Flashbacks of the boy's mother are front and center in my mind. Her bloodcurdling screams and bone-chilling sobs seem to be on constant repeat. I can still visualize her outside of trauma bed one on her knees with her head in her hands, visibly breaking down while we were performing CPR and intubating her lifeless child.
I don't know if he's going to pull through.
I shut my eyes to keep the tears inside and lean my head back on my seat while silently praying to God that he wraps his arms around Tommy and gives him strength to survive.
I cut the engine and slowly walk toward my apartment, attempting to push back the mental flashbacks of Tommy's lifeless body underneath my hands while I performed chest compressions. My mind is numb. I am in shock and running on autopilot. I am hanging on by a mental thread as I shakily put my keys into the lock and open my apartment door.
I throw my keys on the kitchen table and sit down. I'm thankful that Amy and Lizzy aren't home tonight. Amy is working the late shift in the ER and Lizzy went home to Louisville to see Matt. I am just blankly staring off into space, trying not to think. Trying to shut my brain off and not replay every detail of my night. But I can't do it. I'm running through every aspect, every sound, and every visual. I can even smell the remnants of the chocolate ice cream that was on Tommy's shirt before I had to cut it off of his little body. I am usually better about shutting my emotions off and just doing my fucking job, but I can't do it this time.
This was a baby.
A sweet, helpless child whose life might have been taken away. All of this because one asshole decided that drinking and driving was a good idea. A man that chose to drive home from the bar when his alcohol level was way beyond the legal limit and was lucky enough to walk away with only minor injuries.
I feel the bile start to rise in my throat. I quickly get out of my chair and run toward the bathroom. I make it just in time before emptying all of my stomach contents into the toilet. The combination of adrenaline, nerves, and mental exhaustion is eating away at me. I sit on the bathroom floor and put my head in my hands in a pathetic attempt to regain control.
Time seems to stand still as I remain seated on the cool, hard bathroom tile.
Eventually, I find the strength to stand up and turn on the hot water. I'm hoping a shower will help relax all of this emotional energy that is coursing through my body. I avoid the bathroom mirror. I'm afraid that once I see my red-rimmed eyes and tired face I will break down. I'm not ready to lose it. I feel guilty for even thinking about crying. I don't have a baby that is lying on an OR table, fighting for his every breath. I don't have to attempt to perform a miracle to save a small child's life. I am one of the fortunate ones. I am home. I am alive. I don't have a loved one whose life is hanging on by a mere heartbeat.
I strip off my soiled scrubs. As I throw them in the trash, I see the bloodstains all over my pant legs. Tommy's blood. I feel the bile rising again and quickly put my head over the toilet, dry heaving several times until I have nothing left. I rinse my mouth out at the sink and step into the hot, steamy shower. The water makes me realize I am bone-chillingly cold. Placing my face directly under the soothing water, I feel a small sob escape my throat. I attempt to force it back, but it's too late. The tears are freely flowing down my cheeks. I can taste the saltiness on my lips as my sorrow slides down my face with the water.
My body is shaking uncontrollably, and I hear the gasping sobs coming more quickly from deep within my chest. I rest my back against the shower wall. My body slowly slides down on its own accord until I am seated directly underneath the showerhead. As the water pelts down, I let my mind release all of the pent-up emotions I have unsuccessfully avoided since I left the ER.
I sit on the floor of the shower until the water runs cold, my fingers pruning. I put on my plush white robe and wrap my long auburn locks in a towel. I use the hand towel by the sink to wipe the steamy residue off of the mirror. I slowly lift my eyes until I am looking at myself.
Red-rimmed and dark-circled, I am visibly worn down.
I decide to forgo eating and brush my teeth in hopes that I can sleep this night off. I don't even worry about turning off the lights in the living room. I walk slowly down the hall, step into my bedroom, and fall face first onto my bed and into my pillows.
"What a fucking night," I mumble to myself before falling into a restless sleep.
***
Waking up to several large knocks at the door, I groggily get out of bed and pad down the hall. The clock above the TV says 3 a.m.
It must be Trent.
I open the door and I am immediately startled by the man standing on the threshold of my apartment. My body is overwhelmed by fear. Deep within my gut, I know that something is very, very wrong with this scenario. My breath quickens and pulse speeds up as adrenaline pumps into my veins.