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Frank pulls into his parking spot at 6:52AM, the now-familiar ache in his abdomen making its presence known again as he reaches across the center console to grab his things from the passenger seat.
That pain has been there for days, refusing to go away no matter how many over-the-counter pain meds he takes. It’s worse now than it was when it started about a week ago, and he’s not sure what caused it. It seems to keep getting worse every day, consuming more and more of him like the weeds taking over his front lawn.
Being in pain all the time is exhausting, so he only has half of his usual energy to work with. He can’t walk more than fifty feet without needing to stop to catch his breath. He’s also running warmer than he should be for the beginning of October, sweating and tugging at his shirt collar when everyone else is reaching for their warm hoodies and scarves.
There’s so many differential diagnoses for abdominal pain, fatigue, and a fever. Gastritis, the common cold, the flu, kidney stones, a UTI, overexertion, or even just stress. It’s not too uncommon for burnout to cause abdominal pain, fatigue, and psychogenic hyperthermia. Frank’s been stressed every day since coming back from rehab three months ago; Burnout or stress definitely seem feasible here.
Once he gets back in the swing of things, once he gets his confidence back, the stress should go away - or at the very least decrease. Knock on wood.
Frank frowns as he reaches into his car’s center console, fishing out a half-empty bottle of ibuprofen. He pops a few pills onto his tongue, swallows them dry, and chucks the bottle back into the console. He gathers his things and makes his way into the ED through the ambulance bay, forcing a slow breath through his nose.
He catches a quick glimpse of how full the board is already and scowls. Looks like they'll have their work cut out for them.
Out of the corner of his eye, after the doors slide shut behind him, he spots a motorcycle pulling in. The rider removes their helmet, and dread settles like a rock in Frank’s stomach when he realizes that the rider is Robby. He almost forgot that today is the attending’s first day back from his sabbatical.
They haven’t really spoken since Frank’s apology (and Robby’s outright rejection of said apology) on the helipad three months ago. The surge in anxiety at the thought of having to face Robby’s potential wrath makes his stomach flip.
Frank flinches as he shoulders past a few people strolling down the hallway, muttering absentminded apologies under his breath and making his way towards the locker room to deposit his things.
In the distance, he hears a chorus of voices welcoming Robby back. Everyone is saying that they missed him, and several others are asking how his sabbatical was. Does he have any pictures? What was the coolest part of the trip? Frank’s pleased that his timing allows him to avoid the awkward and forced social niceties - at least for now.
Once the ibuprofen starts to kick in, Frank’s able to properly focus on all of the task-switching that’s required to thrive in an ED. Hopping from patient to patient, getting pulled away for incoming traumas, catching up on charts, ordering labs, checking the board, rinse and repeat.
So far, his only interactions with Robby today have been half seconds of reluctant eye contact from across the room. Frank would like to have an actual, real conversation with him at some point now that he doesn’t have the excuse of an upcoming sabbatical to avoid it. Robby clearly isn't down for that, though, so Frank supposes brief eye contact is enough for the time being.
Frank brought a spare bottle of ibuprofen to keep in his locker when the pain started sometime last week. Every day, he’s been sneaking away every four hours or so to take some. A consistent and regular medication regimen is crucial for keeping the pain and fever at bay, even if said fever is of psychological origin.
He’s acutely aware of how tip-toeing away to the locker room in regular four-hour intervals might come off to Robby, so he tries to wait until the latter gets tied up with something else and - hopefully - won’t notice his disappearance.
So far, so good. 3PM rolls around and Frank has yet to be caught, and the pain is only the slightest bit annoying. It gets worse as he keeps moving around, but there’s not a whole lot he can do about that; It comes with the territory of working in an ED. The ibuprofen is doing a pretty decent job, though, all things considered.
He half-contemplates taking a day or two off. However, now that Robby’s back, it would be up to him to approve any sort of PTO or sick time. Frank and Robby still aren’t in the best place, and the former didn’t want to jeopardize any potential reconciliation by bothering the latter for some time off on his first day back.
As time continues to crawl, with each new patient he gets pulled to, with each quick jog down the hall to help with a code, and with each new trauma that comes in, his symptoms continue to worsen.
At 6PM, the dose he took four hours prior feels like it had worn off long ago. The pain is starting to get to a point where he can barely stand upright.
What was a four out of ten at 7AM has turned into an eight out of ten, and Frank has a remarkably high pain tolerance thanks to his past medical history. A two out of ten on his pain scale is probably everyone else’s four, so his eight is probably a ten (or maybe even an eleven) for the average individual.
He considers taking more ibuprofen, but he’s already at the maximum over-the-counter dosage in a 24-hour period of 1,200mg. Frank frowns at his past self for not thinking ahead. If he had taken 300mg doses instead of 400mgs, he could've gotten in one more dose for the final hour of the day. Oh, well. At least there’s not much longer.
He hopes he didn't just jinx himself and everyone else in the ED. Frank mentally apologizes to his colleagues in advance if an MVC or some other sort of major trauma comes rolling in at 6:55.
Frank spots Robby across the way by Trauma 1, the latter looking him over with an expression that the former doesn’t have enough mental energy to interpret. Robby’s been tailing him from a distance all day, giving him looks that scream “Pick up the pace or else” each time he has the audacity to pause for a moment in between patients.
Whenever the pain gets bad enough that he needs to sit down, or to simply just stop moving for a second, Frank can feel Robby glaring daggers at him - even if he’s not in his general vicinity. It’s like Robby has some sort of sixth sense for when he isn’t with a patient, even if it’s to check on another patient's labs or to catch up on his charting.
“Langdon,” Robby barks from across the room. Right on cue. The attending’s shout catches the attention of more than just him, and the sudden noise makes Frank’s head start to throb.
Robby doesn’t step closer, raising his voice so it carries across the room. He tucks the tablet he’s holding under his arm to free his hands for some hand sanitizer. “Stop standing around and make yourself useful. Go help Mohan stabilize the STEMI in Central 7 so we can get him up to the cath lab.”
Another throbbing pain hammers through Frank’s skull at the volume of Robby’s voice. He inhales for a count of four and then exhales for a count of four, forcing himself to focus on anything other than his pain and the disquieted gurgling in his stomach.
Robby, confounded, calls Frank again when he doesn't receive a reply. The former’s eyes harden. “That was an order, not a request, Frank. Go!”
“Yes, sir,” Frank murmurs under his breath, rolling his eyes only once he’s turned around. He’s gonna get chastised for “dodging patients” in front of everyone after this, anyways; He doesn’t need another thing to get screamed at for.
The monitor beeps as soon as he enters, ear-piercing and shrill as the patient goes into V-fib. Samira calls for a crash cart as Frank starts compressions. His hands make contact with the patient's breastbone and the nape of his neck prickles with sweat.
The room surrounding him distorts and Frank has to focus on not falling over, which would probably kill the patient. Each pump to the chest makes his head throb. By the end of the first round of CPR, he feels an unsettling warmth that might be vomit creeping up his esophagus.
Frank stops compressions and Samira delivers the first shock. They both turn to the monitor, both pairs of eyes locked on the screen as they watch the pulse waveform for any changes. A second passes before the monitor beeps once. It beeps again, and then again, continuing from that point on in regular intervals. Frank and Samira both heave a sigh of relief, their shoulders loosening as the tension fades.
“We have sinus rhythm,” Samira breathes, setting the defib paddles back down on the cart. Frank nods, forcing a slow and controlled breath through pursed lips. Thank God for that. He really didn’t want to have to resume CPR in this condition.
