Mercies
Mercy: 5. kind or compassionate treatment; relief from suffering
- Webster's New World Dictionary of the American Language, Second College Edition
"All right. Shit! Time?" Dr. Janet "J.T." Monroe was exhausted, her scrubs soaked with sweat, the blood of her patient splashed on her lab coat. A head injury patient she had treated intensively for five days had coded in the Neuro Intensive Care Unit just after one in the afternoon.
"1537," said one of the nurses.
"Time of death is 1537. Is the family here?"
"They're in the quiet room."
"Okay. Lisa," J.T. said to her P.A., "everyone else stable?"
"Yeah, J.T., I rounded on everyone before Mr. Jenkins coded. Everyone else is okay."
"Go on back to the office then and send everyone home. Who's got the service tonight?"
The Physician's Assistant spoke slowly, unsure of what was going on. "Uh, little early in the day to be knocking off, isn't boss? Dr. Bryce is on the service tonight and tomorrow."
J.T. pulled off her gloves, ran her hands through her hair and was looking at the floor, moving a foot idly back and forth among the debris from the code, "Will you call Bryce and ask him if he'll round for me tonight? And no, everyone's been working hard, maybe too hard. I know I've been a royal bitch lately so send everyone home. A little stress breaker, you know? Uh, tell the hourlies that they'll get a full day on their checks."
"Sure boss. Um, you okay?"
J.T. looked up at her P.A. and smiled a weary smile. "I will be. Go home Lisa. I'll need you sharp for Mrs. Collins and her blastoma in the morning."
The P.A. smiled cautiously, a strange feeling that something wasn't quite right with her boss, and left. J.T. stripped off her bloody coat and grabbed a surgical gown then headed toward the quiet room to meet Mr. Jenkins' family. The meeting with the family went better than J.T. had expected.
J.T. was determined that the star high school fullback was going to make it. She could save him, she was sure of it. She was sure that his family would blame her for his death. And she dreaded having to tell his family he was gone.
Brian Jenkins, trying to get into the end zone from the two-yard line, on the last play of the game, to win the State regional quarter final, tucked the ball under his arm and lowered his head and sped full speed for the end zone. Just as he crossed the line of scrimmage, a linebacker, moving equally fast, with his head down, hit Jenkins head on. The sound of Brian Jenkins' helmet shattering could be heard in the press box of the stadium and a hush fell over the stadium as Brian Jenkins lay still on the ground, his skull fractured and his neck broken.
J.T. Monroe seemed to be the only person in town who didn't know Brian Jenkins wasn't going to live.
Brian Jenkins' family quietly and earnestly thanked the neurosurgeon for all her efforts and then quietly left to make funeral arrangements.
J.T. sat alone in the quiet room, put her face in her hands and wept bitterly.
She startled when she felt a hand gently touch her shoulder. "You know J.T., you've got to stop getting so involved in your cases. It's going to kill you."
J.T. wiped tears from her eyes and looked up at Christopher Dunn, the Vice President for Medical Staff Affairs. "I really did think I could pull him through, Chris."
"Yeah, I know. But Bryce told me when Jenkins came in that he was glad he wasn't on call. Now, not to be insulting - I know you're not a big fan of Bryce's - but he's good and if he could see a lost cause..."
"Oh," she sobbed and took a deep breath, getting herself somewhat under control, "I know. It's just I've been working a lot and he's the fourth tough case I've lost in the past 4 weeks. I think I kinda needed a win, you know?"
"Yeah." Chris put his arms around J.T.'s shoulders and hugged her. "Why don't you take some time off, hey?"
He held her a moment longer and then a pager went off. They both reached for their pagers to see whose it was. Chris smiled sadly, "It's me. Gotta problem down stairs I need to attend to. You gonna be okay?"
"Sure."
Two hours later as he was heading for the parking lot Dunn decided to go through the medical arts building and check on J.T. in her office. He noticed the office curiously empty. Even though it was going on six there were usually several people in the waiting room and some front office staff behind the desk.
He pushed on the office door. It was unlocked. He went inside and went to J.T.'s private office. The neurosurgeon sat behind her desk holding a stainless steel 9mm pistol in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
"Teaching your gun how to smoke, J.T.?"
J.T. looked up, "You don't want to be here Chris. I'm in a pretty bad mood," she said flatly.
Chris cautiously sat down on the sofa, "Looks like you're in a suicidal mood to me. I think I'll stick around a while."
