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"There goes Carter again," Malik says to Chuny, both chuckling as they pass by the bathroom on the way to an exam room.
The sounds of Carter's retching echo throughout the Admit area. At this point, everyone in the ER is familiar with their clumsy intern's tendency to nervous puke, it's just a matter of what exactly is making him nervous enough to toss his cookies. Mark remembers the the puking from Carter's prolonged Match Day, his long-gone fling Harper standing squeamishly by as he lost whatever food he had stomached from that day. He puked so much that Mark had considered sending him home simply because he had dehydrated himself so much and could barely walk two feet from the bathroom. As another round of retching reaches Mark's ears, he's decided he's had enough. It's not exactly encouraging if Carter can't do the work he needs to while at the mercy of a white porcelain toilet.
Mark starts to leave the Admit desk in the direction of said bathroom when the double doors burst open.
"Dr. Greene, 20 year old white male, GSW to the abdomen, no exit wound, he lost consciousness in the field, he's been given IV fluids and ten of morphine," The EMT rattles off as they cart the patient to Trauma One.
Mark hears and registers the bulletin, but his thoughts still drift back to an audibly ailing Carter still camped out in the bathroom. He hollers for the first person he sees.
"Carol!"
A head of black curls carrying several boxes of nitrile gloves turns in the direction of his voice.
"Can you check on Carter in the bathroom?"
Unquestioning, Carol offers a thumbs up. Mark sees her put her boxes down and lightly jog to the other side of the hall before he and several nurses disappear into the trauma room.
Carol's been aware of their missing intern since she got here, not feeling the need to ask where he was the moment she heard the tell-tale sound of hurling. Unlike the others, Carol always feels a little sympathy for the way his anxiety expresses itself. Rather than sweaty palms or a concentrated itch on a part of his body, his anxiety has to make an appearance in the form of digested food and bile. She remembers Carter telling her that it's always been like this, probably since birth, having thrown up on an important guest of his parents during a charity dinner after they stressed the utmost importance of Carter looking his best at the dinner when he was eight. His cousins poked fun at it and it's always been something he felt insecure about. So, Carol never made fun or brushed it off when he was dealing with it. She always managed to scrounge up a water bottle for rehydration and some crackers for something gentle on his stomach. Of course it doesn't bother her to check on him.
Carol approaches the single-stall restroom, rapping on the door. "Carter?"
Oddly enough, no response. She tries again.
"Carter, it's Carol. Can you let me in please?"
Still nothing.
"I know you hate this, but you gotta let me in so I can help you. I won't judge."
After more silence, Carol tests the door and finds it unlocked. When she enters the room, she's a little unprepared for the sight that lay in front of her. What strikes her is not Carter resting by the toilet, yet how absolutely awful he looks. It's not even the terrible lighting that has yet to be fixed by maintenance. His boyish brown hair is laying limply on a damp forehead. His skin has been drained of any color except for a pronounced flush high on his cheeks. The paleness heightens the awful bags under his half-open eyes and his eyebrows are knit in pain, jaw clenched. Carol kneels to Carter's level, fingertips brushing his cheek. The heat she feels there is unmistakeable. His eyes flutter at her touch, watery and unfocused.
"Car'l?" He slurs, voice destroyed from the throwing up.
"Hi, sweetheart," Carol murmurs, as if she's speaking to an injured dog. "Not feeling good, huh? You feel a little warm."
Carter swallows against what is probably another wave of nausea. "M'stomach really hurts."
"Yeah, I bet. It's not just nerves this time?"
Carter sluggishly shakes his head. "Don' think so."
"I'm gonna take your temperature now, okay? Figure out what's going on with you." Carol reaches for the aural thermometer in her sweater pocket, a remnant of a Pedes case she was helping Doug on. She slots the device into Carter's ear, waiting for the beep.
The number on the screen is high but not totally alarming.
"102.2. You should be at home, Carter," Carol gently chides as she tucks the thermometer back in her pocket and rests a hand atop his head.
"I know," Carter replies. "I needed to come in, though."
Carol shakes her head. "I doubt Mark really wants you throwing up on a patient. Peter would be furious," She says, with a slight hint of amusement. "You'd help us out a lot if you went home and took care of yourself. The stomach flu is absolutely no joke."
Carter wraps his arms around his midsection. The pain is squeezing him like tightened barbed wire. His appetite was gone when he woke up for his shift and by the time he started on the clock, everything he had possibly eaten within the last week was making a return appearance. Sure, that's an exaggeration, but there isn't exactly time for being literal when nothing to seems to end your nausea. He knows he hasn't been outside of this room to help, he knows the other staff are poking fun and thinking he's just nervous. Truth be told, he was. He was nervous about people finding him like this, all gross and vulnerable.
