Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
OWEN
April 1
It’s six fifteen p.m. The office closed at five, but my last patient left only a few minutes ago.
That’s the kind of day it’s been.
April Fool’s indeed.
We kicked off the morning with a fire alarm that had all our patients standing in the parking lot while the fire department fixed the loose wire that had tripped the sensor. That totally borked our schedule for the rest of the day, leaving our waiting room packed with fussy kids and their equally fussy parents. It was like someone had inserted a key into the space between my shoulder blades and begun turning it, drawing the muscles in my back and neck taut as guitar strings.
Just before lunch, a mother arrived for her child’s vaccination appointment, to which she had brought all five of her kids. And because we weren’t going to send her off with four unvaccinated children, we hustled to make it work. But her youngest was terrified of needles, so that took some finessing.
The tension key made another quarter turn.
By the time I actually got to eat, I was hanging on by a thread, which might explain why I took my tomato soup out of the microwave and promptly dropped it onto the floor.
I stared at the culinary murder scene that was our tiny office kitchenette and felt the tension key between my shoulder blades make another full turn.
The rest of the day involved working to meet everybody’s needs while pretending I didn’t want to run into the back parking lot and scream myself hoarse. Sitting here in my blessedly quiet office, I realize I’m clenching my fists so tightly that my nails are cutting into my palms. My traps feel like they’ve been replaced with a combination of sharp rocks and steel bars. I can’t look to the left without a bolt of pain racing down my shoulder blade, and I have a headache that feels like my brain is trying to escape my skull.
I’m leaning back in my desk chair and trying to remember that breathing technique I saw on Instagram when my phone lights up.
And there it is, the only bright spot in this garbage day: a text from Wyatt.
Wyatt
How much ibuprofen is too much ibuprofen?
Owen
Literally? No more than four every four hours for twenty-four hours, but if you feel like you need that much, maybe check in with your doctor
Metaphorically? The limit does not exist
Wyatt
Maybe I’ll just stick with pinot noir
Owen
You okay?
Wyatt
Just a shitty day. Nothing a glass of wine and a bath hot enough to cook a shrimp can’t fix
I let out an involuntary groan, my eyes closing as I conjure up the image of Wyatt’s tight little body in a bath, the water sluicing over her breasts. I think about sitting beside her tub, running a soapy washcloth over her perfect skin, dragging my fingers through her damp hair, gripping it to pull her lips to mine…
Fuck the ibuprofen, that’s what I need.
Unfortunately, not even my prescription pad can help me with that kind of relief. No, I’ll be stuck with my usual method of stress relief: a long, hot shower alone with my hand.
Alone .
I’m suddenly very tired of being alone.
When Francie and I broke up early in our last year of residency, I was in a bad place. I was overworked and underslept. I was eating whatever crap I could scrounge up from vending machines or fast food restaurants near the hospital. My blood was made up almost entirely of burnt break room coffee. I was a disaster waiting to happen.
And then there was no more waiting. Disaster found me.
When Dylan Anders, the smiling kid with the missing front teeth, showed up in the ER, telling me all about his new Minecraft builds while his mom explained that he’d taken a tumble at the playground, I wasn’t too worried. She assured me he hadn’t lost consciousness, hadn’t thrown up. He’d barely even cried, she said. She just wanted to be sure.
And so did I. So I ordered the head CT, laughed at his knock-knock joke, and moved on to the next patient. It was a busy night at the start of flu season, and everyone was coming in with wheezing and fevers.
When I heard the code blue, it didn’t even occur to me that it could be him.
Brain bleeds are like that.
I’d ordered the right scan, but I could have pushed, made sure he got it faster, not underestimated the danger. If I’d stayed with him, had a nurse stay with him, been clearer with his mom about the risks… Hell, if I’d wheeled him to CT myself and made the tech scan him right then and there, Dylan would still be alive.
Everything sort of fell apart after that. I kept freezing in the ER. I could barely sleep. I often forgot to feed myself, and when I remembered, everything sat in my stomach like hot coals. I was on the verge of quitting medicine entirely when I got the call from Dr. Putnam back home. She wanted to retire, and she offered her practice to me.
So I gritted my teeth through the last couple of months of my residency, and then I left Philadelphia.
Was it my plan to move back to my hometown?
No.
But it seemed like the right thing to do. Walking into the ER day after day was excruciating. I saw Dylan’s face on every child. Private practice would be better. It would be slower. I could get myself back on even ground.
Needless to say, dating fell completely by the wayside. I had a few hospital hookups, but they always left me feeling empty, like I’d just woken up from a hangover.
So I focused on the practice. Those first two years I worked myself to the bone, making sure every one of my patients got the care and attention they deserved.
By last fall, that same wrung-out feeling of desperation was starting to creep back in. My sleep grew sporadic, my headaches more frequent.
That was when I hired Fatima.
And things have been better since then. I trust her, and that means I can step back a little. Suddenly there’s space for me to feel alive again.
Unfortunately, there’s also space to want.
To want something I can’t have. Someone I can’t have.
“Look alive,” Fatima says as she steps into my office, tossing the on call phone at me. I jerk to attention and catch it just before it smacks into my chest.
Fuck, I forgot I was on call tonight.
When Fatima came on board, she brought a few new processes with her. Gone are the days of the after-hours line forwarding calls to my personal cell phone. Gone are the days of the after-hours line entirely. Now we have an app that allows patients to message us directly, including photos. It helps keep a lot of smaller-scale things from escalating, like they often can when you have a frantic parent on the phone.
There are still plenty of calls, though. And tonight I was really counting on attempting to unwind.
“You okay, Owen?” Fatima asks, cocking her head and studying me.
I give my shoulders a quick, painful roll and smile. It’s not her job to tend to me.
“I’m good. Just one of those days,” I reply.
“Lord, that was a wild one. I pulled four beans out of a kid’s nose this afternoon, and then he tested positive for strep.” She sighs. “I know your day sucked too, but I’m so glad to hand off that phone. I need a margarita the size of my head tonight.”
“No worries, I’ve got it,” I say. I stand and wince at the cracking sound my right knee makes.
“You sure?” Fatima asks.
I wave her off. “I’m good. Go enjoy your tequila.”
She grins. “See you tomorrow.”
On the way home, I remember that there’s no food in my house other than mustard and beer, so I swing my truck around and stop at the grocery store. The bright fluorescent lights set my teeth on edge, and the jangly nineties alternative rock on the store stereo has my shoulders creeping toward my ears.
“In and out,” I mutter to myself as I grab a basket, working to breathe slowly, and head for the produce section.