"Yeah? Where'd you get your medical degree?" She squinted at him through a cloud of smoke.
"I don't need a degree, doctor. The office is deserted. You look like shit. You just lost a patient that you were sure you were going to save. You're concentrating on that pistol intently. You're smoking in a hospital building, tsk, tsk. The only thing I don't get is that statistically most women commit suicide with pills not guns."
"See," she said mirthlessly, "there you go. I'm not suicidal. I'm just looking over my gun. Fondling it, actually, see?" She rubbed the muzzle of the pistol over her breasts and then up the side of her neck.
"So, all you need is to get laid then?"
"Oh, no; at least not with a human. I think I had my fill, oh six or eight weeks ago. I think I'm swearing off sex with men."
"Going over to the other side, eh?" He winced inside at his use of 'the other side.'
She stared at him, her eyes empty, and ran the muzzle of the gun over her chin. She reached out with her tongue and licked the muzzle. She took the pistol down and paused, "No women either."
Chris started to jump up from the sofa to try and wrestle the gun from her but in a flash she straightened her arm and pointed the gun at him. "Huh uh, Chris. Sit your ass down or go with me. I've actually shot someone up close. Kinda enjoyed it. Sit. NOW!"
"Okay, J.T., okay. Just, uh, be cool. I'm sitting back down. See? Sitting down."
She put her arm down and looked at the gun, ignoring him.
"J.T., what's going on? Talk to me, please." His voice was quiet and, he hoped, as calming as it could be.
J.T. threw her head back against her chair and looked up at the ceiling. "It's all the fucking bullshit around here, you know?"
"Well...there's a lot of that going around J.T., any specifics?"
"You missed the last staff meeting. Old Guernsey Miller took an hour and a fucking half bitching about parking space assignments in the new garage. Where the hell were you, by the way? You wouldn't have let him go on like that. I was damn near ready to lobotomize him.
Jesus H. Christ!
"I had an appointment out of town. So is old Doc Miller the only bullshit? Christ, I can exempt you from staff meetings. Problem solved."
"No." She was suddenly very sullen. She looked at the gun and then it seemed like her eyes defocused. She spoke quietly, flatly. "There are people dying. I mean, shit, in all my years of practice I've lost a bunch of people but lately..." she let her voice trail off.
"And there are people betraying you. There are people you thought were your friends and they're fucking you over - literally. There are the fucking insurance companies trying to second-guess my every move.
"I had to actually
explain
to someone doing pre-cert what a
glioma
was and why it was necessary to operate!
"It's...You know Chris, I'm just tired. I am so very, very tired. I just want things to stop, you know?"
"I know J.T., really I know." Chris thought she was distracted and he made it half the distance to the desk when she brought the pistol up and fired five shots in rapid succession, all missing him and hitting the sofa exactly where he had been sitting. The shots were deafening but no one likely heard; the building was closed now and J.T.'s office was on the top floor in a corner.
After the smoke cleared and the ringing in Chris's ears started to go down, J.T. said, "I got a high capacity mag. Still twelve more shots left. Next time I won't miss. Sit down and don't try that shit again." Her voice was calm and yet angry. Very angry.
"Well, uh, J.T., you and Michael still have a good marriage, right?"
"You're fairly dense for a guy in your position, you know that? I've never noticed that before. Bucko, all that about betrayal, getting fucked over - that's my marriage and my friends, you fucking moron!"
"Okay, so I'm a moron..."
"A fucking moron," she interjected.
"All right, so I'm a fucking moron, you want to talk about it?"
J.T. snorted. "Sure. Why the hell not? I get more pissed off every time I tell it.
"Six or eight weeks ago, give or take, I come home late and find Jimmy Byrd and his 22-year-old graduate nurse/wife/bimbo - you know she's younger than his daughter? - well, anyway, they were all sitting in my living room drinking with Michael. I'm tired. They offer me a drink. Like an idiot I take it. They never told me what they put in it. It felt good whatever the hell it was.
"Michael's kissing me," she smiled at the memory and her voice took on a pleasant tone as she talked, "getting me out of my clothes. This incredible wave of lust comes over me. I feel someone tugging at my scrub pants so I lift my hips, the pants come off and I feel the most divine feeling - soft, wet lips on my vulva - and I look down and it's Sally Byrd licking me. I put my hands in her hair and hold her against me while I hump her face. It was soooo nice.