Right on time, the transport staff from the cardio team arrive. Samira looks at them and nods, raising the bed’s guardrails for them to grab onto. “He’s good to go to cath. Thanks, guys.”
Samira laughs breathlessly, at ease now that her patient is stable and getting to where he needs to be. She turns to Frank, her soft smile morphing into a concerned pout as she takes in his appearance.
“Are you okay, Langdon?” She asks, scanning his face up and down. Her frown deepens as his face pinches in discomfort. “You look pale.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Frank mutters, shrugging and shaking his head like it's no big deal. “Just need some air.” Samira doesn’t fight him on it, but eyes him with scepticism as he leaves the room.
He crosses the threshold of Central 7, hit with a wave of nausea the moment he steps back out into the ED. His whole body is cold, but his stomach is a rolling boil. The heat starts to crawl up to his chest and, for a moment, Frank thinks he might puke right here in front of everybody.
Sweat collects on his forehead and the back of his neck, rolling down his skin in thin rivulets. He screws his eyes shut, taking slow and controlled breaths as he urges the nausea to pass. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Please don’t throw up on the floor.
As the nausea starts to fade, that leaves the pain to focus on. It’s at a point now where the closest to upright Frank can stand is halfway to doubled over. Any slight shifting of his body sends stabbing pains to his abdomen and his spine. Crunching further into himself only makes it worse. No matter what he does to try to escape it, there’s no relief.
There’s a haze that comes with being in so much pain you can barely think, a haze that Frank imagines should be behind him by now after being sober for over a year. He’d almost forgotten what this haze feels like.
The entire ED is underwater, every word spoken and each sound from the various machines muffled and distant. There’s a faint ringing in the background of it all, along with a sensation that the world is tilting back and forth with each step he takes.
After a moment, Frank notices a voice. It’s growing louder by the second, and it sounds like it’s talking to him. Whoever the voice belongs to does not like that Frank isn’t talking back. The voice pierces through the fog, startling Frank so much that he jolts and nearly sends himself flying into the wall.
“Langdon,” The voice booms. It’s Robby. His blurry figure struggles to regain focus. “What’s wrong with you? Do I need to swap you out with McKay in triage?”
A second passes and Robby speaks again, not bothering to give Frank a chance to reply. “You’ve had a longer break out here than any one else has had all day. I don’t know what is going on with you, but whatever it is, you need to fix it and get back to work.”
Frank squirms in place, fighting like hell to continue pushing down the bile that’s rising in his throat. He’s unable to hold back a pained moan as he shifts his feet, his right hand hovering over his abdomen when it throbs against the sudden movement.
“You don’t look too good, what’s going on?” Robby falters, a faint but detectable level of concern in his voice.
Frank gulps, wrestling back vomit for what must’ve been the fifth time in the last five minutes. Each swallow is less effective than the last. The haze of pain and nausea washes him back out to sea, the ED plunging underwater with him. Robby’s words are no longer discernible. His voice turns into static, but somehow continues to raise in volume at the same time.
Through the muddied noises, Frank can only decipher one word from Robby: His own name. More words follow it, but Frank doesn’t have the wherewithal to keep his head above water.
Next thing he knows there’s a hand on his back. Whoever it is, they’re guiding him downwards, slowly and carefully. Their hand moves to his shoulder for the remainder of his descent until he makes contact with what he assumes is a chair. Frank allows himself to relax into it and the hand on his shoulder pulls away. Sitting down seems to be helping already, his vision starting to clear.
Robby’s brief interrogation turned into what seems to be urgent enough to inspire four others to rush over and check on him. Robby, Mel, Perlah, Princess, and Samira all circle around him, wearing the same look of concern as the latter four start trying to coax a history out of Frank with a multitude of questions.
Robby’s sharp voice is easy to discern through the overlapping and nonsensical dialogue. “Frank, give us something. Anything.”
“Alright, I can hear you, please stop--” Frank’s sentence halts as vomit forces its way up his throat. Shouts of surprise echo one after another as an object, probably a trash can, lands in front of him just in time.
He retches and spits, blinking away beads of sweat before they drip into his eyes. The others around him audibly groan. If Frank had the ability to speak and vomit at the same time, he would apologize.
Now that he isn't using so much energy trying to keep himself from throwing up, he starts to feel better. He still feels like death warmed up, but not having to swallow back vomit every two seconds is an improvement for sure.
The room is still blurry and everyone’s voices still sound farther away than they should, but he feels a touch closer to reality. He can kind of understand the questions everyone is throwing at him now, and he tries to interpret them through the haze as best as he can.
“Where does it hurt, and how bad?”
“When did your pain start?”
“Any loss of consciousness?”
“Any constipation or diarrhea, or just nausea and vomiting?”
“Any fever?”
“Are you taking any new medications that could be causing these symptoms?”
“Did you eat something bad? What did you have for breakfast this morning?”
“Alright, alright, one at a time, please,” Robby’s voice is clear and unyielding above everyone else's. The others stop talking and turn to Robby, their eyes darting between him and Frank. “Frank, how’s your pain?”
Frank doesn't yet have the energy to conjure up a reply before another question is raised. His head starts to spin and he feels like he might puke again. The voices surrounding him rise in pitch, volume, and speed as he leans forward. Frank clutches the trash can that hangs between his legs like it's a lifeline, his knuckles blanching.
This must’ve been going on for some time, because the next time he hears Robby speak, it sounds like he’s losing his patience. “Frank? Frank, tell us what’s going on!”
“Stomach hurts,” Frank gasps, hoping it’s enough to cease the onslaught of questions. The trash can amplifies his voice and he cringes at how pathetic he sounds. “Everything hurts so bad.”
“Alright, how bad?” Robby’s voice is softer than Frank expects it to be, like he’s talking to one of his patients instead of his disgraced resident. “On a scale of one to ten, with one being barely noticeable and ten being the worst you’ve ever felt?”
Frank gags into the trash can, his body straining as he makes an effort to not vomit again. Each time he dry-heaves, it feels like someone’s slicing at his insides with a white-hot knife. “An eight. Maybe a nine.”
“Can I please get something for the pain? Anything?” Frank cries, lifting his head up from the plastic rim of the trash can. He’s not normally one to beg, but he’s growing more desperate by the minute.
Robby’s eyes meet Frank’s and he shakes his head. “You know we can’t do that yet. We need a better idea of what’s happening first so we don’t accidentally mask something serious.”
Logically, Frank knows that. He is a doctor, after all, but the answer still isn’t what he was hoping to hear. He tries to focus on his breathing instead of the searing pain, which now consumes his entire torso and is starting to spread everywhere else.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Samira, Mel, and Perlah whispering amongst themselves, glancing at Frank with a sympathetic frown in between brief exchanges. Frank opens his mouth again, intent on asking them what they’re talking about over there, but all that comes out is more vomit.
He pulls his head back down to the trash can and heaves. A pitiful whimper pushes past his lips and his body stiffens in response to the worsening pain, which only escalates it. A gentle hand lands on his back, resting between his shoulder blades.
“Some Zofran for the vomiting wouldn’t affect anything, would it?” A soft voice asks from his left. He immediately recognizes it as Mel’s. Frank sends her a silent, telepathic thanks, not wanting to turn around and hurl all over her shoes.
Robby considers it for a moment. “No, Zofran should be fine. Perlah, four migs of sublingual ondansetron, please.”
Still not yet able to be verbal without gagging, Frank gives Robby and Mel his best effort of saying “I am so grateful, thank you” with just his eyes. He’s not sure how successful he is.
