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.
Tonight as she walked down the empty, darkened corridor all she heard were a few murmurs, the hiss of a respirator, and her own footsteps. It was 3:45. No doctors were immediately on hand, nor even other RNs for that matter. Pamela worked with two LPNs, both skilled veterans of the ward. The three of them had learned to deal with any number of potential catastrophes.
Passing room 1832, Pamela stopped. During report that evening, the charge nurse going off the shift had mentioned that Bruce Wilkinson’s IV was probably low enough to think about hanging a new bottle of D5W before morning. Pamela hesitated. It was probably a job she should delegate, but since she was right outside the room and no stickler for protocol, she decided to do it herself.
A wet cough rattled a greeting in the dimly lit room, making Pamela want to clear her own throat. Silently she slipped alongside Wilkinson’s bed.