When I come out of the supply closet, two nurses pass me. One begins to say something, then stops. I look like every other doctor on the floor, coming and going, and she’s certain she knows me under the mask. But not certain enough to stop and chat. Certainly not certain enough to poke fun at me for missing my flu shot and having to wear this thing. Thank God for hospital policy.
Those two are just the kind of people I didn’t want to run into. They almost stop me to talk, and I kick myself in the butt for doing this in the morning. I should have realized it wasn’t visiting hours. I should have realized the only people in the hallway would be hospital personnel. If I’d done this in the afternoon, or early evening, the halls would be flooded with visitors. And confusion. But I’m committed now, and I pray my good luck—which has served me well all the other times—will hold out.
I head for the stairs. Johnny White’s room’s on the seventh floor, and I’d like to ride the elevator. But the security camera would pick me up the moment I stepped off. By taking the stairs, I have a dozen yards before I enter its field of view. And I know if I look behind me as I pass under it, the camera will only record my backside. And I’ll look like every other doctor roaming the halls.
When I reach the seventh floor, I stop before entering the hall and check my watch. It’s shift change at Cheyenne Regional. Thank God for them being so consistent. I wait for a few moments to make sure the nurses have huddled-up in their meeting room. And to let myself catch my breath.
I step out of the stairwell and into the hallway. The same police officer sits reading outside Johnny’s room. I count the steps before I enter the field of view of the hall camera. Five steps. Six. Seven. Eight and I look over my shoulder, concealing my face.
I approach Johnny’s room and I see the officer reading a Sports Illustrated. Except he’s not doing much reading. He’s doing more drooling than anything else. Gotta love that swimsuit issue. He looks up only briefly as I enter and close the door.
Tubes and IVs are stuck into Johnny. Monitors overhead produce a monotonous tone, green backlight bouncing off Johnny’s slick forehead. His breathing is shallow but even. It’s true what the doctors said: he’ll pull out of this. I’m glad after all I didn’t wait until later in the day. He might have been brought out of his coma. And I can’t have Johnny talking. Damn you all to hell, Johnny White, this is just what I didn’t want to start up again. But I got no choice. You know me.
I move to the far side of his bed and take off one paper booty covering my shoes, grabbed from the supply room.
I check my watch. They’ll be in shift briefing for another five minutes, and I approach Johnny’s bed.
I read once that more people die in the hospital than anywhere else. All I can say to Johnny today is “no shit.”