Survivor Song(18)
Ramola puts on one glove and then freezes in place as she can’t help but watch Natalie and the doctor watch each other as they wait for the temperature reading. Dr. Bilezerian’s white mask presses tightly against her cheeks, indenting the bridge of her nose. A tuft of black hair leaks from under her cap, graffitiing her wide forehead. Natalie holds her breath without being asked to. All three women are motionless. Chaos churns outside the tent.
The thermometer beeps three times.
Dr. Bilezerian removes the probe and reads the digital screen, “Ninety-nine point two.” Her voice clipped, sharp. She turns away and disposes of the probe’s plastic cover.
Natalie says, “I’m fine. That’s not a fever. I tend to run hot.”
“It’s within the range of normal,” Ramola says, and puts on her second glove.
Dr. Bilezarian nods, says a solemn, “Yes, it is,” and returns the thermometer apparatus to the supply cart and prepares a needle.
Natalie shivers as Ramola unwraps her arm. They lock eyes and Natalie offers a preemptive explanation. “It’s cold out. I’m cold. I only have this thin, damp shirt-dress on.”
“I’m sorry, I should’ve given you my sweatshirt earlier.”
“Don’t be sorry. You don’t have to say sorry to me for anything ever again after today.” Natalie wipes tears. She flinches and grimaces as the last of the towel is pulled away from her arm.
Ramola says, “Laurie, prior to wrapping the wound I cleaned with water and hand soap. It should be cleaned again with Povidone.”
From her spot hunched over the supply cart, Dr. Bilezerian says, “We’ll get you all cleaned up and tended to, Natalie. Have you ever been previously vaccinated for rabies, pre-or post-exposure?”
Natalie shakes her head and says, “No, never.” Her right leg bounces up and down nervously, right foot tapping on the stepstool below the examination table.
“Roll up her sleeve, expose her shoulder for me, please, Doctor. Okay, Natalie, this first shot is human rabies immune globulin; it slows the virus down, keeps it from attaching to the nervous system until the vaccine can get in there and help your body make its own antibodies. Both the globulin and the vaccine are safe for you and your baby.”
“Oh, good. Great. I’m . . . Thank you, Doctor. Sorry, um, Laurie.” Natalie looks at Ramola and then away, and away from her belly, down at her jittery leg. Ramola assumes she’s feeling guilty for what she said earlier about not caring if the vaccine was safe for the baby. Ramola wants to shout, No! and hold Natalie and tell her that she is the one who doesn’t have to apologize, doesn’t have to feel sorry for anything, not after all that’s happened to her.
In a screening area across from theirs, a medical staff member has a needle in her hand while another grapples with a small, late-middle-aged man. His tan oxford shirt is dotted with blood, so too the mottled skin of his neck. He shouts, “No!” and as he loses the wrestling match, his shouts become mewling cries. Whether it’s intuition or that dastardly enemy, fear, taking the reins again, Ramola believes, for the first time today, that it is too late for Natalie, they won’t be able to help her, and in a matter of hours, she’ll be gone.
Dr. Bilezerian says, “This is going to hurt, I’m sorry, but it’s most effective when administered in and around the wound. Try to keep your arm as relaxed as you can.”
Laurie swabs the puncture wounds, most of which have already scabbed over, with iodine, staining Natalie’s forearm a coppery brown. Ramola offers Natalie the crook of her arm instead of her gloved hand. Natalie takes it. She turns her head and looks away as the doctor inserts the needle and injects globulin at three sites. Natalie squeezes Ramola’s arm with each stab of the needle, but otherwise doesn’t react until it’s over, and then she releases a large, wavering exhalation.
The doctor covers the wound with a gauze pad. “We’re all done with that. You’re doing great, Natalie.”
Natalie releases Ramola’s arm, pats her belly, and exhales deeply again.
Dr. Bilezerian swabs Natalie’s shoulder with an alcohol wipe and holds up a second needle. “Next is a shot of vaccine. This won’t hurt as badly. I promise. It feels more like a flu shot.”
“Ooh, those are my favorite.” Natalie half laughs and half cries, and her mischievous smile remains. Natalie already appears less vacant, less hopeless. Ramola has never felt more proud of her friend, or more bone-crushingly sad for her.
“Right? You could do this all day,” the doctor says as she injects the vaccine. “And we’re done.”
Ramola swaps spots with Laurie and sets to affixing the pad and wrapping Natalie’s forearm with more gauze. She considers asking the doctor what the efficacy of this treatment has been during the outbreak. Have they had many or any successes in preventing exposed patients from succumbing to the viral infection? She doesn’t want to ask in front of Natalie, not yet anyway. Ramola has always believed physicians should be forthright in sharing information with the patient, or in the case of her charges, their parents, no matter how dire the prognosis or uncomfortable the conversation. As Ramola’s sinking, hopeless feeling can be measured in fathoms, perhaps it’s not Natalie she’s protecting from hearing potentially devastating news.
Dr. Bilezerian removes her gloves, picks up a two-way radio, and asks for an available orderly to bring a wheelchair.