She was doing the small-line suction routine in the patient's throat when the call came, doing it because the cardio girl was running behind like so often and it was true that she herself was running behind too but it really needed to be done and what was one extra thing in an avalanche; the call was from Administration, would she please come downstairs, and her reaction was ohgod ohgod ohgod and what it turned out to be was something a family had passed on about the job she'd done with a member who'd unfortunately but inevitably died; namely the excellent caring she showed, as if toward a member of her own family. The deceased practically considered her a sister, so to speak. They had never seen a nurse so decent, loving, attentive. Acts making the approach of death a less fearful thing. Being in the room, in fact, when the patient died, holding her hand, ice chips cradled in a plastic spoon. And it wasn't the first time Administration had heard such things about her. And on. (No particular indication of reward other than a pat on the back, but that was irrelevant.) Irrelevant entirely to the way it made her feel. Which was awful, to put it briefly. Awful: as in utter shame, the inward writhing of having someone say abundantly admiring things about you, as if they were lies, cold untruths, taunting jabs. Being nice felt anything but.
If you could just be decent to someone and they let you alone. Someone, all of them.
