man with close-cropped more-silver-than-brown hair hardly flinched. He caught her by the shoulders and helped her regain her balance.
“Careful, dumpling,” he said, sounding like a Clint-Eastwood-style grizzled cowboy.
Mortified, her eyes shot wide open. Sucking in air, she could hardly speak. “Sorry, Dr….” Her gaze shifted from his stern brown eyes to his name badge. “Dr. John Griffin.” Oh, man, did that badge also say Orthopedic Department Director? He was her boss.
She knew the routine—first impressions were lasting impressions, and this one would be a doozy. Without giving him another chance to call her “dumpling”—did he think she was thirteen?—she pointed toward the hospital ward and took off, leaving one last “Sorry” floating in her wake.
At the nurses’ station, she unwrapped her tightly wound sweater, removed her shoulder bag and plopped them both on the counter. “I’m Polly Seymour. This is my first day. Is Brooke Hawkins here?”
The nonchalant ward clerk with an abundance of tiny braids all pulled back into a ponytail lifted his huge chocolate-colored eyes, gave a forced smile and pointed across the ward. “The tall redhead,” he said, barely breaking stride from the lab orders he was entering in the computer.
Gathering her stuff, and still out of breath, Polly made a beeline for the nursing supervisor. Brooke’s welcome was warm and friendly, and included a wide smile, which helped settle the mass of butterflies winging through Polly’s stomach.
Brooke glanced at her watch. “You must be Polly and you’re early. I wasn’t expecting you until seven.”
“I didn’t want to miss the change-of-shift report, and I don’t have a clue where to put my stuff or which phone to clock in on.” Would she ever breathe normally again?
“Follow me,” Brooke said, heading toward another door, closer to the doctor. “I see you already ran into our department director, Dr. Griffin. Literally,” Brooke said, with playful eyes and a wink.
Polly put her hand to the side of her face, shielding her profile from the man several feet away and still watching her. “I think he thought I was a patient.”
“Did he smile at you?”
“Yes.”
“Then he definitely thought you were one of our patients. He doesn’t smile for staff.”
An hour later, completely engrossed in taking vital signs in a four-bed ward of squirming children wearing various-sized casts, splints and slings, Polly heard inconsolable crying. She glanced over her shoulder. “What is it, Karen?” The little girl had undergone femoral anteversion to relieve her toeing-in when walking, and was in a big and bulky double-leg cast with a metal bar between them keeping her feet in the exact position in which they needed to be to heal.
Polly rushed to the toddler’s crib and lowered one of the side rails. “What is it, honey?”
With her face screwed up so tight her source of tears couldn’t be seen, Karen wailed. Polly could have easily done a tonsil check while the child’s mouth was wide open, but knew that wasn’t the origin of Karen’s frustration. She lifted the little one, who weighed a good ten pounds more than she normally would have because of the cast, from the bed and cooed at her then patted her back. “What is it, honey, hmm?”
Perhaps the change in position would be enough to help settle down the tiny patient. No such luck. Karen’s cries increased in volume as she swatted at Polly, who sang a nursery rhyme to her to calm her down. “Oh, the grand old Duke of York …” Maybe distraction would work?
“Oh, look! Look!” Polly moved over to the window to gaze out over beautiful Central Park. “Pretty. See?” Praying she could distract Karen for a moment’s reprieve, Polly pointed at the lush green trees, many with colorful white and pink blooms still hanging on though late June.
“No!” Karen shook her head and kept crying.
Polly bounced Karen on her hip, as best she could with the toddler’s cast, and jaunted around the room with her. “Let’s take a horsey ride. Come on. Bumpity, bumpity, bumpity, boom!”
“No boom!” Karen would have nothing to do with Polly’s antics.
“I’m going to eat you!” Polly said, digging into Karen’s shoulder and playfully nibbling away. “Rror rror rrr.”
“No! No eat me.”
Felicia, the five-year-old in the corner bed with a full arm cast began to fuss. “I want a horsey ride.”
Polly danced over towards Felicia’s crib-sized bed, which looked more like a cage for safety’s sake. Factoid number two from orientation: hospital policy for anyone five or under. “See, Karen, Felicia wants a horsey ride.”
Now both girls were crying, and all the goofy faces and silly songs Polly performed couldn’t change the tide of sadness sweeping across the four-bed ward. Erin, in bed C, with her arm in a sling added to the three-part harmony. The only one sleeping was the little patient in bed D, who would surely be awakened by the fuss. What the heck should she do now?
“Hold on,” a deep raspy voice said over her shoulder. “This calls for emergency measures.”
Polly turned to find Dr. Griffin filling the doorway. He dug in his pocket and fished out a handful of colorful rubber and waved it around. Making a silly face at Karen, he crossed his eyes, stretching his lips and blowing out air that sounded like a distant elephant. Polly tried not to laugh. Quicker than a flash of rainbow he diverted the children’s attention by inflating long yellow and green balloons and twisting them into a swan shape. Factoid number three: all balloons must be latex-free. How did he get them to stretch like that?
“Here you go, Karen. Now go and play with your new friend,” Dr. Griffin said.
To Polly’s amazement, Karen accepted the proffered gift with a smile, albeit a soggy smile in dire need of a tissue.
“Me next!” Felicia reached out her good arm, her fingers making a gimme-gimme gesture.
Dr. Griffin strolled over to her bedside and patted her hand. “What color do you want?”
“Red,” she said, practically jumping up and down inside the caged crib while she held onto the safety bars.
“Do you want a fairy crown or a monkey?”
“Both!”
In another few seconds Felicia wore a red crown with a halo hovering above, and gave a squeaky balloon kiss to her new purple monkey friend.
Dr. Griffin glanced at Polly, with victory sparkling in his dark eyes. The charming glance sent a jet of surprise through her chest. Blowing up two more balloons and twisting them into playful objects, he handed one to the remaining child and left another on the sleeping girl’s bed, then sauntered toward the door. Was he confident or what? He stopped beside Polly, who had just finished putting Karen back into her crib, and blew up one last balloon. It was a blue sword, and he handed it to her. “Use this the next time you need to save the day.” He glanced around the room at the quietly contented children. “That’s how it’s done,” he said.
Polly could have sworn he’d stopped