“Here you go,” Frank hears Perlah’s voice from above him. He extends an unsteady hand, eyes locking on the ondansetron tablet that’s placed in his outstretched palm.
As he maneuvers it to his index and middle fingers with his thumb, Mel mutters something about him burning up. Frank pokes the tablet under his tongue, unfazed that he’s touching stomach acid and the remnants of the protein bar he somehow managed to eat a few hours ago.
Another wave of nausea washes over him and Frank breaks out into a cold sweat. Feeling the warmth of stomach acid approaching his upper esophagus, he tilts his head back and forces his tongue down. He presses it into his lower jaw as far down as he can, refusing to let the ondansetron go. It’s the first taste of real, long-term relief he’s managed to get his hands on today. He’d be damned if he throws up again and loses it.
“If you need to throw up again, don’t fight it,” Mel’s hand returns to his shoulder. “We can always give you another one.”
Frank forces his eyes closed as his body continues to fight him. Or as he continues to fight his body. Or both. Gravity is somehow losing the battle of holding more vomit back, and it takes all of his leftover brain power to keep it down at least until the ondansetron dissolves. It should take care of the worst of it. At least he hopes.
He can relax for a moment every now and again as the queasiness ebbs and flows, and Frank lets his guard down enough to lift his head from the back of the chair. The ondansetron has fully dissolved and Frank can already feel it starting to work, the urge to vomit fading little bits at a time.
“Robby, can you get a chart started for him?” Frank hears Samira’s voice behind him. “And Perlah, if you could grab a wheelchair? He’s gonna be going to South 15 straight ahead.”
That’s enough to catch his attention and clear the haze away, if only briefly. Frank whips his head around to look at where he thinks Samira might be standing, and manages to wheeze a strangled “What?”
“I’m-” Frank closes his eyes and swallows against more bile. He exhales, slow and controlled. “I’m fine, honestly.”
When he can open his eyes again without the room spinning, he’s met with the incredulous stares of his colleagues. “Really. I mean it. Once the Zofran fully kicks in and once I can get something for the pain, I can get right back to work.”
“I’m serious,” Frank continues, exasperated. He probably doesn’t sound or look very convincing. All of his colleagues, now caretakers, shake their heads. “I’ve worked through much worse than this. Believe me.”
“Absolutely not,” Robby steps in front of him, looking down at Frank from where he sits on the plastic chair that was probably taken from triage. “You’re not touching another patient today, whether you’ve worked through worse or not.”
“But-” Frank cuts in. Robby shoots him a look that all but glues his lips shut.
“You’re guarding, you’re pale and diaphoretic, you’re febrile, and you’re vomiting,” Robby lists them off on his fingers. “All red flag symptoms for appendicitis.”
“What have you taken today?” Robby asks him, grabbing the tablet he set on the counter and pulling up Frank’s chart.
Frank tries to roll his eyes, but bails halfway through when it makes his stomach lurch. He swallows and takes a deep breath in through his nose. “I’m not using again, if that’s what you’re implying. I’m sober, and I don’t plan on jeopardizing that.”
Robby’s eyes narrow. “That’s not what I was asking you.” Frank heavily doubts that, but he doesn’t make any more comments.
“Have you taken any medication in the last twelve hours?” Robby’s voice is stiff and he casts a subtle glower at Frank. “I’m asking because that will affect how we treat you. You know that.”
“Just ibuprofen,” Frank forces through the beginnings of a gag. “That’s it.”
“How much?”
“Today? 1,200mg.”
“Jesus Christ, Frank.”
“What? I have a high pain tolerance, you know that. Over-the-counter ibuprofen is basically like taking sugar pills.”
Robby shakes his head but doesn’t make any other comments. “When was your last dose?”
“Around 2 o’clock. I took 400mg. I was gonna take more at 6 but didn’t think going over the 1,200mg maximum was a good idea.”
Robby hums thoughtfully and lowers the tablet, meeting Frank’s eyes again. “Anything else I need to know about?”
Frank tries to look annoyed, but he’s starting to get nauseous again. It must be obvious, because Robby takes a few not-so-subtle steps back.
“No,” Frank murmurs, shaking his head. He exhales slowly, clutching his gut with one hand and the garbage can with the other. “Nothing else.”
“South 15’s ready for him,” Perlah calls. Mel nods and hustles to Frank’s left side.
“Can you stand up?” Mel asks, hands outstretched and ready to support his weight should he need the help. Frank almost says yes, but swallows his pride and decides to be honest.
“Probably not,” He mutters. “Don’t think I’d get very far if I tried.” Frank grabs hold of Mel’s hands and lets her guide him up from the plastic chair.
“Sorry, sorry, almost there,” Mel winces as Frank cries out, readjusting her grip to offer more support as she helps him lower himself into the wheelchair.
Perlah passes Frank an emesis bag with a knowing yet sympathetic look. Frank is about to thank her, but he lurches forward to vomit in it before he can even secure it in his grasp. Mel grabs the handles of the wheelchair and pushes it towards South 15. The forward motion, however slow, is much faster than his body is ready for. He heaves again, his fingers shaking and crinkling the polyethylene plastic of the emesis bag.
“Sorry, you’re gonna need to stand again,” Perlah frowns as the wheelchair halts half a foot from the bed. She tosses the emesis bag in the biohazard bin behind her and grabs hold of Frank’s left forearm, Princess taking his right. “You ready?”
“No,” Frank groans, the sound pained and low in his throat. He lifts his arms anyway, bracing himself for impact as Princess and Perlah hoist him upwards. He clenches his jaw as they help him slide back onto the bed, pained gasps escaping through his teeth.
“Grab the right leg, I’ve got the left,” Perlah calls to Princess. They both tighten their fingers around Frank’s calves right where they meet the ankle. “Mohan, grab his left arm. Mel, grab his right.”
“On my count,” Samira scans the room, making sure Perlah, Princess, and Mel are all ready to move. “One, two, three.”
They move him at a pace so slow that it would probably be painful for Frank to watch, if he wasn’t the patient they were moving. With an acute abdomen, though, even the slowest movements possible hurt really bad. Every sound of protest he’s been holding back comes out at once, a howl of pain so deafening that everyone in the room who has free hands shrinks back and covers their ears.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Mel raises her voice so it can be audible over his distress. “That’s it for now, I promise. No more moving.”
“Someone grab his vitals and start a large bore IV,” Robby calls from the corner, giving his residents a once-over from above the rim of his reading glasses.
“Okay,” Mel squints at the monitor as Princess and Perlah finish getting the leads on him. Someone pokes a thermometer under Frank’s tongue and he almost gags against it. “Uh, temp of 101, heart rate’s tachy at 132, BP’s high at 140/86, likely from the pain. O2 sats are good, 98 on room air.”
“Alright, Mohan, what’s next?” Robby steps away from the computer and closer to the chaos, glancing at Frank’s vitals on the monitor before meeting Samria’s eyes.
“Physical exam and then some tests,” She replies with a nod. “CBC, CRP, urine, and an abdominal ultrasound?”
“Good,” Robby nods once. “Add a urine tox and have radiology get the CT ready just in case the ultrasound’s inconclusive.”
Samira raises her eyebrows but doesn’t protest. “Okay, I’ll put the orders in.”
“Make a fist,” Perlah murmurs to Frank as she grabs the IV needle. She spots a good vein, nods, and then readies the needle for insertion.
“Quick stick,” Perlah mutters as Princess hands her the vials for collecting the blood. They grab what they need and then start the large bore IV, stepping back as Samira makes her way over.