"Carter, did you hear me?" Carol's voice pokes through the anxious fever fog. "I said I'm gonna go tell Mark what's up and then we're gonna figure out how to get you home."
Carter barely registers this statement and the only recognition Carol seems to get is a low groan. She exits and leaves him to find Mark.
Amazingly, she finds Mark back at the Admit desk, scribbling some notes on a chart.
"I found Carter," Carol reports. "He needs to go home."
Mark looks up from his notes. "What? Why?"
Carol crosses her arms. "It's not just nerves, he's febrile. Think he's got the flu."
Mark exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his glasses. "Is he going home?"
"I don't think he's in any condition to drive, I was about to go and call a taxi."
Mark nods. "Good. Do that."
By the time Carol has dialed for a car , Carter has since fallen asleep, exhausted from a flu eating him inside and out. Reluctantly, Carol squeezes his shoulder to wake him up.
"Taxi's almost here," Carol whispers. "Do you need help getting up?"
Carter really wants to say no. His dignity demands it. However, the dehydration has lead to a murderous migraine and debilitating dizziness. He's clumsy even on a good day, so he'd rather not risk cracking his skull on top of the flu. Weaver would most certainly have his head. So, he let's Carol help him.
She piles him and his stuff in the backseat of the car, alongside a bottle of water and some crackers.
"Take it easy and stay hydrated," She advises. "Will there be anyone at home with you?"
Carol thinks she sees him hesitate but it's quickly remedied by him nodding yes.
"Okay. You know who to call if you need help."
Carter offers her a weak smile. "Th'nks, Carol."
"Get well soon, Carter."
---
Carter knows it was wrong of him to lie to Carol, of all people. Lie and tell her that someone is home, when really, Gamma won't be back for another week and his parents are off God knows where. Carol, who's the first to ask him how his weekend was or ask after the few family members he's mentioned in passing to his co-workers. Carol, who always, without fail, brings him water and snacks after his anxiety kicks his ass or even if he's just forgotten to eat during a shift. The lie seemed to bother him more than his actual ailment.
He really should know what's wrong with himself but his brain can't focus on diagnosing himself. All it knows now is how to eject last night's dinner and how to dilate the blood vessels up there enough to feel like someone has put a Looney Tunes ACME-style weight in his head.
Carter's not one to be carsick, but the constant bumps over the Chicago potholes are making him queasy. Add this on to the fact the cab smells like greasy hot dogs and cigarette smoke, the latter of which the middle-aged cabbie is currently puffing on. He's not the most hospitable fellow either.
"Don't yak in my car, buddy, or I'm charging double," He barks, cigarette dangling between his lips.
Carter's just lucid enough to mind the threat. He spends the rest of the ride taking deep, controlled breaths to quell the nausea. He even takes a few sips of the water Carol thrust into his hands. He spills a little on his shirt as the driver goes over yet another pothole and his stomach muscles spasm. The worst part of this surprise flu has been these cramps that make themselves known with every move he makes.
The cabbie stops in front of the Carter house and Carter tenderly exits the car. With each step, the cramps become worse and they have their effect on his quelled nausea, which threatens to return. By the grace of God, he makes it indoors and is free to exist in his grossness. Not knowing when he's to be struck next, Carter establishes a camp in his bathroom, complete with blankets, an icepack, a heating pad, and any other medical supplies he could scrounge up in the abyss of a house. He hears Carol's voice in his head, a reminder to hydrate, and grabs a water bottle for good measure.
Making camp is really hard when your midsection refuses to allow you to bend over, especially when most of your ailment requires being bent over moaning and wailing. The pain is concentrated in one side now but it radiates throughout his whole body, manifesting into body aches aligned with the influenza diagnosis he received earlier.
In these moments, he really longs for the feeling of family. He honestly felt safer in the ER than he does here. He's got the luxury of a private everything, even more so with Gamma out of the country but more than anything he wants his Mom. Maybe not his Mom specifically, but someone to hold him and whisper soothing thoughts, hold his hair back when he pukes, and not care how sweaty he must be. While more reserved about it, Gamma cared, but it never went beyond the occasional bedside sit, or having staff bring him soup, tea, and medicine. Still, it's much more than his mother or father did for him and he is still thankful for Gamma's kindness.
