The room, once a battleground of authority, now stood silent as the weight of my revelation settled in. Dr. Patrick’s confidence dissolved, leaving him vulnerable and exposed. The nurses, caught between obedience to their superior and the unfolding drama, looked on with wide eyes. My mother, despite the exhaustion etched into her features, managed to muster a faint, yet triumphant, smile.
The Ministry badge felt heavy in my hand, a tangible reminder of the responsibility I carried. It wasn’t just about my mother anymore; it was about every patient who had been overlooked, every family who had been brushed aside in favor of power and politics. I felt the burden of their stories pressing down on my shoulders, emboldening my resolve.
Dr. Patrick swallowed hard, the arrogance that had cloaked him moments ago now replaced by a stammering unease. “I… I didn’t realize. Eliza, I—”
“Inspector Eliza,” I corrected him, my voice unyielding. “This isn’t about you not realizing. This is about a culture of neglect that’s been allowed to thrive under your watch.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but I raised a hand, silencing him. The room was charged with an electricity, a shift in power that everyone present could feel. The nurses exchanged glances, silently communicating a mixture of relief and vindication.
From the corner of my eye, I watched as my mother’s chest rose and fell with labored breaths. Time was of the essence. This confrontation, while necessary, was a detour from the immediate care she needed. I turned to the nurse who had been assisting Dr. Patrick, her face a mask of uncertainty.
“Please,” I said, softening my tone as I addressed her. “My mother’s care is still your priority. Let’s not forget why we’re here.”
There was a moment of hesitation before understanding dawned, and she nodded, stepping forward to adjust the IV she had been instructed to remove. The room buzzed back to life, the familiar sounds of a hospital ward creeping back in, but the air was different now—charged with a sense of justice served and wrongs righted.
Dr. Patrick stood rooted to the spot, the reality of the situation sinking in. “What happens now?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“That depends,” I replied, meeting his gaze. “There will be an investigation, and if it’s found that you’ve prioritized power over patient care, there will be consequences.”
He nodded, the fight seemingly leaving him. The reality of accountability was dawning, and there was no escaping it.
I watched him leave the room, his footsteps heavy with the weight of what was to come. The nurses resumed their duties, tending to my mother with a renewed sense of purpose. I settled back into my seat, my mother’s hand still clasped in mine, offering what comfort I could.
For the first time in a long time, I felt a sense of peace. Not just for my mother, but for the countless others who might benefit from this reckoning. The hospital, a place that should be a sanctuary for healing, was on the path to becoming just that—a place where every patient’s voice mattered, where justice was not a privilege, but a right.