“Alright Landgon, I’m really sorry, but this is gonna hurt,” Samira turns to Frank with downturned brows. “I have to give you a physical exam.”
“Do what you must,” Frank’s breath catches and stutters in his chest as he forces his eyes shut.
He doesn’t have time to prepare before hands are pressing down on his abdomen, and pressing down hard. The surge of pain at the contact is enough to launch his whole upper body forwards, almost like he’s doing a sit-up.
“God, fuck,” Frank curses, his chest heaving up and down in half-sobs. The pain gets worse when Samira pulls her hands back, nearly knocking the wind out of him. “Holy shit, that fucking hurts.”
“Tenderness at McBurney’s point with rebound tenderness,” Samira calls over her shoulder. “Positive physical exam for appendicitis.”
“The ultrasound won’t be as awful, I promise,” Mel gives Frank a lopsided half-smile as she presses the ultrasound probe down on the area where Samira was just palpating. Frank whimpers in pain, groaning and tapping his fist against the bed.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Mel murmurs with a pout as she moves the probe around. She turns over her shoulder, meeting Robby’s eyes to get the attending’s attention. It must not be good, whatever Mel’s looking at, because he’s at her side before Frank can even blink.
Mel turns back to the monitor with that look she gets when she sees something she doesn’t like. “I've got a visual.”
“Okay, what do you see?” Robby steps closer and looks at the ultrasound monitor over Mel’s shoulder.
“I see… an angry appendix,” Mel observes with a nod, the end of her sentence wavering. She swallows. “A, uh… A very angry appendix. Outer to outer diameter’s about… 8.7 millimeters."
Yikes. That’s not good.
Robby doesn't skip a beat, keeping his voice level. Despite his misery, Frank doesn't miss the glint of concern in Robby’s eyes that he only gets for patients that are probably in trouble. “What’s it supposed to be?”
“Um, it-it should be less than 6,” Mel stumbles, unsettled at her findings. She uses a shaky hand to readjust her glasses. “Isn’t anything above an 8 considered high risk for perforation?”
“Yes,” Robby confirms, taking his reading glasses off and sliding them into his scrub shirt pocket. “An outer-to-outer of 8 or higher usually warrants an emergency appendectomy.”
Looks like he’s getting those two days off after all.
Robby’s eyes meet Frank’s and, for the first time today, the former is visibly perturbed instead of annoyed. Frank isn't sure how to feel about it.
Robby spots Perlah making her way out of the room, vials of blood in hand. “Perlah, see if they can get a rush on those, would you?” She nods and then disappears around the corner.
“Think you can stand up for a urine sample?” Mel asks, the familiar clear cup with an orange lid in hand. The thought of hobbling down the hallway to the patient bathroom makes Frank want to lay on the floor and die, but he would much rather do that than force his colleagues to give him a catheter.
“I might need some help getting down the hall,” Frank swallows and takes the cup, the ridges of the lid digging into his palm. “But I think I can stand long enough for that.”
“I’ve got it,” Princess reaches out for Frank’s hand, helping him scoot to the edge of the bed. She hoists him up, placing his arm around her shoulders and supporting half of his body weight with ease. She grabs a patient gown with her free hand, tucking it under her arm.
They begin the slow shuffle out of the room. Each step brings more pain than Frank can handle. They’ve barely passed South 18 and he’s already seeing stars.
“Wait, wait, wait,” The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.
“Do you need to sit down?” Princess reaches for a stray wheelchair with her free hand, pushing it close behind Frank should he lose his balance. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, taking a deep breath.
“No, just need to catch my breath for a second,” Frank mumbles, blinking against the encroaching static. “Thought I was gonna pass out.”
“We can always take the sample from the bed, you know.”
“Yeah, I know, but that means we’d have to go all the way back.”
Princess looks over Frank’s shoulder behind him to where everyone else is looking over his chart in South 15, then turns around to glance at the patient bathroom door.
She hums. “Well, we’re about halfway there. It's about the same distance either way, but it's up to you.”
Frank shifts his feet, taking some of his weight off of Princess and preparing to take another step forward. “I don't want to take thirty years trying to turn around, might as well keep going.”
Princess laughs, light and good-natured. “Fair enough. You've got this, I'm right behind you.”
Frank nods to himself, sweat trickling down his neck as he places one foot in front of the other. He’s growing short of breath like he's running a marathon even though a snail could beat him to the patient bathroom at this pace.
They finally make it to the door, Frank’s body slackening in relief as he grasps at the doorknob. Princess steps back, her hand taking the place of Frank’s when he lets go.
“Will you be able to get the gown on?” Princess asks as she sticks the fabric through the door’s small open space.
“Yeah, yeah, I think I got it,” He replies with a nod. He hopes he’s got it, anyway. He takes hold of the gown, the fabric crinkling under his fingers.
“I'll be right outside if you need me,” Princess assures with a warm smile, pulling the door shut until it closes with a soft click. The lock engages automatically, the little plastic wheel above the knob spinning and landing on red to indicate that the bathroom is occupied.
Frank grasps the metal railing on the wall adjacent to the toilet once he twists the orange lid off the sample cup. He places it on the cold metal shelf, top side down. Not wanting to release his hold on the safety railing, he leans forward and holds the cup underneath him.
By some miracle, he manages to stay upright long enough to grab a decently sized sample without needing any assistance. Frank would've been mortified if he had to call someone in here.
He exhales as he prepares to take his scrubs off, starting with the easiest articles to remove one-handed. He hooks his thumb under the waistband of his scrub pants, sliding the elastic down his right hip and then his left. He lets gravity take care of the rest once he's worked them down to his knees, the fabric pooling around his ankles and landing on the tile with a soft thump.
“Oh, man,” Frank grumbles under his breath as he raises one foot off the ground. He winces and hisses as he lifts it higher to get it fully out of the leg hole. “Fuck me.”
“You doing okay?” Princess’ voice floats through the door.
“Yep,” Frank’s voice is high and tight. “Almost done.”
“Just gotta get my fucking shirt off somehow,” He whines to himself under his breath as he kicks his pants to the side. He bites back a groan and leans into his left palm, tightening his fingers around the cool stainless steel.
Using his right hand, Frank is careful to remove the items still in the shirt’s pocket. He places the small notepad and pen on the metal shelf next to the gown and unclips his badge. He secures it to the bottom of the notepad’s cover and pats it twice for good measure, nodding in satisfaction when it doesn't budge. He uses one hand to pull the shirt over his head, throwing it on top of his scrub pants.
“Alright, worst part's over,” Frank takes the patient gown and sticks his free arm through the opening. It’s cold compared to the scrubs he’s been baking in all day, and it feels otherworldly against his skin. He lets out a contented sigh as he releases his grip on the wall's railing to slide his left arm through.
Frank pushes himself away from the wall to shuffle towards the sink, his palms seeking out the cold porcelain for support. He fumbles with the gown’s strings as he attempts to tie the garment shut with just his right hand, giving up halfway through. It’s closed enough to not fly open and give the entire ED a free show, so it’s good enough.
His limited strength is on a steep and rapid decline to zero after standing up for so long. Frank’s halfway to his knees as he reaches for the doorknob, his entire arm rattling at the effort it's taking to push the door open. Princess assists from the other side, using one hand to pull the door open and the other to keep Frank from face-planting on the tile.
“I got a wheelchair for you,” She doesn't let Frank decline as she helps him turn around.
