What the Charts Don't Carry: A Night Nurse's Private Notes
There's a question I keep coming back to.
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What the Charts Don't Carry: A Night Nurse's Private Notes
There are things that happen at three in the morning in an ICU that nobody writes down — not in a chart, not in a report, not in any official record. This episode opens a black-and-white marble composition book that held fifteen years of those things.
The notebook belonged to R. Schell, RN, who worked night shifts at Cook County Hospital on Chicago's West Side from 1983 to 1998. Cook County was — and is — a large public hospital, a Level One trauma center, serving largely uninsured patients. It was not a quiet place. The entries in this notebook were written on break, mostly between 3 and 4 in the morning, in a break room apparently about the size of a closet. They are not clinical notes. There are no vital signs here, no assessments, no care plans. What is here is everything else: a mail carrier who knew every face on his South Side route for thirty-one years, a 29-year-old in 1986 asking not about himself but about his sister — asking about after — a laundry supervisor in Pilsen named Esperanza who had a rule about bedsheets that Mrs. A.F. didn't understand until decades later, and a patient in 1997 who called Ruthanne a bad liar and then laughed until it hurt him.
The last entry in the notebook is April 3rd, 1998. It says: Last night. Fourteen years, ten months. They're giving me days. The book surfaced in a donation box at an estate sale on Chicago's North Side, labeled miscellaneous.
(Note: the notebook and all persons described are fictional, created in the tradition of found-object storytelling.)
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