It really was wrong of him to lie to Carol like that. He just felt like such a burden already. Carol, as charge nurse, already had so much on her plate, between ER duties and the newly opened in-house clinic, he didn't want to add to her load. He knows he's warm from fever but when she found him, he felt so embarassed he wanted to cry. He's also not entirely sure he didn't. Either way, he's crying now, and it's as embarassing alone as it was in front of someone.
His stomach hurts something awful and he really has nothing left to give. The single water bottle he grabbed is nearly empty. He can barely get up to go get another one. He does not want to add some sprains and potential breaks to his aggressive illness. Carter's vision is growing darker and darker around the edges. He feels one more stab of pain before he finally passes out.
---
Carter awakes, hours later, and something is entirely wrong. He feels sicker, as if that was even possible and he is immediately throwing up. It burns coming up and the smell alone is acrid. Carter pulls his head away from the toilet and flushes. He can't spend another minute curled up in the bathroom on the floor. He feels the walls are closing in around him, chilling him to the bone. Through the haze, he has a moment of clarity. His fever is bad and more than anything, he needs to be in a bed. Carter musters the strength to stand on wobbly feet but the pain has gotten unbearable in his accidental slumber. He can't stand up straight. The tears come back as he begins to panic. He's alone in a massive house, none of Gamma's staff to be found, as a virus eats him from the inside out. Carter uses any surface to support himself as he hobbles out of the bathroom. His blurry vision spots a phone on the wall. Embarrassment be damned, he needs to make a phone call.
Carol's slumber is disturbed for the third time that evening. Her newly diagnosed insomniac mother has been calling with random, unconnected questions at 2 AM and with so much love in the world, it was driving Carol crazy. It was like her mother was also trying to make her an insomniac. She didn't need this, she had a shift in two hours. Doug was lucky. His shift didn't start until a few hours after hers but he was lucky in the fact he could sleep like the dead. He was still snoring next to Carol. Irritably, Carol swings her legs out of bed and pads over to the kitchen. She lifts the phone out of the receiver.
"Mom, for the last time—"
"C-Carol?"
The pitifully hoarse and choked up voice is all too familiar. Carol's heart drops, grip on the phone tightening.
"Carter?" She answers, trying not to let panic bleed through her voice. "What's wrong?"
She hears a shaky exhale. "My stomach really hurts. I can't move much."
"Where does it hurt, Carter?"
"…My right side."
"Carter, listen to me carefully. You need to go to the hospital right now. Is your grandmother around?"
Carter's voice wobbles more. "No, Gamma's not here. Nobody's home."
Carol swallows against her worries. He's alone and sounds terrified.
"Okay, that's okay," She soothes. "We'll call her but I need you to tell me your address. Doug and I will pick you up."
Carol scrambles for a spare piece of paper and a pen but ends up scribbling his address on her bare arm with a permanent marker. She tells Carter to hang on and stay where he is. Carol hangs up and races back to the bedroom, where Doug is still snoring.
"Doug," She basically shouts. "Wake up." Carol is putting shoes on as she hears Doug stir.
"Carol?" He asks blearily. "What time is it?"
"No time for that," She spits. "It's Carter. He sounded horrified over the phone and I think his appendix is close to rupturing if it already hasn't. He's all by himself."
"Did you call the paramedics?" Doug is already throwing on some shoes himself. "Would they get there fast enough?"
"We're closer. There's a spare key under a plant at the top of the steps outside the front door."
The doctor and nurse, in nothing but pajamas and sweatshirts, are out the door immediately.
---
Doug has barely parked the car before Carol's hopping out the passenger side to the Carter residence. She spots the plant he mentioned and grabs the key from underneath. Once inside, Doug and Carol both shout out for Carter throughout the cavernous house. The search is getting frantic, considering how fast infections from the appendix can spread once burst. The two of them are trying so hard to not let panic overcome them but with no Carter in sight, it's a fight they begin to lose.
Doug suddenly stops at the bottom of the staircase. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
In the pinpricking silence, a soft pathetic mix of a sob and groan is heard from above them. Without another word, the two race up the steps and against the clock to find their desperately ailing intern.
Carol's finds him first, with Doug not far behind. Pale beyond recognition, shaking like a leaf, not even attempting to pretend he's okay. Carol kneels by his side as Doug stands at the door, grabbing some toilet paper to wipe the vomit that's settled at the corner of his mouth. His eyes, squeezed closed in pain she presumed, open, but there's hardly a lick of clarity behind them.
"Mom?" He rasps, choking back another sob as pain courses through his body.
Carol can physically feel her heart shatter and drop into her stomach. He's looking at her, rather looking past her, with such hope and adoration that the woman who brought him into this world will finally love and care for him. She's just not here. From the looks of it, she never is. She looks at Doug, who's just as incredulous as she is. Carol can't bring herself to deny him, so she settles for running a hand in his sweaty hair.
