushes down on Mr. Jenkins’ chest, forcing the muscle to continue to pump blood to the rest of his body.

The irony of the song isn’t lost on me, but it’s a great beat keeper because the rhythm works out to be a hundred and four beats per minute. It’s also a great thing to sing to the patients to encourage them to ‘stay alive’.

“Clear!” I shout as the hands on the clock shift to the two-minute mark.

Another pulse of electricity.

Another pulse check.

Another round of chest compressions.

This time, Findlay takes the compressions and Peterson steps back to take a minute.

I push the dose of epinephrine, my eyes still never leaving the monitor as the green waveform flashes and the beeps remain erratic at best. “Epi in!” I shout to whoever is taking notes behind me. “Someone get the amiodarone ready!”

“Ready!” Peterson calls and pushes it through the IV.

We finish the round of CPR and my fingers press against the side of his neck again, praying to whatever god is listening that his pulse is stronger.

It is.

We all watch the monitor as the waves even out and pick up a slow but steady beat. The alarm shuts off and the room is silent except for the monitor.

BEEP.

BEEP.

BEEP.

BEEP.

I heave out a sigh and lean back against the wall, taking in my exhausted team. Everyone is sweating and panting, but everyone is alive.

Including Mr. Jenkins.

“Great work, you guys,” I say breathlessly and brace my hands against the bed rails. My eyes shift over the man in the bed, watching his chest rise and fall in a strong rhythm. “No more funny business, Mr. Jenkins. I mean it. Lilly?” I look around until my eyes land on the red-headed nurse. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes are red-rimmed. “Do you need a minute?” I was going to ask if she could sit with him, but it looks like she’s about to burst into tears.