Quit cryin'

She asks to use the phone. "My cousin works in this hospital. I need to call my cousin."

I wheel her gurney to the hallway telephone and dial the number for her. Then I linger nearby without infringing on her privacy. Just in case. From down the hall, I can hear her sobbing and afraid. When she strains to hang the phone back up, I spring to her side and take the phone, urging her to sit back and relax. A heart attack isn't something you can just walk away from easily. I grab a box of tissues on the way in, and offer it to the woman.

A man waits in the room when we get back. He might be her husband, I don't know. He isn't happy to see her.

"Quit cryin', baby," he says sternly. "You ain't solving anything by crying. I should be the one cryin', cuz you done get yourself in a damned mess. Quit it, now."

I don't like the tone of his voice. She cries harder. I ask him to step outside so I can give her another EKG. Post heart-attack patients need to have them done and re-done pretty much every hour to monitor their progress closely.

"I can ask him to leave, if you'd like. Or I can call the social worker, if you'd rather," I whisper to her. Her eyes are scrunched together, tears leaking out. She just shakes her head and I finish the EKG while talking to her in a quiet, soothing voice. 

When I finish, he comes back into the room. She's forty years old, but he calls her old. She's not very large, but he calls her fat. I try to imagine her home life and stop myself. Watching someone be verbally abused, even someone I do not know, is gut-wrenching and horrible. Her nurse notices it too, and feels it is her obligation to call the social worker. 

A good thing too, because as he gets up, he says, "I left the house keys on the bus. Looks like you just gon' have to stay here. Oh well."

She looks as if she's going to have another heart attack. It's all I can do to stop myself from calling my big, tall security guard friends over to throw him out.