Chapter 6 - The Clinical Trial
Two years later, the halls of the Hershey Medical Center smelled of floor wax, antiseptic, and fresh coffee.
At nineteen, I was in the thick of my clinical rotations—the brutal, exhausting, and deeply rewarding bridge between nursing student and medical professional. My blue scrubs were crisp, my stethoscope was draped over my shoulders, and my hair was pinned back neatly.
"Leland," called out Sister Beatrice, the head charge nurse of the oncology floor. She was a woman in her late fifties with sharp eyes and a legendary reputation for tolerating zero nonsense from doctors and nursing students alike. "Room 412 needs a line check and fresh vitals. The patient is fighting the IV."
"On it, Sister," I said, grabbing my digital chart tablet.
Room 412 was bathed in the soft gray light of a rainy Tuesday morning.
The man lying in the bed looked far older than his fifty-two years. His frame was thin, his graying hair sparse from aggressive chemotherapy, and his hands trembled as he stared at the television mounted on the wall.
I stepped into the room, setting my tablet on the tray table. "Good morning. I’m Karen, your student nurse for the morning shift. I’m just going to check your pressure—"
The man turned his head toward me.
The words caught in my throat. The blood in my veins felt like it froze into solid ice.
It was Gerald.
He looked so frail, so diminished compared to the terrifying figure who had once ruled our house, that it had taken my brain three full seconds to recognize him. His cheeks were hollow, his skin had an unhealthy yellowish tint, and the fierce anger that used to light up his eyes had been replaced by a dull, hopeless exhaustion.
Gerald stared at me. His pale lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. His eyes shifted from my face down to the silver pendant resting above my scrub top, then to the Penn State nursing badge clipped to my pocket: KAREN LELAND, STUDENT NURSE.
"Karen?" he whispered, his voice dry and raspy, barely louder than the rustle of the hospital sheets.
I stood completely still. The urge to turn around and run out of the room was overwhelming. All the memories rushed back in a violent wave—the sound of paper tearing, the smell of burnt roast chicken, the fear in Tyler's eyes, the cold floorboards of the basement archive.
You can walk out, a voice inside my head said. You can go to Sister Beatrice and ask for a reassignment. You owe him nothing.
I closed my eyes for three seconds. I took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the cool weight of my mother's pendant against my collarbone.
When I opened my eyes, I wasn't the terrified seventeen-year-old girl standing in the dining room on Maple Street. I was a Penn State nursing scholar standing in my hospital.
"Hello, Dad," I said quietly, my voice professional, calm, and distant.
He swallowed hard, looking away toward the window. "I didn't... I didn't know you were here."
"I’m doing my rotation here," I replied, pulling the blood pressure cuff from the wall mount. "Keep your arm straight, please."
He didn't resist. He extended his thin, bruised arm. As I wrapped the black cuff around his bicep and started the pump, I looked at his chart on my digital tablet.
Stage III Colorectal Cancer. Admitted from the state correctional facility under medical parole provisions.
He had been serving a three-year sentence for grand larceny and embezzlement. The court had granted him temporary transfer to the university hospital when his tumor failed to respond to basic prison treatments.
"Tyler?" Gerald asked softly, his eyes fixed on the rain sliding down the window pane. "How is he?"
"Tyler is fifteen," I answered, keeping my eyes on the pressure gauge as it beeped rhythmically. "He’s on the high school honor roll. He plays varsity soccer. Grandma took him to look at high school leadership camps last weekend."
Gerald’s jaw tightened. A single, heavy tear escaped the corner of his eye, tracking slowly down his sunken cheek. "He doesn't ask about me, does he?"
"No," I said truthfully. "He doesn't."
The silence returned, heavy and suffocating, but it no longer had the power to make me feel small.
I recorded his vitals—118 over 76, pulse 82—and carefully adjusted the flow rate on his intravenous chemotherapy line. My hands were perfectly steady.
"Why didn't you walk out?" Gerald whispered as I turned to leave. "When you saw it was me. Why didn't you tell them to give you another patient?"
May you like
I paused at the door, holding my tablet against my side.
"Because I took an oath to care for human beings in pain, Dad," I said gently, looking him dead in the eye. "And unlike you, I don't break my promises."