“Don’t need it, I can walk back,” He manages through gritted teeth, one small gust of wind away from collapsing to the floor. Princess braces his torso, wrapping his right arm around her shoulders. She kneels to close the gap between the wheelchair and where Frank’s currently standing to help him down.
“You sure about that?” Princess raises an eyebrow in equal parts amusement and concern. Frank grumbles an incomprehensible comeback as he lets his body crumble into the wheelchair.
“Mm-hmm,” She hums an ‘I told you so’, grabbing the plastic cup from his trembling hands and pushing the wheelchair back to South 15.
Samira, Mel, Perlah, and Robby all turn on their heels to face the entrance of the room when they hear Princess and Frank approaching. Just watching them gives him whiplash.
They all part like the Red Sea, two people each claiming opposite sides of the bed as they all prime themselves to help Frank back up. Princess and Perlah take one arm each, giving each other a look when Frank tries to squirm away.
“I got it, guys,” Frank wheezes, weak and winded. His palms press into the wheelchair’s arms for added leverage. Princess and Perlah tighten their hold on his forearms in protest, leveling him with a look that says ‘Surely you're not serious’.
“Don't worry about it,” He adds as he waves them off. Or tries to, at least. His arm doesn't move very much. “I can stand up by myself.”
“You could barely take three steps past the door,” Princess points out, catching his arm on the way down and holding it loosely.
“We’re helping you stand up,” Perlah declares with finality, leaning down a bit to get Frank's eyes to meet hers. He would have rolled them if he had the energy to do so.
“Fine,” He surrenders, raising his arms as high as he can, which is only about half a foot or so above the wheelchair’s armrests.
“Doctors make the worst patients,” Princess quips, smiling at Frank’s unamused huff. Her and Perlah re-secure their grasp on his respective forearms, with Mel taking the right side of his torso and Samira taking the left.
“On my count,” Mel says as she takes a half-step back, loosening the bend in her knee in anticipation of bearing weight. “One, two, three!”
They all move at the same time, taking great care to be slow and gentle. Frank chokes back a pained wail, breathing in uneven rasps as he’s placed flat on the bed. It takes a few seconds for it to quiet from torturous back down to the baseline of terrible.
“Can we get him something for the pain now?” Mel almost sounds like she’s begging, like Frank’s pain is contagious. “We got all the labs, and the ultrasound was conclusive enough to not need a CT.”
“He’s your patient, though, Doctor Robby,” Mel tacks on like an apology. “Your call.”
“Labs have been sent out and imaging is done,” Robby echoes in a murmur to himself as he makes his way to the side of the bed opposite to Mel. “He should be good to go for pain management.” Music to Frank’s ears.
“Mel, start some IV morphine and IV Zofran,” Robby glances at Mel before his eyes land back on the monitor.
The tempo of the beeping increases enough that both Whittaker and Dana consider rushing in the room. Robby looks over his shoulder and casts a glance their way, subtly shaking his head as if to say ‘I've got it handled ’ before turning back around to give Frank a visual once-over.
“No!” Frank spits the word out, the pain in his abdomen throbbing in time with the monitor. Everyone in the room freezes. “No. No morphine.”
“You need something, though,” Mel mutters after a moment as she winces at Frank’s BP, watching it slowly climb. “You’re clearly miserable.”
“Yeah, yeah, I am miserable,” Frank feels his lungs straining against his ribcage, trembling and hungry for air. “I’ve been miserable all day. Whatever you do, do not give me morphine.”
“No morphine, no benzos, and no narcotics,” Frank’s throat constricts as his vision starts to blur with tears. In any other circumstance he'd be embarrassed to cry and beg in front of his colleagues, but he's starting to break down after being in agony all day. “Please.”
“Please, I’m sober,” Frank feels a hand on his shoulder, soft and small. Mel’s hand. It’s rubbing against his skin in slow, comforting circles. “Have been for over a year now. I can’t go back.”
“Please, Robby,” Frank pleads to his attending. Robby’s face softens into an expression that Frank has never seen directed at him before. “I’m begging you. Please give me literally anything else. If there’s no other option, I-I just won’t have anything.”
“Okay, okay, you got it,” Robby obliges with a solemn nod. “No morphine, no benzos, and no narcotics.”
“Okay,” Frank’s eyes float shut as he’s overcome with relief. The beeping of the monitor starts losing speed and his breathing slows. “Okay, okay, okay. Thank you.”
“Mel, start some IV ketamine, 0.1mg per kilo,” Robby steps back from the bed, grabbing the round rolling stool by the desk and sitting down. He eyes the monitor as he types something on the tablet. “Add 15mg of IV Toradol, increase dose PRN, and 0.15mg of Zofran per kilo, infused over 15 minutes.”
“On it,” Mel scrambles for the meds before Robby even finishes his sentence, drawing them up one by one. Frank appreciates her urgency. “Pushing the ketamine.”
“You’ll feel a bit weird,” Mel says as she sets down one syringe and reaches for another. Frank guessed that’s the Toradol she’s about to push through the IV. “You might feel warm and kinda loopy, but it should definitely help with the pain.”
“Toradol is… in,” She announces as she sets the syringe aside. “And Zofran’s going in… now.”
The tension in Frank’s body dissolves immediately, and he can't recall feeling better than this in his whole life. The excruciating pain that's been torturing him all day evaporates, and he no longer feels the need to puke every other minute.
His surroundings start to blur at the edges, reminiscent of waking up in the car after a long drive home as a kid. Nostalgic, warm, and comforting.
“Feeling better now?” Mel raises her eyebrows and laughs as Frank’s body visibly sinks deeper into the hospital bed.
“Oh yeah,” Frank mumbles a few seconds later, his reaction time delayed. “Thank you both. This is awesome.”
“The meds are definitely working,” She reports to Robby with a smile. Robby mirrors it briefly and nods to himself as he types something on the computer, presumably updating Frank’s chart.
“Oh-kay,” Robby drags the word out as he locks the computer screen. “We’re still gonna waiting on his labs for a bit. Now that he’s stable, I have a few other patients I need to check on before shift change.”
Mel bolts upright, the chair for visitors clattering behind her. “Oh, my God. Shift change!”
Reading her mind, Robby bares his palms in a placating gesture to stop her in her tracks. “Nope. You're not seeing any more patients today.”
Mel doesn't protest the order, but she still furrows her brows. “But what about my current patients?”
Robby claps his hands together and then grabs the stethoscope draped around the back of his neck. “I had Whittaker take them over.”
“Stay with him until he goes up to the OR,” Robby adds in a low voice, his eyes hopping over Mel’s shoulder to check if Frank can hear him. It doesn't seem like he’s really listening, so Robby continues. “He likes having you around, and he could use the company.”
Mel nods and sits in the chair directly behind her, hoping neither of them notice her face flushing a pale shade of pink. She gives Frank a soft smile before turning her attention back to Robby. “You're the boss.”
“If anything happens, page me,” He orders, raising his eyebrows in a wordless ‘Got it?’. Robby doesn't wait to see Mel nod in agreement before leaving the room, but he doesn't need to. He knows that Mel wouldn’t hesitate to slam the call button if Frank got so much as a paper cut.
Mel looks over her shoulder, spotting a tablet that got left behind on the med cabinet across the room. She scurries over to grab it, unlocking it and pulling up Frank's chart.
“Okay…” She whispers to herself, skimming through the scant information. “Hmm. Not much on here.”
Frank blinks, lolling his head to the right towards where Mel was sitting. “What’re you doin’ over there?”
