Shannon Sovndal - Fragile

Copyright 2020 Shannon Sovndal

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Gyrfalcon Press, Denver, Colorado
www.shannonsovndal.com

Edited and Designed by Girl Friday Productions
www.girlfridayproductions.com
Editorial: Clete Smith, Ben Grossblatt, Karla Anderson
Interior Design: Paul Barrett
Cover Design: Alban Fischer
Cover and interior photography 2020 Mike Thurk

ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-7344251-0-9
e-ISBN: 978-1-7344251-1-6
LCCN: 2020900280

First Edition

To Steph

E ach chapter is associated with a song in my mind. It could be a lyric, a feeling, or just a connection between the writing and the music. I had originally included quotes from songs at the beginning of each chapter but realized the copyright lawyers would have a field day with me. So, instead, at the beginning of each chapter, Ive included the song title and artist. My hope is that you check out some of the music as you make your way through the book.

Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.

Seneca

I remember standing motionless in the doctors lounge, staring at my hands. Things had changed. I was someone different, someone my family and friends might not recognize if I let them in, really let them see my true soul. But that wasnt possible. Not for me. I was too guarded, always guarded, always in control. It wasnt just today that had changed me. It had been everything.

All I wanted to do was see my boys. I wanted proof that they were safe at home; I wanted to see them alive and well, laughing and playingfinding joy in the little things like Legos, action figures, and our dog, Ryder. Instead I was alone, feeling the frantic drone of a busy emergency department. There was no time for reflection or emotion; patients were waiting to be seen. Trauma Room 11 had just given me a cold taste of reality. No superhero saves or knights in shining armorjust the simple fact that sometimes really bad things happen.

In the background, the TV mounted in the corner of the room played ESPN baseball highlights. With the excitement of a lottery winner, the well-groomed commentator extolled the virtues of Alex Rodriguez because he had hit yet another home run. He makes close to $58,000 every time he steps to the plate. I guess he deserves it, the pressure and all. I didnt take note of who won the game, I can only recall Alex.

I stood like a zombie in the middle of the lounge, numb, like the poor zebra you see on Animal Planet after having one of its legs chomped off by a hidden crocodile during a compulsory river crossing in Tanzania. The look, that look, on the zebras face always struck me as a bit misplaced, because it was devoid of any apparent emotion or concern. Moments from death, tripodding on the far shore, the zebra appeared totally detached and dissociated from its dire predicament. As I stood there, I felt the same as that zebra, vacant of any emotional content. I understood the look. I shouldnt have been able to push my emotions aside, not if I possessed some small fleck of compassion or empathy. Because this wasnt normal. This wasnt what people experienced day to day. At least not normal people.

But I had been trained to be this way. No panic, just a calm journeymans approach to any affliction, like a mathematician working an equation. Years of preparation, acquiring a skill set, building up my vault, had readied me to stand in the lounge like a zebra.

And so, I stared at my hands to see if I was actually here, to see who I was. Maybe I was hoping to see something different. Anything, really. A tremble, a shake. But I saw nothing. Just my hands. Steady. Solid. Quiet.

The clock clicked, 8:21. It was one of those old-school clocks, like youd see on the wall back in grade school. I had zoned out looking at a similar clock at my sons last parent-teacher conference. The second hand was rigid and jerky, making a big move forward, then a small move back. Big forward, small back.

Everything fits together, like the pieces of a giant puzzle. The picture becomes clear only when the dark colors blend with the bright. The picture is revealed because of the unity of pieces. I felt the seconds ticking, moving forward from 8:21. Even though it didnt look like it, deep down, the last thirty minutes had kicked my ass. From the outside I was calm, but somewhere inside, the hideous reality of death and suffering screamed and rattled in my well-guarded cage.

Y eah, funerals suck. I dont know what you want me to say.

I had started one of my typical weekend shifts in the ER. I took over the lingering patients from the night doc, caught up with some of the oncoming nurses, and then, trying to ease into the fact that I had to work on Sunday, headed to the cafeteria. I stood in front of the assorted donut tray trying to decide between two favoritesjelly or apple fritter. The jelly is just so overwhelmingly sweet, it could have been a good choice for Sunday. But the sheer volume of the apple fritter was undeniable. As I am a donut connoisseur, the decision was clear.

Apple fritter sitting precariously on a small Styrofoam plate, I grabbed a coffee and headed back toward the ER. The lights overhead passed in rhythm. The speckled linoleum floor, typical in a hospital, glistened underfoot thanks to the overnight polish.

Without spilling or dropping my breakfast, I managed to maneuver my name badge over the silver automatic doorplate and took up my typical position at the chart rack. I indulged in my first bite, and any sense of embarrassment from holding such an obscenely large donut quickly passed.

The patient board looked good: a couple of drunks left over from the night before, one psychotic patient, and a belly pain. For a post-Saturday-night shift, I couldnt complain. If it stayed this way, I figured Id be able to catch bits of the 49ers game on TV.

Our ER looks pretty standardold, run-down, and artificially lit. Repeated face-lifts failed to remedy what it really needed: an extreme makeover.

Working in our department feels like sitting on an old tattered couch from your parents house. Its comfortable, fits your butt nicely, but man, it looks gnarly. If I didnt have such a familiarity with it, Id probably never think to even sit in it.

ERs might appear cool and high-tech on TV, but in the real world, they usually lack funding and are at least five years behind expected patient volume. Hence, patients are always pissed off because of the long wait, overwhelmed service, and lackluster amenities. Did you know that if an ER has public Wi-Fi, the doctors rating magically increases? True story. Same if I wear a white coat. But I hate white coats, so Ill take the hit.

If hospital administrators spend money, they usually go for a slick cancer center or some similar high-profile project. Congressmen and journalists like medical facilities that, to steal a term from my marketing friends, pop.