"You're gonna be just fine, Carter." Carol gestures for Doug to hand her a thermometer, a scary parallel to when she took it earlier that day. He's trapped in mind-melting fever haze. 104 even.
"You're gonna be just fine," Carol repeats, softly, more for herself than anything. She looks back at Doug, who's bushy brow is pinched in concern.
"We've got to go, now, Carol," He says stoically. "We can't wait any longer. It's either on it's way to bursting or it already has."
Carol bites her lip. Carter is in no state to move and if she's seen anything else in appendicitis patients, she knows they hate to be jostled.
Carol taps the pads of her fingers against Carter's burning cheek, trying to get him to look at her. "Carter, we have to move you now. You're very sick and you need to go to the hospital. I know it's going to hurt, but Doug and I are going to be as gentle with you as possible."
Carol looks for any sort of recognition in Carter's eyes and finds essentially none. Not wanting to delay the inevitable, she gestures Doug to come around the other side of Carter to help him to his feet. Carter screams, blinded by the pain. Carol and Doug hurry out of there and into the car.
In the passenger seat, Carol turns back to face Carter, face still drawn tightly in pain. She grabs his hand.
"It'll be okay, Carter," She whispers, voice choking just barely. "I promise."
---
"I need some help out here!"
Doug's panicked cry is enough to make Mark's stomach drop. The Pedes Doctor leaves the ER admit desk almost as soon as he comes upon it. Mark and an array of nurses with a gurney enter the ambulance bay where Doug's car is parked astray. A frantic Carol has exited the passenger seat to open the doors to the back of the car. What Mark sees almost makes him nauseous. Doug starts rattling off a bulletin like he's a practiced paramedic instead of a pediatrician.
"27 year old male, found pale, diaphoretic and vomiting. Suspected appendicitis with rebound tenderness," He rattles off coldly.
"Febrile at 104 degrees Fahrenheit," Carol adds.
"Okay, let's load him on the gurney on my count," Mark commands, trying to steel himself as he takes stock of the deathly ill ER intern.
Carter groans as he's laid on the gurney. In his delirium, he's hardly aware of what is happening. The pain consumes so much of him. Mark's directions seem so distant as he is rolled into Trauma 1.
"Haleh, let's get an ABG and a CBC. Lydia, can we get some fluids? Normal saline to cool him down."
Someone confirms the rebound tenderness. Someone is telling a confused Carter that he's alright. It's chaos. It's noise. Normally, the chaos is something Mark gets a thrill out of. It's something he and Doug talk about. A very boy thing for them to do, Carol says, but making the heroic saves they do gives him a rush. This time, he just feels like his blood has run cold. The last time he treated one of their own, it was Carol. Carter's situation isn't nearly as dire as hers was, but he still feels that same chill nonetheless.
The flurry of people around him almost make Doug and Carol invisible to him, but he takes notice. Like they do with any overwhelmed parents of a wounded child, Mark nudges for Connie to get them out.
Doug begins to protest but is quickly silenced by Mark.
"We've got it under control, Doug. Why don't you and Carol go sit down at the Admit desk?" He says, gently.
Both Doug and Carol look like they want to fight Mark, but they both silently agree and step out.
Mark watches them go before he's pulled back to awareness by Haleh.
"Dr. Greene, did you want an abdominal ultrasound?" She asks, voice panicked in the chaos.
"Yeah," Mark calls back. "And let's get Peter Benton on the phone."
---
Peter Benton had been on since noon. He knows his body is tired and that the adrenaline is keeping him going. What was keeping him going was the knowledge that this was his last procedure of the day. The only hang-up being that it was a Whipple, a surgery notorious for its length and difficulty. Peter wasn't one for getting excited and ahead of himself, but he could feel his mind wandering to the idea of simply walking out of this hospital and getting some sleep with each stitch he made.
"We got a bleeder," One nurse calls out.
"Bovie." Peter holds his hand out for the cauterizing tool and is sealing the bleed when Shirley enters the room.
"Mark Greene for you on Line 1," she says. "Sounds urgent."
Peter steels himself to say no. He liked Mark plenty and they may not see eye to eye all the time, but he respected Mark. Still, his respect for Mark was outweighed by his need to go home. Whatever Mark needed, the answer had to be no.
Peter sighs. "Put him on speaker."
Shirley nods and soon a voice comes over the phone.
"Peter?"
"What is it, Mark?"
