BEATS & BREATHS

I knock on the treatment room door and wait a moment. When there’s no response, I push it open and wheel Mr. Greg inside, a small smile forming on my face.

Dr. Keller is already there, leaning against the wall with his legs crossed at the ankles, one hand in his pocket, the other scrolling through his phone. He lifts his head and meets my eyes for a second, then shifts his attention to Mr. Greg with a polite nod before returning to his screen. My smile stalls halfway, then fades when I realize it won’t be returned.

I hold the door with one hand and try to guide the wheelchair through the narrow space, adjusting my grip so the wheels don’t clip the frame. I expect him to step in, but he doesn’t, not with the stubborn door that keeps pushing back and not with Mr. Greg, who sits there, heavy and doing very little.

The whole thing feels unnecessary. I don’t understand why Dr. Keller is doing the dressing when I or any other nurse could handle it at the bedside. I also don’t understand why I had to bring Mr. Greg into this cramped room with its narrow bed, a few shelves, and a dressing trolley they call a treatment room. If all of this is required, then stepping forward to help shouldn’t be too much to ask.

Then I remind myself who he is.

Dr. Daniel Keller.

The unofficial boss.

The one everyone talks about.

Even on this busy day, with everyone running around, his name kept coming up, and I’d formed an image of him before I even walked in. He doesn’t match it, neither in looks nor attitude. The way the staff spoke admirably about him made me expect someone strict but approachable, but he isn’t like that at all. He has that serious, CEO-like vibe, which maybe makes sense given he’s running a forty-bed floor. People here talk about him as the best, precise in everything, especially the first post-op dressing, which he does himself under strict sterile conditions. That’s his standard.

Fair enough. Nothing matters more in healthcare than putting patients first. But watching a nurse struggle with a post-op patient and choosing not to help doesn’t seem to fit that standard.

After some effort, I get Mr. Greg fully inside and help him to his feet.

Dr. Keller looks up again. “Why is he in a wheelchair?” he asks, his voice a little pointed as he slips his phone into his pocket and folds his arms across his chest.

I glance at him, then at Mr. Greg standing beside me, confusion flashing on my face. He’s not in the chair anymore… he’s standing.

“Why didn’t you walk him here?” he repeats.

His raised voice and the way he stands with his arms crossed radiate dominance and authority. I think back to my nursing classes. ′Dominant behaviour can intimidate colleagues, strip away autonomy, and shut down communication.′ I promised myself I would never let anyone treat me like that. I lift my head, ready to tell him to keep it professional. Then my eyes meet his, and the words don’t come.

He’s striking.

He must be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, not because of how he looks, but because someone in his position would be. A strong jawline, a well-shaped mouth, dark eyes that hold steady, and thick copper-coloured hair, everything seems perfectly in place. His hair is short on the sides and longer on top, combed back neatly with a subtle lift. A looser, messier style, like the younger guys wear these days, might suit him better, but this tidy, executive look fits him just as well. In fact, any hairstyle would complement that face. Add a fit, well-maintained build, and it’s easy to see why nurses cannot stop talking about him. With a tucked-in navy shirt and black pants, he looks sharp, confident, and commanding.

He lifts an eyebrow, waiting. I realize I’ve been staring and lost the question entirely. He doesn’t react, as this happens often enough to ignore.

“Why is he in a wheelchair?” he repeats, his voice tighter now. “Post-laparotomy, twenty-four hours. I do dressings in this room, not at bedside, because I don’t trust staff to walk patients when they should. A wheelchair is easier, isn’t it? New? No experience?” There’s a clear judgment in his voice, as if he has already decided I’m new, inexperienced, and incapable of handling his patients.

“I didn’t know that’s why you use this room,” I say, my voice fragile and low. “No one mentioned it. If I knew, I would’ve had him walk.”

“I asked if you have experience,” he says, cutting across it.

“Not much.”

“Obviously.” A faint trace of sarcasm crosses his face. “I repeat every question and still don’t get a proper answer. No experience. Poor communication. Did you even go to school?” Then he turns to Mr. Greg, smiling in a way that transforms him entirely. “I wonder how they hire people nowadays.” He looks back at me, that faint, dry edge returning. “Where did you study?”

“B.C.,” I say. “St. Francis.”

“So you flew out to Ontario to make things harder for us?”

For a moment, I stand there, trying to process it. His tone, Mr. Greg’s quiet amusement beside him, none of it belongs in what should have been a simple task on my first day. My chest tightens with anger. I take a deep breath, holding back what I want to say.

“Didn’t Kim give you orientation?” he asks.

“No. We’re short four staff.”

“Of course.”

He glances toward the window as the morning sun streams in, bathing the room in a soft, warm light. Beyond the hospital, an open lot with a few scattered trees and some construction stretches out under the gentle glow. “On a day like this, who wants to be at work?” he whispers. Then, with a slight tilt of his head toward me, he adds to Mr. Greg, “Some staff are here for the paycheque, not the work.”

Mr. Greg chuckles as he steps in. “Young ones. Out late, maybe?” He turns his head toward me. “I bet you’re hitting parties every night after work, eh?”

Seriously! Mr. Greg, the same one who’s been sharing his family problems and surgery worries while I cleaned him and helped him on a new gown, is now on a mission with Dr. Keller to make me look bad. I stay silent, letting my anger simmer while my head dips slightly.

Today was supposed to be my orientation, learning the routine and meeting people. Instead, I stepped in to help because the floor is short-staffed, and this is where it led... to all this ridiculous harassment. I wonder if this is how things usually are here. I want to say something to stop it, but I don’t. If I start, I know I won’t be able to stop myself, and that could get me in trouble.

I remember what Kim told me earlier. “I’m the nurse manager, but this floor doesn’t run the way you might expect. I don’t make the final calls. Daniel does.”

“Daniel?” I asked.

“Dr. Daniel Keller,” she said. “He’s not officially the head, but everything goes through him, patient care, decisions, policy and protocol. If he’s satisfied, you’re fine. If not, you won’t last here.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him,” I said.

“Be careful around him,” she warned. “He’s good, but very strict. If he thinks you’re right for the patients and the team, he’ll back you completely. He looks after his people, but he can bring out the best in you or test you. How he treats you depends entirely on how you work. There are only two groups for him, those he likes and those he doesn’t. Be in the group he likes, and your life on this floor will be a lot easier.”

“Hello?” His voice pulls me back.

“Yes, Dr. Keller.”

“Zoned out on your first day?”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m still learning the routine. We’re short-staffed, and nobody was able to organize replacements.” My tone turns accusatory.

I know he runs this place, and saying it out loud may touch his ego. And it does. He pulls out his phone and dials a number. There’s no greeting, just a pause as the person on the other end speaks.

“Yeah,” he says after a few moments. “Nice day.”

He listens again, then adds, “Two is enough, but I need them now.” It’s as if the person on the other end already knows why he’s calling. This must happen often.

He ends the call, glances toward the door, then back at me.

“Go get Kim.”

It’s not a request. It’s a command.

I nod and step out of the room. As I walk toward the nurses’ station, Kim’s words replay in my mind.

‘There are only two groups for him, those he likes and those he doesn’t. Be in the group he likes, and your life on this floor will be a lot easier.’

I get it now. I’m part of the group he doesn’t like, and life here isn’t going to be easy. But this hostility toward me makes no sense. We’ve never met before today, and nothing I did today should have triggered this. Then why, why is he behaving like this? No matter how much I try to understand it, I can’t figure it out. One thing is certain. What just happened is only the beginning, like a storm that’s about to hit.