“Just looking at your chart,” She hums as she taps the screen a few times. “I know we probably don't need it now after the exam and the ultrasound, but we couldn't get much of a history out of you earlier.”
Frank’s eyelids weigh themselves shut as he shifts his head back to the center of the pillow. “Mm, I don't know if you'll get any more outta me right now.”
“Anything is helpful,” Mel assures him with a gentle smile. Frank readily returns the gesture, which makes Mel's smile grow even more. “Alright, so when did the pain start? Do you remember?”
Frank makes a sound, low and thoughtful. “Maybe… a week ago? I don't remember exactly. But it's definitely been there for at least, like, three or four days.”
“Where did the pain start?”
“In the middle of my abdomen? At least I think. I don't really remember. Eventually it just… got so bad that it hurt everywhere.”
“Any constipation or diarrhea?”
“Uh, nope. Not that I can remember.”
“Did you lose consciousness at all?”
“I almost did on the way to the bathroom earlier, but, um… I didn't actually pass out. It was a close call, though. But, um, other than that, no LOC.”
“Fever… Pain exacerbated by movement, tenderness at McBurney’s point with rebound tenderness…” Mel mutters half to herself, scrolling up and down Frank's chart and typing some more quick notes. “Yep. Definitely all indicative of appendicitis… Let me see if your labs are back yet.”
Robby appears at the door as if the words had summoned him, knocking twice before entering the room. Mel startles and sets the tablet down, turning her body toward the door as Robby enters. Frank tries to sit up more but doesn't get very far. Mel reaches for the remote that adjusts the bed, raising the top half of it until Frank is almost upright.
“Is that good?” She asks him in a whisper. He gives her a lazy thumbs up before they both turn their attention back to Robby.
“Your labs came back,” Robby folds his arms across his chest. “The urine tox was clean, and the urinalysis was normal. However, your CBC showed an elevated white count of 14,500.”
“Yiiikes,” Frank draws the word out, sporting a mirror image of Mel’s grimace on his face. “That’s, uh… that's pretty high.”
“Yes, it is,” Robby replies in earnest with a slow nod. “The CRP also showed evidence of severe inflammation at 67 mg/L.”
“67,” Frank giggles, attempting to do the motion with his hands. They don't move very much, but it’s obvious enough to get a chuckle out of Mel - and, surprisingly, also Robby.
Robby raises an eyebrow, bemused as he turns to Mel. “Does… does that mean something?”
Mel laughs again and shakes her head. “I don't think so. Based on what I've heard about it from Becca, I don't think it really means anything. I think it's just something random people say.”
More or less satisfied with her answer, Robby returns his attention back to Frank. “Your appendix definitely needs to come out as soon as possible. I've already paged gen surg and they're getting an OR prepped for an emergency appendectomy”.
Frank gives Robby a slow and understanding nod, and the latter continues. “A patient care tech will come down to move you up to pre op in about an hour. You’ll be staying overnight just as a precaution.”
“Thanks,” Frank’s voice is scratchy and languid from the effect of the medication he's been given. “Appreciate it.”
“Yep,” Robby pops the ‘p’ and presses his lips together in a thin line. He turns to leave but pauses halfway through. “Any questions from either of you?”
Mel shakes her head and murmurs a ‘No, thank you,’ the reply not quite audible but Robby understands it anyway. The latter’s eyes land on Frank, eyebrows high in a manner that indicates he’s expecting some sort of answer.
“Oh, sorry,” Frank blurts, thinking he didn't register the question fast enough or maybe started to zone out or something. “How long can I expect to be off my feet for?”
“That… depends on how the surgery goes,” Robby lets out a slow breath, running his hand through his beard. “Based on your ultrasound, it doesn't look like it's a complicated case, but it's hard to say for sure. They won't know until they get you up in the OR.”
“But,” Robby continues before Mel or Frank can interject. “My best guess is that you'll be off work for at least two weeks. Again, I’m not certain, but most patients don't need much longer than that.”
“I can see my future, and it's full of trashy reality TV,” Frank mumbles, running his hands over his face. Mel snorts. "I don't know if I can take two weeks of that.”
“Not to worry, I can keep you updated on all the hospital gossip,” Mel offers with a cheeky grin. She stiffens at Robby’s furrowing brows. “Ethically, of course. No HIPAA violations.”
“Right,” Robby looks more exhausted than he did twenty seconds ago. “Well, I still have some charts to catch up on before I head out.”
He sighs after a moment, his eyes darting to the clock on the wall behind Frank's head. Mel’s eyes follow his, noticing it’s ten minutes past 7PM. She’ll have to let Becca and the center know she’s gonna be a while.
Robby raps his finger against the back of the tablet’s case in an uneven rhythm as he makes his way back out to the ED. “Press the call button if either of you need anything.”
Mel replies with a nod, and Frank with a groggy thumbs up. Robby rounds the corner and the room plunges into silence, aside from the soft beeps from the monitor. Now that Frank’s pain is well managed and he’s not constantly retching, his pulse and BP are much closer to normal. They’re still elevated from the fever and inflammation, but that’s to be expected.
“BP’s down to 122/78, and pulse is down to 86,” Mel’s voice is gentle and low, a touch quieter than the rhythmic pings from the monitor. “Sats are still good on room air at 97.”
“Sorry, are you talking to me?” Frank drawls through a yawn after a few beats, meeting Mel’s eyes with a lethargic squint.
“No, no, sorry,” She huffs a muted laugh. Mel pats the back of Frank's hand, her touch lingering for a moment before she pulls her hand back. “Just talking to myself.”
“Here, I’ll tilt this back,” Mel grabs the remote that controls the bed, reclining the top half. “Is this okay, or do you want it down more?”
Frank’s eyes fall shut again and he attempts to shake his head. He’s exhausted beyond words and his body feels three times heavier, so he's not sure if his head even moves. “Mm-mm. This is perfect.”
She sets the remote back down with care so it doesn't clatter against the side table. “Are the lights bothering you?”
“No, it's fine,” Frank’s words jumble together, slurred as sleep looms over him. “I’m too tired to care about the lights.”
Frank feels Mel’s hand return to the back of his, her thumb dancing back and forth against his skin. “Get some sleep. I’ll let you know when the patient care tech comes by.”
Frank doesn't need to be told twice. He slips into sleep in no time at all, the noises of the ED fading into the background. Once she’s sure he’s asleep, Mel rises from the chair and pads out of the room. Stopping just outside the door, she closes it behind her as she pulls her phone out of her pocket.
She decides to call Becca on FaceTime first. Whenever there’s a change of plans, Becca always handles it better when it’s Mel who delivers the news rather than the staff at the center. The phone rings twice before Becca picks up.
“Hi, Mel! What’s up?” Becca answers, beaming.
“Hi, Becs,” Mel replies, looking around in case she’s being disruptive. Normally she takes phone calls outside in the ambulance bay, but she doesn't want to stray too far from Frank. “I just wanted to let you know that I got held up at work. I-I’m not sure how long I’ll be, but I don't think I’m gonna be able to leave for a while.”
“Did something happen? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, don't worry about that. You, um, you know Doctor Langdon, right?”
“Oh, yes! The handsome one with the blue eyes?”
Mel’s face heats, the warmth crawling down her neck and into her chest. She hopes Becca can’t tell how pink her cheeks are. “Yes, the… handsome one with the blue eyes.”
“He, um,” Mel pauses and checks over both of her shoulders, her gaze momentarily pausing on Frank’s sleeping form in the room behind her before landing back on her sister. “He’s pretty sick, and he needs surgery.”
