Work Text:
26y F with 5 days productive cough, fever, chills, worsening SOB. Green sputum. Pleuritic CP. No hemoptysis. No PMH lung dz. Enamel erosion to anterior teeth on exam; pt reports hx of bulimia nervosa, not in current tx.
Pt w/ clinical + radiographic c/w CAP. Dental findings c/w reported ED hx. Pt HD stable, appropriate for OP mgmt w/ close f/u. Referred to hospital OP ED therapy services for f/u.
Her typing is frenetic, rapid, sequential, efficient, and hopefully good enough to satisfy Dr. al Aishmi. The usual grounding sound of the keyboard doing nothing for the constant tremors in her right leg. The feeling in her chest grew heavier, and heavier, her hands quivering on the keys. She tries to push it all down, not minding Al Hashimi threats, or that Langdon has been staring at her since he arrived, or that she missed Huckelberry case. And for the worse , she checks her phone two or three or maybe four times just to have it stare back at her. She’s unsure what she did wrong with Garcia, or unsure if she ever done anything right. Trinity is not good at this, and manifestly not good at medicine either. She bits her inner cheek, welcoming the comforting oh so familiar pain, before closing this patient file and opening her next one, and the one after that. She’s not sure how long time passes before she's eventually forced and dragged by Danna out of the nursing station to see trauma patients in 4. She sights and pushes back, gesture for Ogilvie to follow her.
“What do we got,”
“Seventeen-year-old male, firework explosion, found conscious but confused, progressive respiratory distress, extensive second degree burns to face, anterior chest, and bilateral forearms,”
Olgovie jumps in front of her and she must fight every single part of her being to not punch him in the face when he asks if surgery was called. Not because it’s a stupid question, which it is, but because her desire to see her somehow, maybe situationship right now does not sound good. She forces herself to inhale. It’s her workplace and she needs to keep it together.
Garcia and Al-Hashimi arrive quickly, and Trinity wishes she could just disappear from that room. She can feel the set of eyes never leaving her, judging every move she makes, cornering her, humiliating her. Is she even good enough to be here? Dr. Al-Hashimi asks her multiple questions and she knows the answers, and she should reply to her, but when she hears her voice, she can only think about her comment. You wouldn't want to redo your R2 year.
“Dr Santos, what is the conduct of care for second degree burns caused by an explosion?” Al-Hashimi asks and she knows, she knows
You wouldn't want to redo your R2 year
“Hum,”
“Dr, Santos?”
“Airway, breathing, circulation first,” Al-Hashimi nods and she forces another breath down her lungs, You wouldn't want to redo your R2 year “Cool the burns, control the pain, start fluids, and prepare for surgery in case the tissue damage proves deeper than it appears.”
“Good.”
She leaves the room as soon as the patient is stabilized, not caring or thinking about the med student left behind.
“Dr santos.”
Trinity jumps at the sound of Garcia's voice following behind her.
“You’re good?”
“Why wouldn't I be ?” She smiles but her annoyance pierces through and Garcia notices.
Santos decides to continue her charting in peds hoping no one would interrupt her this time around. No walks in. No alarms, no questions. Just her and the sleeping baby in the bassinet. Just the quiet and the keyboard clacking beneath her fingers. Baby Jane Doe is currently sleeping soundly, her little arms and hands up cradling her face, the sounds of her breathing quietly engulfing the room. She doesn’t consider herself a kid person. Babies? Even less. Most people would say the opposite thought. She continues charting, fingers moving almost automatically, eyes flicking between the screen and the baby, until she hears a small whimper from the side of the room. The baby stirs slightly. Mouth moving without making a sound, head turning, little red flush creeping across her skin. And then a piercing cry cutting the quiet.
“Well… someone seems angry,” Trinity murmurs under her breath. She checks the monitors. Nothing abnormal. Check the chart. The baby was fed an hour ago, just before Trinity arrived. Everything is fine. Just… noise.
Trinity exhaled, tentatively lifting the crying and terribly angry baby into her arms. Careful not to disturb the electrodes on her chest.
“Hey… hey, what’s the matter?” she murmurs softly, rocking the baby. She brings her closer to herself, gently rocking her, and she, before she can realize she starts singing a familiar lullaby. A lullaby. Tagalog. From her Grandma she thinks, she doubts her mother sang to her. She doesn’t usually let herself feel those memories. Horror movies ripped the song apart years ago, but it doesn’t really matter now, and she doubts the baby in her arm would mind.