"We've got a nearly ruptured appendix down here that I'd really like you to operate on."
Peter eyebrow twitches. Something in Mark's voice sounds solemn. He's usually more blasé about these kinds of things, especially in things as simple as an appendectomy.
"I'm just about done with this Whipple, Mark. I'm going home after this. Call someone else."
"I know, Peter, I just thought this was one you'd like to do yourself."
What was Mark hiding?
"Why?" There was silence from the other end. "Mark, why?"
Mark sighs. "It's Carter. He called Carol, delirious. His appendix is about to burst. He's down here right now, waiting to go up."
Peter nearly freezes when he hears Mark's response. He'd heard tell of Carter not doing well earlier that day. Carter wasn't his problem anymore. Not his responsibility. But knowing Carter was down there, with something that could easily kill him if he was left to wait too long, suddenly the Whipple didn't take priority anymore.
"Take him up to OR 2," Peter responds. "I'll be in as soon as possible."
---
Carter feels so impossibly heavy. There's a dull ache reverberating throughout his entire body. His head seems to feel it the most. There's a soft buzz that feels like a jackhammer in his brain. He can sense that something has happened, he's just not sure what exactly. Last thing he remembers is an impossible pain, something that kept him from moving entirely. He feels this same hindrance of movement now, but he feels more floaty than anything. His senses are coming back slowly. He hears movement next to him. He feels someone adjust the scratchy hospital blanket he's resting under. Someone combs a hand through his hair. He feels safe.
"Carter?" A soft voice calls. "Are you with us, sweetheart?"
The voice is all too familiar. He knows who this is. He should open his eyes to confirm.
Ah yes. Carol.
"Hi, John," She whispers. "How are you feeling?"
Carter wants to speak but his throat feels horrendously dry. Carol realizes this.
"Doug, where are the ice chips?"
Doug's here. Out of all people, Doug Ross is here.
Doug hands Carol the cup of ice chips and stands above her. He smiles at Carter.
"Hi, pal."
Carol feeds him a blessedly cold ice chip and it soothes the dry ache in his throat.
"Well?" Carol prompts. "How are you feeling?"
Carter swallows. "M'fine."
"Do you know what happened?" Carol asks, almost like approaching a scared baby animal.
Carter thinks. He knows his stomach hurt and it still does, but it's a different sort of pain. "Kind of."
"You called me in the middle of the night," Carol explains. "You were very sick. Your appendix was about to burst. You got out of surgery a few hours ago."
For an ER intern and first-year post-graduate, Carter sure is stupid. The signs were all there. The nausea, the fever, the shifting pain, he could've solved this issue a long time ago.
"You've got a wicked scar, though," Doug adds. "Badass. Like that little French girl, what was her name, Minnie…Madison?"
Carol scoffs. "Madeline?"
Doug snaps in recognition. "That's it! Madeline."
" 'M a little French girl?" is all Carter can say in response.
Doug and Carol try and hold back their laughs. Anesthesia does wonderful things for the human body and one of those things is making people impossibly high.
"Yeah, Carter," Doug says, snickering. "You're a little French girl."
Carter remains confused at their laughter, but it warms his heart nonetheless. He recognizes one thing: these two saved his life. He couldn't thank them enough.
Carol looks up to see a familiar figure looming outside the door. She gestures him to come in. Carol nudges Doug.
"You've got another visitor, Carter. We'll be back soon, okay?" Carol presses a kiss to his now cool forehead and exits with Doug. Another takes her place. Benton.
"Dr. Benton?" Carter slurs.
"Yeah, Carter, it's me, man." Peter places a hesitant hand on Carter's knee. "How are you doing?"
"Good."
A stretch of silence.
"Any pain? Nausea?"
Carter shakes his head.
"Good, good. Those might come a little later once the meds wear off, so don't be afraid to let someone know when you need help."
There's another long stretch of silence before Carter speaks up.
"How'd you know I was up here?"
Peter's mouth quirks up in a way that displays amusement but the look is gone as soon as it appeared. "Who do you think took your appendix out?"
Carter's mouth makes an "o" when he puts two and two together.
"Are you gonna keep it?" He asks, naively.
This makes Peter smile more fully.
"Carter, man, why would I do that?"
Carter doesn't answer for a few seconds. Then,
"I kept yours."
He says it so sincerely that Benton doesn't think he's entirely lying. But, then again, Carter's flying higher than the highest kite on a bright summer day, so he lets it go. For now. Carter yawns. Peter takes this as his cue to leave. He gives Carter a cursory pat on the knee.
"Get some sleep, Carter. We'll be here when you wake up."