“He’s gonna be okay,” Mel scrambles to reassure Becca when she starts looking anxious. “He needs his appendix out so he feels pretty awful, but he’ll be okay. It’s a very routine procedure.”
“Oh, good! I hope he feels better soon.”
Mel’s eyes wander over to Frank again. It’s almost like she’s physically unable to look anywhere else for too long. “Yeah… me too.”
“I’m gonna stay until he gets out of surgery, just to make sure everything goes okay,” Mel squints as she struggles to read his vitals on the monitor through the glass. The numbers are tricky to read through the glare.
“I’m sure it will!”
Mel feels a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and it grows when she sees her sister’s wide grin. “I’m sure it will, too.”
“Oh, I gotta go now, the movie’s about to start!”
“Movie? What movie?”
“Night at the Museum! It’s movie sleepover night, remember?”
Mel can sort of recall Becca talking about a movie sleepover at the center the other day, but she didn’t think it was tonight. “Oh, yeah. Sorry, I forgot. Busy day.”
“I was gonna call the center to let them know I’d be pretty late to pick you up, but I guess I don’t have to do that,” Mel adds to herself with a shrug.
“I gotta go, bye Mel! Love you!”
“Love you too! Enjoy the movie!”
Mel sticks her phone back in her pocket, tiptoeing back into Frank’s room. The only motion she sees from the bed is the rising and falling of his chest, so she assumes he’s still asleep. She closes the door behind her, moving in slow motion so she doesn’t make too much noise.
She returns to the chair adjacent to his bed, frowning at how uncomfortable it is. She has newfound empathy for the cranky families of patients. A loved one who’s fighting for their life is enough to thin one’s patience on its own, but in Mel’s humble opinion, having to stay put in a dinky plastic chair for hours - or even days - on top of all of that? That sounds like more than enough to make her lose her mind.
Mel leans forward, placing her elbows on the sheets with caution. They crumple beneath the added pressure, making a rustling sound that’s ear-splitting juxtaposed to the near-silence of the room. Frank doesn’t stir, thankfully, so Mel rests her chin on top of her folded arms. She sighs through her nose, the air tickling her upper lip.
Unsure of how else to spend the time until the patient care tech takes Frank to pre op, she decides to count all of the squiggly lines on the walls. Anything to keep her mind occupied.
It doesn’t take her long to lose track of them. They’re kind of hard to see unless you’re up close. After getting to 35 four separate times on the same small section of wall, she gives up.
She sighs and closes her eyes for a moment, enjoying the respite from all the other noises an ED brings. It’s rare for a patient room to be so tranquil for so long.
The monitor’s beeps are near-silent, and the only other audible sound is Frank’s breathing. It’s deep, even, and rhythmic. Mel finds herself counting each inhale and exhale, tapping her finger on the mattress.
The door clicks open and she shoots upright in alarm, waking up Frank and startling the poor patient care techs. She clears her throat as she straightens out her glasses, blinking the fuzziness away from her vision.
“Sorry to wake you both,” One of the techs says while the other props open the door behind them. “The OR’s almost ready, so we’re gonna be taking up to pre op.”
“No worries, thank you,” Mel murmurs, giving them both a polite nod. She rises from the plastic chair and nudges it out of the way, helping the techs get Frank’s bed ready for transport by lifting the side rails.
“Let’s do this,” Frank’s words almost get cut short by a yawn. “Get this thing out of me.”
“You got it,” One of the techs chuckles, grabbing the right railing while the other grabs the left. “One appendectomy, coming right up.”
“Oh,” The tech on the left blurts out, turning to Mel. “A Doctor Robby said to tell you that they’ll have someone page you when he’s in post op.”
“Great, thank you both,” She gives the techs a warm smile and sends Frank a small wave. He returns it, not breaking eye contact with her until the elevator doors close.
Mel’s surroundings fall silent again, or as silent as a semi-bustling ED can get. She’s hovering outside the door, twiddling her thumbs. She’s unsure what to do with herself, but she doesn’t want to go home. She spots a clock on the wall of an empty patient room across the way. 7:57PM.
Abbot makes eye contact with her as he strolls past, giving her a quick wave. She waves back, then spots Robby heading towards her. Mel opens her mouth to say something to him, but Robby speaks first.
“You know you don’t have to stand out here,” His eyes meet hers. He glances at the staff room’s open door. “Go relax in the staff room. Get yourself a cup of coffee or some hot chocolate, take a nap. If I hear anything, I’ll come find you.”
As much as Mel wants to say ‘But I’m not staff right now, I’m not working’, she takes Robby up on his offer. It’s probably too late for coffee, but a cup of hot chocolate does sound nice. She can use something warm and comforting.
Mel mutters an incomprehensible affirmative and nods, clasping her hands together in front of her. Robby gives her a small smile before taking off towards Abbot with a tablet in hand.
She heads inside, stopping first at the Keurig machine. The hot chocolate K-cups are almost always available since everyone else opts for coffee. She grabs a mug from the cabinet, pops the K-cup in, and presses the button, wincing as the machine screams and strains. They really need a new Keurig.
Mel sits down on the couch, mug of hot chocolate in hand. The warmth of the mug is soothing, reviving her chilly fingers. She takes a small sip and the hot liquid sears her tongue. She hisses as her mouth tingles, setting the drink down on the table to hopefully cool down to a reasonable temperature.
Each time someone walks too close to the staff room on their way down the hall, Mel perks up and tracks them until they’re no longer visible. She sits on the edge of the couch, ready to bounce back up on her feet should something go wrong or if Frank gets out of surgery earlier than anticipated.
After a good ten minutes or so, enough people pass by enough times for Mel to force herself to lean back into the cushions. Robby said someone will get her when something happens so she won’t miss anything. Besides, it’s only 8:15PM. Frank went into the OR less than twenty minutes ago. Appy’s usually take an hour, so she has forty minutes of time to kill at a minimum.
She leans her head back and rests it on the top of the couch, her gaze drifting up to the ceiling. She notices that it has the same squiggly lines as the walls in the patient rooms. She decides against counting them.
Mel grabs one of the stray throw pillows, wrapping her arms around it and pressing it into her chest. It’s nothing like a weighted blanket, but it feels nice regardless. Her eyes fall closed as she focuses on relaxing, wrestling the urge to get up and ask someone for an update. She takes a deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth once, twice, and three times.
A voice she can’t quite recognize draws her back to reality. “Hey. King.” Whoever’s speaking to her is also prodding her shoulder. Repeatedly.
“Mel, wake up.” Wake up? Did she fall asleep at some point?
Mel forces her eyelids apart and sees Parker standing in front of her. She blinks until the latter is no longer blurry, lifting her glasses with one hand and rubbing her eyes with the other.
“What? What?” She’s only half-awake and already on her feet. “Did something happen?”
“Woah,” Parker holds her hands out in front of her, stopping Mel from bolting out of the room. “Nothing happened, Langdon’s fine. He’s awake and asking for you.”
“What?” Mel stammers, dumbfounded. “He’s out of surgery already? What-what time is it?”
Parker looks at her phone. “10:30. Robby sent me to find you on his way out.”
“Thank you, Doctor Ellis,” Mel sputters, all but chucking the throw pillow she was still holding back on the couch behind her. She ditches her hot (now cold) chocolate on the table, gunning for the door.
“You’re welcome,” Parker barks out a laugh as Mel makes a beeline for the elevator. “He’s in room 320, by the way.”
“Room 320, room 320,” Mel mutters under her breath as she half-jogs through the opening doors. She leans against the wall when the doors slide shut, keeping her eyes locked straight ahead.
