The doctor, Carrolton, came up beside her and started to fit on some gloves.
“I’m going to guess you need about fifteen or so stitches on this cut, and…” he studied the other cut on my arm once he’d peeled back the bandage and pursed his lips. “This one will probably take around ten or so. If you’re lucky.”
“You want me to hold her?” the nurse offered.
I looked at her, then down to her name tag on her shirt.
“Lucy M.,” I said. “I’m not ever going to let you hold her. Your bitchiness might rub off on her.”
Lucy M.’s eyes went wide at my words and she started to say something cutting, but Carrolton stopped her with a raised hand.
“Why don’t you go help Freya clean up Mr. Anderson’s fifteenth shit in the last hour? You know it’s goddamned c-diff. I can smell it. You can smell it. She can smell it. You should’ve told her he’s under precautions,” Carrolton warned.
I was irrationally angry as I stared at the woman.
I wasn’t completely sure of what ‘c-diff’ was, but I knew the man wouldn’t be ‘under precautions’ if he wasn’t contagious. And you didn’t send some woman in there, possibly endangering her life, because you didn’t like her.
I didn’t care what she did.
This bitch was not going to get away with it, and I would make sure of it.