The Nurse Left Work at Five O' Clock

The Nurse Left Work at Five O' Clock(Phil Penne) The nurse left work at five o’clock. She hoisted herself into the cab of the Ford F-450, glancing around the spacious cockpit and smiling to such a degree as her fatigue would allow. Super duty towing package, oversized mirrors – it was his pride and joy. She wasn’t awarded any alimony, but she got the house and his precious truck. It was way more vehicle than she needed, but it served the rat bastard right for dumping her for a waitress at a sports bar.

Letting the big diesel warm up she closed her eyes and slid down in the seat. This had been the longest twelve hour shift of her life. Twelve hours of frustration, despair and anger focused on two very opposite elements of Kansas Heart: lightness and dark.

The lightness was Hillie Anderson, a sweet natured eleven year old girl with hazel eyes, auburn hair, just the right nose, and a congenital heart defect. Hillie knew all about the problem with her heart – her parents hadn’t kept anything from her and she read all she could about Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy – she could even pronounce it, and loved nothing more than to do so for the benefit of any adults she thought were being patronizing because of her age.
The dark was Robert James “Bobba J” Nelson. She believed that The Almighty put everything on this Earth for a reason, but why anyone like Nelson had been put here fell into the “God works in mysterious ways” category. He was admitted with a knife wound to the right deltoid – not an affliction of the heart, but he had been brought here to be treated and streeted before he bled to death. According to one of the deputies who brought him in Nelson had a rap sheet that read like an encyclopedia. He was a self- appointed one man crime wave in Sedgwick County, with felonies ranging from loan sharking to grand theft auto to rape. To date he had been in jail only twice – once for being busted in a back alley crap game, and the other for driving with an expired license. With all that Nelson had done, he always managed to either elude capture or have a persuasive enough alibi to prevent incarceration. Every cop in Wichita hoped they would be the one lucky enough to put a bullet in his head that would pass the scrutiny of a shooting panel. The nurse could commiserate; in the hour and a half he was at Kansas Heart he had grabbed her breasts, attempted three different times to steal drugs, and shoved a candy striper into a wall.

Slipping the big truck into gear she flipped on the halogen headlamps and left the parking garage, pulling onto 95th street. Taking a left on 21st she yawned and started the final leg of the 32.7 miles home.

Even in her state of exhaustion she recognized the irony in the single thread that connected these two individuals: both Hillie and Nelson shared a common blood type – O Neg. Strange… how could two people so completely opposite share something so vital to life? The difference was that an S.O.B. like Nelson would probably live an undeserved long life. Without a transplant, Hillie was doomed to a brief existence – also undeserved – because of her diseased heart. It didn’t seem fair.

Up to the time 21st street reached the turnpike she was able to stay awake; there was enough traffic to keep her attention, even early on a Sunday morning. But past the turnpike 21st became 70th, the traffic dwindled to nothing, all the farmland looked the same and her eyes became heavy. But in the headlight’s aurora a lone figured appeared on the side of the road. Hearing the drone of the approaching diesel the figure begged a ride by use of the classic thumb-out gesture. Drawing nearer to the figure she could make out a wad of surgical dressing bulging from beneath the T-shirt sleeve on his right side. She also recognized the arrogant gait that caused his shoulders to alternately dip when he walked – an “asshole swagger” as she called it.

Nelson.

Suddenly she was wide awake. Her breath had quickened and her mind was racing. In a matter of seconds she had formulated a plan that encompassed logic, necessity and poetic justice. Flipping to high beams and picking up speed she steered closer to the edge of the gravel roadbed. Aware of a change in the pitch of the engine, Nelson turned to face the oncoming vehicle, just in time to be struck in the forehead by the passenger side mirror.

She could visualize the physiological events unfolding in great detail. The glabella and boss of the frontal bone were shattered by the impact and had been driven into the frontal lobe of the brain. The trauma caused the brain to swell, pressing it against the cranium. Blood vessels ruptured and the delicate tissue of the brain was severely damaged. The jarring impact threw the head backwards violently, rupturing vertebra C1 through C7 and straining the spinal cord sufficiently to cause distention of the spinal tracts.

If he wasn’t dead, the cranial and spinal injury would be irreparable and he would be little more than a vegetable for the remainder of his miserable life.
Slamming on the brakes she skidded to a stop, jumped from the truck and raced to Nelson’s supine body. She checked for a pulse, then smiled. Pulling a cell phone from her pocket she took a moment to manufacture hysteria, then dialed 911.

Oh my God. It’s terrible.

I’ve hit a man on the road.

I’m a nurse at Kansas Heart. I checked the man. I think he’s dead.

Oh my God.

I recognize him from the hospital. His name is Robert James Nelson.

He has O Neg blood, just like someone at Kansas Heart waiting for a transplant.

If he’s dead, we need to get him there while. Sob. While the organ is still viable.

Oh my God.