The disagreeable feverish sensation became more intense and began to spread. Bruce could feel it in his chest like a hot liquid. The concern that something had gone wrong on the “inside” reasserted itself.
Bruce tried to turn to locate the nurse’s call button that was looped through the side rails of the bed. His eyes moved, but his head felt heavy. Out of the corner of his eye he saw quick, staccato movement. Looking up he could see his IV bottle. The movement he’d seen was coming from the rapid running of his IV. The drops in the micropore chamber were falling in quick succession, and the night-light glinted off the liquid with an explosive sparkle.
That was strange! Bruce knew that his IV was only being maintained for emergencies and was supposed to run as slowly as possible. It should not be running quickly. Bruce could remember having checked it as he always did before turning out his reading light.
He tried to reach out and find the nurse’s call button. But he couldn’t move. It was as if his right arm had not gotten the command. He tried again with the same result.
Bruce felt his terror become panic. Now he was certain something terrible was happening to him! He was surrounded by the best medical care but unable to reach it. He had to get help. He had to get help instantly. It was like a nightmare from which he could not awaken.
Yanking his head off the pillow, Bruce screamed for a nurse. His voice surprised him with its weakness. He’d intended to yell but instead he whispered. At the same time he became aware that his head felt tremendously heavy, requiring all his strength to keep it off the pillow. The exertion caused a trembling that rattled the bed.
With a barely audible sigh, Bruce collapsed back onto his pillow, compounding his panic. Trying again to call out, he heard an incomprehensible hiss almost devoid of vocalization. Whatever was wrong with him was rapidly worsening. He felt as if an invisible lead blanket was settling over him, pressing him flat against the bed. His attempts to breathe were pitiful, uncoordinated heaves of his chest. With utter terror Bruce comprehended he was being suffocated.
Somehow he organized his thoughts enough to remember again the nurse’s call button. With horrendous effort he lifted his arm from the bed, and in an uncoordinated, spastic fashion pulled it across his chest.
It was as if he were immersed in some viscous liquid. His fingers brushed the rails, and he grasped vainly for the button. It wasn’t there. With the last vestiges of strength, he heaved himself onto his left side, rolling over and thudding up against the rail. His face pressed heavily against the cold steel, occluding the view from his right eye, but he did not have the strength to move. With his left eye he saw the emergency button. It was on the floor, curled on itself like a snake.
Panic and desperation filled Bruce’s consciousness, but the oppressive weight on his body increased, precluding all movement. In his terror he guessed that something had happened to his heart; perhaps all the stitches had burst. The sense of being smothered intensified as Bruce’s brain screamed for life-giving oxygen. Yet Bruce was totally paralyzed, able only to grunt in agony as he desperately tried to breathe. Yet through all of this, Bruce’s senses were sharp, his mind painfully clear. He knew he was dying. There was a ringing in his ears, a sense of revolving, nausea. Then blackness …
Pamela Breckenridge had been working from eleven to seven for over a year. It wasn’t a popular shift, but she liked it. She felt it gave her more freedom. During the summer she’d go to the beach by day and sleep in the evenings. In the winter she slept days. Her body had no problem making the adjustment as long as she slept at least seven hours. And as far as her work was concerned, she preferred night duty. There was less hassle. Days sometimes made a nurse feel like a traffic cop, trying to get patients to and from their numerous X rays, EKGs, lab tests, and surgeries. Besides, Pamela liked the responsibility of being alone.