Little one, little one, sleep now
Your mother is not here,
She went to buy some bread
Little one, little one, sleep now.
Little one, little one, sleep now
Your mother is not here,
She went to buy some bread
little... one... go...to... sleep... now...
Baby Jane Doe clutches her small fist, grabbing onto her scrubs and she wonders how she'll get out of the situation now.
“And I thought you were desperate for charting time,” she turns around to see Dana entering the room.
“Well, what can I say…”
“Who throws away a sweetheart like her,” Dana smiles softly looking at the baby in Santos arms, “Sorry hun, but they need you in trauma 3,”
She settles little baby Jane back in the bassinet. The tiny human stirs, not letting go of her tight grip on Trinity's scrubs, manifestly not happy with that decision. “You’re not staying sorry,” she mutters to the baby. “Duty calls,” Trinity heads out, hearing little baby Jane doe cries filling the room.
Her mind immediately shifts to Trauma 3, where a patient has arrived with severe burns, someone, apparently, had tried to deep fry a turkey. Trinity shakes her head, a mixture of disbelief and irritation crossing her features. She had assumed, naïvely, that such accidents only happened during Thanksgiving, yet here she was on the 4 of July dealing with charred flesh and panicked families. She plans to head back to pediatrics afterward, finish all her charting before Al‑Hashimi notices she hasn’t caught up at all. Before Dennis stops her for a consult about the patient in Room 4, before Princess corners her for pain meds for the guy in Block 2, she has a schedule mapped out in her head like a lifeline, each task lined up, each priority weighed and measured.
She’s already moving again when a lost-looking boy in green scrubs stops her in the hallway.
“Hey—I’m a nursing student from the NICU,” he said hesitantly, holding out a small package. “This is for the six-month-old in Peds. Sorry, I know it’s been ordered like an hour ago, but it’s been… hectic.” He hands a small folly to her.
“Thanks.” Trinity took it and headed back.
But when she pushed open the door, the rhythm of the room had changed. The monitors were silent. Dana was standing by the bassinet, her hand hovering over the power switch.
“What happened?” Trinity asked urgently and in somehow disbelief. She was fine an hour ago.
“Respiratory arrest,” Robbie whispered. “We couldn't get her back.”
“Fuck. ”
She carefully approaches the bassinet; different medical packages are covering the ground and she's careful not to slip on them. But when she arrived in front of the bassinet, She can’t, she can’t look down. She knows what view awaits her, she’s seen it too many times so why is it different now. Why can’t she be confronted to it now. She forces her gaze to move down and look at Baby Jane Doe's death bed. She can hear someone exhale loudly and she hopes it’s not her. Baby Jane's glassy eyes are open, looking right through her. Maybe another sort of torture for her to go through, to toughen her up, but the only thought trinity currently has is to jump out the window.
Baby Jane Doe doesn’t look at peace. She died alone, in a hospital where nobody knew her name, or her parents, no one to mourn her, no one that genuinely cares. She feels somehow guilty for the pain she feels; it’s not her pain to bear. This baby is just another patient, until the next one rolls in and takes Baby janes Does place, but she can’t, she can’t. She looks at her, truly looks at her and she can only make it evident that she died suffering. She can see it, her blue lips, her grayish skin tone, and glossy, bloodshot eyes. She died alone where no one knew her.
Trinity storms out, unable to stare at the cold lifeless body staring back at her. She can't feel this pain, she just can’t. If she lets it in, it will destroy her. She finds a supply room. Locks herself in and for the first time on that day trinity falls to her knees. A knot forms in her throat. Her eyes sting with tears, blinding her. And then the sobs came, choked, ragged, tearing through her chest. She can’t stop. She presses her hands to her face, gasping, shaking, broken. It doesn't stop. She doesn’t want to scream. She has no right to scream. But something ugly and uncontrollable claws its way out of her anyway. She has seen so many deaths. So many broken sobs piling from families, from friends, from people who belonged beside the body. And she is nothing. No one. She doesn’t get to break like this. So why, why does she feel that way, why does it feel like she just failed again. Like this is somehow her fault. Like everything is always her fault.
