scrubs and go back to work.
And the next morning, over a cup of coffee, I stare at that card. I ’ ve got my cell phone in hand, thinking hard. Then I dial the number.
“’Allo?” Strong French accent.
“Hi, is this Dominque?”
“ Oui, c ’ est moi .”
I start the conversation by speaking in English, hoping she can understand me, “My name is Niall Mackenzie. I, um, I met Dr. Oliver James yesterday. He said he ’ d talk to you and, um, I ’ m a nurse. An ER nurse. He said you needed—”
“Ollie did indeed speak to me,” Dominque replies in rapid French. “What are your qualifications?”
I have to switch mentally into a French-speaking headspace. It takes a second to translate my thoughts. “I ’ m an RN, received my degree from UCLA. I have three years experience in the ER at Los Roboles.” The fact that I say this in passable—if not flawless—French is evidence of my qualification in that language, so I don ’ t mention it.
“Why do you want to work for MSF?”
Why do I? I don ’ t answer right away; take a moment to formulate my thoughts.
“I want to make a difference. Save lives. Help as many people as I can. It ’ s why I became a nurse.” I say this in English. Saying that I also want to go because I want to be close to Oliver probably isn ’ t a good idea.
What I ’ ve said is true, but there ’ s more…I haven ’ t mentioned the down-deep reason for wanting a change like this. And it doesn ’ t have anything to do with Oliver at all, to be honest. I mean, yeah, he ’ s hot, sexy, and who wouldn ’ t want him? But…I have this need. I don ’ t know how to fully explain it to myself other than to say it ’ s a need to take things farther, a drive to push myself to my limits.
Being an ER nurse in an LA hospital is pretty damn close to working in a war zone. You see all sorts of horrible shit. But as much as I sometimes hate it, there is something in me that needs the rush. The adrenaline. The frenzy to fix a patient. To save a life. To try my damnedest, even if I fail. To know that I ’ ve helped. To make a difference, as Oliver put it.
There ’ s a pause on the other end of the line. “If Ollie tells me I should bring you on, it is reason enough for me,” Dominique says, in English now. “He is never wrong. Not about people.” She rattles off an address, tells me to bring my resumé and prepare for a more in-depth interview, but then reassures me it ’ s a formality, and that I ’ ll have the position if I want it, on the strength of Oliver ’ s recommendation.
When I report for my next shift at work, I have to break the news to Delaney and hand in my notice.
She hugs me, with a teary-eyed smile. “You ’ re too talented a nurse to be stuck here. I knew someone would lure you away someday.” She holds me by the arms and looks at me. “Just be sure it ’ s what you want. MSF, it ’ s…hardcore. And very dangerous.”
“I know. Maybe it ’ s crazy, but…that ’ s part of why I ’ m going, if I ’ m being honest.”
Delaney grins. “You ’ re at your best when things get hairy. You ’ ll be great. Just…stay safe, okay?”
“I ’ m not leaving for another two months, Delaney.”
A sniff. “But still. I ’ m not going to say goodbye. When you go, just go. And know I ’ ll miss you.”
Delaney is my best friend. She was enrolled in nursing school at UCLA, a year older than me. She got the job here first and rose up the ranks. She ’ ll be unit head before long. I can ’ t imagine not being with her. We work almost every single shift together. Side by side, every day, for twelve or fourteen hours a day. We drink a bottle or three of wine together after work, and watch Real Housewives, talk about boys and never about work.
Now I ’ m leaving her.
We drop the subject and prep for a night shift of incoming patients. A weekend midnight shift always hits hard and heavy with multiple GSWs,
And the next morning, over a cup of coffee, I stare at that card. I ’ ve got my cell phone in hand, thinking hard. Then I dial the number.
“’Allo?” Strong French accent.
“Hi, is this Dominque?”
“ Oui, c ’ est moi .”
I start the conversation by speaking in English, hoping she can understand me, “My name is Niall Mackenzie. I, um, I met Dr. Oliver James yesterday. He said he ’ d talk to you and, um, I ’ m a nurse. An ER nurse. He said you needed—”
“Ollie did indeed speak to me,” Dominque replies in rapid French. “What are your qualifications?”
I have to switch mentally into a French-speaking headspace. It takes a second to translate my thoughts. “I ’ m an RN, received my degree from UCLA. I have three years experience in the ER at Los Roboles.” The fact that I say this in passable—if not flawless—French is evidence of my qualification in that language, so I don ’ t mention it.
“Why do you want to work for MSF?”
Why do I? I don ’ t answer right away; take a moment to formulate my thoughts.
“I want to make a difference. Save lives. Help as many people as I can. It ’ s why I became a nurse.” I say this in English. Saying that I also want to go because I want to be close to Oliver probably isn ’ t a good idea.
What I ’ ve said is true, but there ’ s more…I haven ’ t mentioned the down-deep reason for wanting a change like this. And it doesn ’ t have anything to do with Oliver at all, to be honest. I mean, yeah, he ’ s hot, sexy, and who wouldn ’ t want him? But…I have this need. I don ’ t know how to fully explain it to myself other than to say it ’ s a need to take things farther, a drive to push myself to my limits.
Being an ER nurse in an LA hospital is pretty damn close to working in a war zone. You see all sorts of horrible shit. But as much as I sometimes hate it, there is something in me that needs the rush. The adrenaline. The frenzy to fix a patient. To save a life. To try my damnedest, even if I fail. To know that I ’ ve helped. To make a difference, as Oliver put it.
There ’ s a pause on the other end of the line. “If Ollie tells me I should bring you on, it is reason enough for me,” Dominique says, in English now. “He is never wrong. Not about people.” She rattles off an address, tells me to bring my resumé and prepare for a more in-depth interview, but then reassures me it ’ s a formality, and that I ’ ll have the position if I want it, on the strength of Oliver ’ s recommendation.
When I report for my next shift at work, I have to break the news to Delaney and hand in my notice.
She hugs me, with a teary-eyed smile. “You ’ re too talented a nurse to be stuck here. I knew someone would lure you away someday.” She holds me by the arms and looks at me. “Just be sure it ’ s what you want. MSF, it ’ s…hardcore. And very dangerous.”
“I know. Maybe it ’ s crazy, but…that ’ s part of why I ’ m going, if I ’ m being honest.”
Delaney grins. “You ’ re at your best when things get hairy. You ’ ll be great. Just…stay safe, okay?”
“I ’ m not leaving for another two months, Delaney.”
A sniff. “But still. I ’ m not going to say goodbye. When you go, just go. And know I ’ ll miss you.”
Delaney is my best friend. She was enrolled in nursing school at UCLA, a year older than me. She got the job here first and rose up the ranks. She ’ ll be unit head before long. I can ’ t imagine not being with her. We work almost every single shift together. Side by side, every day, for twelve or fourteen hours a day. We drink a bottle or three of wine together after work, and watch Real Housewives, talk about boys and never about work.
Now I ’ m leaving her.
We drop the subject and prep for a night shift of incoming patients. A weekend midnight shift always hits hard and heavy with multiple GSWs,
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