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“So now I’m inserting the 18-gauge needle,” Samira narrates, for Javadi’s benefit. “We want to make sure that we, uh, get into the pocket and we’re, um, getting ascites fluid back, before–”
She pauses, blinking hard, because the lights have started dimming for some reason. Javadi takes it as a question. “Before aspirating the fluid sample,” she answers, “We need 30 to 60ml”.
That’s right, and there it is, pale yellow fluid returns when Samira draws. She swaps in a 60ml syringe to take the fluid sample. It all looks vaguely starry and far away as she watches herself performing the procedure, and maybe it’s not the lights that are getting dim. It’s Samira’s own vision.
This is not happening, she thinks, even as she feels her muscles turn to clay. Don’t pass out. Please, don’t pass out.
The procedure’s almost finished, but she needs to stop now.
“Javadi,” she mumbles, “Step in, and, um—”
“Remove the needle, apply pressure, and dress?”
“Yes. Do it.” She says, as forcefully as she can. It comes out muted. Like she’s in a dream where she’s trying and trying to scream but she can’t make a real sound.
Samira’s fingers are numb and vaguely tingling and she can’t feel herself release the needle as Javadi steps up alongside to take over, even though she sees it happen.
“I’ve got it,” Javadi’s saying. “Do you need to step out, Dr. Mohan?”
Samira tries to nod, which is a strange experience, because she can’t feel herself nodding, but she’s aware her head is moving because she’s suddenly lost control over which way’s up and which way’s down.
She takes a step away back from the bed, and then another, reaching for the wall.
She needs to step out.
Or maybe she’ll just sit down.
–
Samira can see again before she can hear. There’s someone’s face above her, silhouetted by the bright, mock fluorescent lights above.
There are fingers pressed against her neck. Samira’s first instinct is lean into them, and her second is to pull away. The back of her head is weighed down against a hard, cool plane. Without a face to focus on, there’s only spinning. A sensation of falling, or maybe nausea.
Slowly, her ears remember what they’re made for.
“Dr. Mohan?”
Samira tries to answer, but only succeeds in saying, “Mmh”.
“Dr. Mohan, can you sit up?”
She hadn’t exactly realised she was lying down.
Samira wrestles against the conflicting forces of gravity and dizziness until she’s fairly sure she’s sitting.
“That’s really good,” Javadi encourages. “Can you tell me where you are?”
Samira blinks slowly. Why is the light so bright?
“Dr. Mohan?” Javadi sounds worried.
“Um,” Samira pauses to clear her throat, “I’m on the floor.”
“That’s good. On the floor in what place?”
Right. “PTMC.” Samira risks a look around, which tells her a few things. The first is that they’re in Central 9. The second is that they’re not alone. Those are Cassie McKay’s sneakers, standing beside the patient’s bed, that’ll be Mr. Graham, and –
Oh, no. Samira was right in the middle of showing Javadi a diagnostic paracentesis. There is no way she fainted during a procedure she was conducting.
“Do you think you can stand up? Dr. McKay’s going to take over with Mr. Graham.”
“Take her to the breakroom and make sure she’s alright,” says Cassie, “I’ll tell Robby.”
This is absolutely not happening.
Samira lets Javadi pull her up to her feet. “Thanks,” she says to Cassie and Javadi, “I’m very sorry about this, Mr. Graham.”
Mr. Graham gives her a thumbs up from his bed. He’s 72, has long grey hair and a matching beard, and plays drums in a jazz band. He’s likely living with alcoholism. He seems like a nice man, if maybe a bit gruff.
“No worries, doc,” he says, “I’m good over here.”
Javadi pulls her to the breakroom, slightly less nonchalant than Mr. Graham. “You really freaked me out there for a minute.”
Samira lets herself drop into a chair. She feels ill. She can’t tell if it’s the aftereffects of vagaling in the middle of her shift, or if she’s just tired. Maybe she needs some sugar. Maybe she’s coming down with something. She runs her hands through her hair to check for bumps or bruises to her head but finds nothing.
“I’m glad you were there. I don’t know how I let this happen. I’m really sorry I put you in that position, but you did great.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Javadi says, “I passed out in the trauma room on my first morning at the Pitt.”
Samira smiles. It’s not the most flattering comparison, between a third-year med student on her first day and a third-year, almost fourth-year, resident. But she recognizes the intention.
“Thanks,” she says.
“Santos called me ‘Crash’ for a whole week after that.”
“That wasn’t very nice.”
“No, it wasn’t. Can I get you anything?”
Samira thinks she should probably be learning something from this experience about taking cues from her body. Unfortunately, her body is stubborn and isn’t very good at telling her what it needs. Then again, it’s probably safe to say her body does not need to go back to work today.
“I’m just going to sit for a minute and then go finish my charts. I think I need to hand off.”
“Oh! You should stay here. I’ll bring you one of the laptops.”
“Sure. Thanks, Javadi.”
“If you’re going to go around fainting on me, I think you should probably call me Victoria.”
“Well, I’m going to try not to make a habit of fainting,” Samira says, “But, thank you, Victoria.”