She can’t chart without shaking. She can’t control her own emotions. She can’t even hold on to something as simple as a normal relationship. And suddenly Al-Hashimi remarks come crawling back in You wouldn't want to redo your R2 year. She’s useless. Her chest tightens, heat flooding her face, shame crawling under her skin. She turns and slams the side of her fist into a metal shelf on her right. The sound cracks through the tiny room. But it doesn't do anything. Actually, it makes things even worse. Her head starts to spin and she just shatters. She lies down on the cold linoleum floor and curls into herself, and when she closes her eyes, her glassy eyes stare right back into her soul, and without thinking she sings that same lullaby she hummed a couple of hours earlier.
She’s not sure how long time has passed before someone opens the door, and she doesn't want to think how pathetic she looks, curled up on the ground, head close to her knees. She would probably laugh at herself right now.
She recognizes Yolanda's step, feels a hand cupping her face and for the first time in a while Trinity doesn't fight, Trinity doesn't run, she closes her eyes again, a single tear falling down.
“Hey,” Yolanda smiles but it doesn't reach far. She hates this, the vulnerability, the fact that someone probably called her for this. To retrieve her like an abandoned dog in an alley. “Rabbit bitch told me what happened I’m sorry,”
She gathers the courage to sit up, her back against the wall, carrying the shame on her chest. “Well, it happens,” Her voice is tight and Trinity is suddenly very aware of the mess the supply closet in in “Shit, I’ll tidy this up,”
“I could get a –”
“You know Garcia that's why no one wants to be an OR nurse,” She cuts her off, the light teasing tone is enough to gather the courage to leave the space, she tries to stand up but fails, her legs giving herself away “You always leave them you’re mess,”
“Trinity- I think you should talk.”
“Nope.”
“It doesn't have to be me.”
“It doesn't have to be anyone,” Trinity finally stands, pushing Garcia’s hands away. She starts picking up the fallen folley trays, organizing them better than they ever were. “Okay , I freaked out. I was sad. A baby dying is sad. No need to go all easy and glum on me. It’s fine.”
“It’s midnight,” That's the only thing Yolanda says. A reminder that whatever tricks and mask she's pulling right now Garcia doesn’t believe it for one bit. Great so she's been there for like 5 hours. Great. Perfect.
“Anddd… you can read the time. Congratulations!”
“Trinity-”
“I probably should finish my charting or Al-Hashimi will be on my ass tomorrow or today actually.”
“You’re not charting right now, not in the state your ‘in.”
“Oh, and in what state am I Dr. Garcia,” She's pushing, and she knows it, but she can't have someone care for her right now, she just can’t. She can almost hear her own heartbeat, loud in the quiet, the shame thrumming in her ears.
Garcia huffed, " Really ? " Trinity nods and Garcia flexes her jaw. Neither of them knows what to say next. The tension stretches, awkward and unbearable. Trinity keeps moving, organizing, controlling what she can. She looks around at the size of the catheter she has in her hand. Foley 6.
Foley 6.
Foley 6.
Where the fuck are the pediatric trays, she looks up and down, on the right and on the left. She knows that they don't carry a size 6 in their closet supply, but it’s a good enough distraction from what Yolanda wants to talk about, so she continues… she continues until the memory of why she carries that foley weight in. Her hands start to shake again, and she desperately tries to stabilize it. Suddenly, the foley is snapped out of her hand, Yolanda staring right back at her, daring her to say something, to do something. But she can't so she bites her jaw, and picks another foley off the floor.
Yolanda stops her, clutching her hand in a tight grip. “Santos, stop it.”
Tears rise again, silent tears falling down her face. Fuck, last time she cried this much was probably 10 years ago. She bites her cheek again, a familiar metallic taste invades her mouth. Garcia is not going to stop pushing. “I’m not leaving until this is cleaned,”
Garcia sighs, mutters something under her breath, and starts picking up the scattered materials. It doesn’t take long, maybe five or ten minutes. Trinity watches, chest tight, fingers twitching. “Happy?” Garcia snaps.
“She had no one.” It’s offered as a truth. Not an excuse. Not a defense. Just… a fact. Baby Jane Doe had no one. It’s a fact and it's the only vulnerability she can offer right now. The barest sliver of herself she’s willing to give. Yolanda sighs before bringing her into her arms. She doesn't cry again, she doesn't scream again and she's not even sure if it brings her any comfort. She isn’t sure if she feels anything at all, and part of her hates herself for letting someone touch her, for letting someone in. Yolanda seems happy enough about it. And so, Trinity lets her. She notices the steadiness of Yolanda’s arms. Notice the quiet, unjudging look and comfort, and Trinity wishes at that moment she could open up, share her pain, but she never does, letting the silence fill the answer and let the silent sobs respond.