A ding sounds from the speaker in the wall and the doors slide apart. Mel launches herself towards them by pushing her weight off the wall, shouldering past before they fully open. She catches the people on the other side by surprise and they take a few steps back to get out of her way.
“Sorry, sorry about that,” She ducks her head as she makes her way to what she assumes is the main nurse’s station. Seeing her somewhat frazzled and seemingly in a hurry, the nurses are immediately concerned.
“I’m-I’m looking for Frank Langdon?” She looks back and forth between both nurses. “Doctor Ellis from the ED told me he’s in room 320.”
“Ah, yes,” Says the nurses on the left, presumably the gen surg charge nurse. He removes his glasses and sets down the tablet he was looking at. “You must be Mel. He’s been asking for you. Follow me.”
“He’s still a little bit groggy, but his surgery went well,” He says as Mel falls in step behind him. “He’ll be off work for two weeks and on light duty for his first week back. He’s getting IV antibiotics for 24 hours, and then he should be ready for discharge.”
“Good, that’s good,” She hums in response, looking around at the rooms they pass as they traverse the hallway. Mel blinks and forces herself to keep her eyes forward so she doesn’t plow into the charge nurse.
“Here we are, room 320,” He slows to a stop, and Mel pauses a few paces behind him as he gestures to the door.
“If either of you need anything, just let me know,” He gives Mel a warm smile before turning to walk back the way they came. She peeks into the room as she steps inside, surprised to see Frank already looking at her.
“Hey,” She greets him with a warm grin, planting herself in the chair next to his bed. These chairs are much more comfortable than the ones in the ED. “How’re you feeling?”
“A little queasy, but pretty good,” Frank’s voice is scratchy from drowsiness and lack of use. “Still kinda tired.”
“Oh, yeah, tiredness is normal,” Mel says like a habit. “You’ll probably feel a bit lethargic for a little while.”
“But you’re a doctor, too, so you knew that already,” Mel adds in a mumble, sheepishly shaking her head. “Sorry. Autopilot.”
“‘S fine,” Frank hums, his hand sluggish as he waves it off. A few beats of silence pass before he speaks again. “Thank you.”
Mel tilts her head and furrows her brows. “I- ‘Thank you’ for what?”
“For staying.”
“Of course I stayed. Why wouldn’t I?”
“It’s late.”
Mel raises an eyebrow. “Y-yeah? I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
Frank blinks, nonplussed. “Your shift ended forever ago.”
Mel shrugs. “You got emergency surgery. I wasn’t gonna leave until you were settled in post op.”
“Oh,” Frank looks baffled at the thought that someone would stay to make sure he was okay. It makes Mel a little sad. “Thank you.”
Mel shakes her head and smiles at him. “Don’t mention it. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Frank smiles back, and Mel thinks she sees a shade of pink starting to blossom on his cheeks. Probably just from the anesthesia wearing off.
“Is there anything you need me to grab for you? Since you’re staying overnight?” She asks, scooting to the edge of the seat in preparation to stand. “I can grab your stuff from your locker, if you want me to.”
Frank thinks for a second and then nods. “Yeah, that’d be great.”
“What’s your combination?” Mel asks. “I promise I’ll forget it immediately.” Frank snorts, wincing a bit when his skin strains against his stitches. Mel recoils, one hand flying to her mouth to cover her gasp and the other grabbing Frank’s hand.
“Oh, my God, Frank, I’m so sorry,” She stammers, looking at the monitor to check his vitals. His pulse and BP spike temporarily and then go back down. Mel’s chest heaves in a silent sigh of relief as their hands disconnect. “I probably shouldn't try to make you laugh for a little while.”
“Woah, hey, relax,” Frank takes her hand back in his. “I'm fine. Don’t worry ’bout it.”
Mel opens her mouth to speak again, but Frank beats her to it. “And don’t say sorry again. It’s not a big deal.”
“My combo’s… 1110,” He informs her after thinking for a second, patting the back of her hand with his before letting it go. “Thanks, Mel. You're the best.”
“You got it,” She all but races out of the room. She apologizes to the charge nurse on her way out, hurriedly explaining that she’s just grabbing some stuff for Frank and that she’ll be right back.
She’s in and out of the locker room in record time, hustling back up to gen surg. She gets back to the room with Frank’s bag in hand, and notices that his eyes are closed. They open when she steps inside, and she lifts up the bag to show him that she got it before setting it down next to the chair.
“I can stay here for a bit longer, if you’d like me to,” She suggests, sounding more like a question than an offer. “I wouldn’t want to bug you, though.”
“Oh, please,” Frank laughs. “You never bug me.”
“What I’d like is for you to go home and get some sleep,” He continues with a slow nod. “You need it.”
“Only if I can come back tomorrow when you’re discharged,” She cuts in, pointing her index finger at him. “Just so I can know that you made it home okay.”
Frank acquiesces with a half-smile. “Alright, deal.”
“Deal,” Mel echoes. She pats the side railing of the bed before stepping back and making her way to the door.
“Get some sleep,” Mel calls as she steps past the threshold, waving to him over her shoulder.
“You, too,” Frank calls in return, waving back. Mel lingers for a moment longer, the smile remaining on her face as she starts to make her way back to the elevator.
Knowing he’s okay and no longer miserable is such a relief. All of the tension from the day has worn away, leaving fatigue in its wake. Mel stops by the locker room again to grab her own things, unable to fight back the yawn that forced its way past her lips. She’s normally asleep by now, or in bed at the very least. Thank God she has the day off tomorrow.
She spots Robby at one of the computers, scrolling around on what looks like a patient’s chart. Puzzled, she changes course and heads his way.
“Doctor Robby?” She calls with furrowed brows. He whips around, caught off guard. “It’s almost 11, what are you still doing here?”
“I would also like to know,” Abbot chimes in, grabbing a stray tablet beside the keyboard Robby’s typing on. “I’ve been trying to kick his ass out of my ED for the past three hours.”
“I had charts to catch up on,” Robby replies as a cop-out, shrugging. Abbot and Mel exchange a knowing look with each other.
Robby swivels the chair around so he faces Mel. “How’s Langdon?”
“Good, he’s good,” Mel confirms. “Surgery went well, no complications. He’s on IV ceftriaxone and metronidazole for 24 hours and then he should be good for discharge.”
“Good,” Robby echoes with a nod. He casts her a glance over the rim of his glasses before turning back to the computer. “Go home, Doctor King. You’ve earned it.”
“You first,” Abbot mumbles as he glances at the board. “You have to be back here in six hours, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Robby retorts. “That was my last chart, I’m closing everything out.”
“Uh-huh,” Abbot glares at him, doubtful. “Now get the hell out of here, would you?”
“Yep, leaving now,” Robby calls over his shoulder as he stands up and heads towards the locker room. Mel and Abbot shake their heads.
“Good night,” Mel waves goodbye to him, Robby, and a few of the other night shift residents that spot her. They all wave back before diving back into the chaos that is the ED.
Mel exhales, releasing her hair from her braid as she steps past the double doors. Since the buses don't run this late, she orders herself an Uber.
As glad as she is that Frank's okay now, she’s really happy to finally be heading home.
Robby slings his bag over his shoulder, pausing by the elevator on his way out. Before he can give himself time to think about it too much and convince himself it’s a bad idea, he slides through the open doors.
He hesitates again for a moment, his hand freezing at the halfway point between his side and the keypad.
He runs his other hand through his beard, sighs, and presses the fourth floor button to head to the surgical center.