An Angel on a Harley by Joan Brady

Author:Joan Brady
Language: spa
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Random House Grupo Editorial España
Published: 2013-10-02T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Looks like you’re going to be the ‘flapper’ tonight,” Elizabeth, the blue-eyed evening charge-nurse informs me in her most charming southern accent. I have just walked onto my assigned unit here at Charleston Metropolitan Medical Center, and the sobering sign above the doorway indicates that I now work on a ‘Vascular Surgical Unit’.

“I think there must be some mistake,” I hear myself protest for the second time in as many of my Travel Nurse assignments.

“Oh? Ahh really don’t see how that could be,” the charge-nurse drawls. “You are listed as a medical/surgical nurse. Isn’t that right, now, dahlin’?”

“Well, yes. Med/Surg. But, not necessarily vascular surgery,” I emphasize. “And, by the way, just what is a, er, ‘flapper’, as you call it?”

“Oh, don’t be intimidated by the vernacular around here,” she says dismissively. “All that means is that you’re assigned to the ‘Flap Room’. You know, that’s where we monitor our post-operative patients who’ve had any kind of reconstructive, micro-vascular-flaps done. It’s no big deal. In fact, you’re lucky. There’re only two patients in there at the moment.”

This sounds pretty good to me. In fact, it actually ratchets down my anxiety level a notch or two. Two patients? Is she kidding? How hard can that be? Surely, I can handle two patients, no matter how complex the nursing skills that may be required, I tell myself. I have more than a decade of experience, after all.

“Your first patient is Ricardo Saldana, a thirty-five-year-old male construction worker who had his left index finger traumatically amputated in an accident at work. He’s an ‘undocumented immigrant’ … “ She gives me a sly look and draws two invisible quotation marks in the air when she says this.

“What does that mean?” I bluntly ask.

“Why, it means he’s not legally a U.S. citizen and he has no insurance, but worse than that, it also means that he speaks no English. You don’t happen to speak any Spanish, do you?”

“No, not really. But I know enough to get my point across. I think. Maybe. If it’s not too complicated.”

“Well, that should be helpful,” she smiles benignly, “because Mr. Saldana just had surgery this morning to re-attach his finger and he’s scheduled to begin leech therapy this evening on our shift.”

My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. “L-leech therapy?”

“Yes. Is that a problem for you?”

Oh, God, YES, it’s a problem! I screech inside my head while I hear my mouth say, “No, of course not.”

I’ve heard of such treatment before, but I’ve never actually done it. In very general terms, all I know is that they use leeches from special, freshwater ‘farms’ on these incisions to keep the venous blood flowing out of the area, and the oxygen-and-nutrient-rich arterial blood flowing into it.

“And, um, just where do we keep these, er, these leeches?” I am trying to sound unruffled, but I can tell from the amused glint in Elizabeth’s eye that I am not quite pulling it off.

“Why the pharmacy, of course,” she answers sweetly.

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