Three
Trinity
S ometime in the early light—not all that long after we went to sleep—I slip out of the hotel sheets, the silence in the room amplifying my heartbeat. It’s steady, purposeful, as if it’s trying to convince me that leaving is the right choice. The soft rhythm of Greyson’s breathing lingers in the air like a ghost I can’t shake, tugging at me with a warmth I can’t afford to feel. I dress quickly in the bathroom.
Out in the hallway, the air is crisp, a sharp contrast to the warmth I left behind. I take a deep breath as the door to Greyson’s room closes softly behind me, letting the chill settle my frayed nerves. It’s for the best , I tell myself. One night, one mistake, neatly wrapped up and walked away from. I don’t need to let him distract me. I’m at this conference to learn what I can and take it back to my hospital.
It’s not until I’m sipping coffee at the hotel breakfast spot that the truth crystallizes for me. Greyson Paradise . From the town of Paradise. When my parents left Vancouver, that’s where they retired and where my father passed away just after Christmas. Greyson’s family’s legacy looms as large there as the mountains that cradle the town. They named it, and later, they poured their soul into earth and vine to bottle the essence of that place.
A chuckle bubbles up through my nerves. I’m sure he assumed I was a doctor. Maybe I should have clarified, but he never asked, so I didn’t. I’m in hospital administration, and one day, I’m going to be CEO. I’m what makes our hospital run and ensures the employees get paid. I’m orderly, meticulous, and controlled. Last night was an aberration, a single point of convergence never to be repeated. Despite being at the same conference, I doubt I’ll even see Greyson again. We’re just two people in an ocean of faces here at MedTalks. There are multiple events every hour and tens of thousands of people in attendance. And I need to get going if I’m going to get a good seat in the first talk this morning.
I toss my cup and follow the signs through the building to the conference room reserved for “The Ripple Effect of Small Acts in Medicine,” the first presentation I’ll attend. When the session begins, the presenter’s East Indian accent curls around each concept, and she seems to really understand that effective medicine requires administration to work with clinicians. We’re not on opposite sides of the street. That’s a welcome perspective.
Because it’s not merely about medicine—not for me. It’s about every cog in the healthcare machine, every administrator who feels invisible, or worse, who acts as a barrier amidst the gleaming scalpels and stethoscopes. All of us in healthcare can be catalysts for change, our decisions and directives rippling outward to touch patients’ lives.
I scribble notes, capturing my thoughts before they can drift away. My team will love this. We’ll brainstorm, we’ll strategize, we’ll implement. Subtle shifts in policy, gentle nudges in process—we’ll be the unseen force guiding the hospital safely. When she’s finished, the speaker receives her due applause, but within me, the applause is for the future, for the potential of my hospital and the reason I came to MedTalks.
As the crowd files out and disperses for lunch, a new determination settles in my chest. I am here on a mission. I am here to improve how the hospital works and, of course, our bottom line.
I balance my plate carefully as I navigate to the only available seat at the lunch table I’ve been assigned to. I nod at those already seated and begin eating the rubbery chicken, listening as each of the ten people at the table expounds about specialties that range from neurosurgery to pediatric oncology and swap stories. The air is thick with medical jargon and anecdotes of miraculous surgeries.
When the expectant eyes finally turn to me, I offer a smile. “Trinity Blaine,” I say, clearing my throat. “And I specialize in administration.” The words dangle awkwardly in the air, like a misplaced puzzle piece. A beat passes, then two, and the previously animated conversation stalls into an uncomfortable silence.
The man to my right shifts in his chair, the sound of his fork against his plate sharp enough to turn heads. He clears his throat, and I brace myself for what’s coming. “Administration.” His voice drips with disdain. “In my experience, administration knows nothing about medicine except how to ruin it.” He stands abruptly, and his napkin flutters to the table.
My cheeks burn. “Excuse me?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, though my pulse races with anger. “We’re the ones who keep the lights on and the bills paid. You wouldn’t last a day without us.”
But he’s already gone, leaving behind an uncomfortable silence.
Heat floods my cheeks. “That is not at all the case,” I say firmly, though my voice catches at the edges. I look around the table, desperate for even one ally, but their eyes slide away like I’m contagious.
This isn’t new , I remind myself. I’ve seen that look before—doctors who think administrators are little more than parasites, feeding off their “real work.” Only this time, it stings. Because it’s not just about me. It’s about every administrator who keeps the lights on, every policy that gives the doctors space to save lives.
I force a smile and take another bite of the rubbery chicken, though it tastes like ash in my mouth.
This cold reception isn’t what I expected here, but maybe I’ve just been ignoring reality for too long. I force myself to sit straighter, keeping my face neutral even as my stomach knots. “ Symbiotic, not adversarial ,” I’ve often said in board meetings, staff seminars, and even to myself on those long nights as I work on my current software migration project. The entire province is transitioning to a unified electronic medical records system, which will ensure that any doctor you visit already has access to your health information. My job is to transfer data from the old system to the new one, making the process so smooth that no one realizes just how complex it really is. Sitting here, surrounded by people who won’t meet my eyes, I can feel how little they think of me.
I push back the rising sting of rejection. They don’t know me. They don’t know the sleepless nights I’ve spent making sure no one at the hospital notices a change or glitch. They don’t know how our office has fought to keep programs running when funding cuts loomed.
“ We’re on the same team ,” I once explained to a resident who mocked administration in a meeting.
He’d smirked and replied, “ Not if you’re cutting our paychecks .”
I still remember the bite of those words.
And now, with the glares and silence at this table, I’m right back there again, scrambling to prove I belong. The clinical teams provide the critical care—like chefs creating a life-saving recipe—while hospital administration ensures the kitchen is stocked, the tools are sharp, and the environment runs smoothly. Together, we deliver the care patients need to thrive, ensuring the entire system survives and succeeds.
“Look,” a woman across the table says, “I’m not interested in leaving my hospital, so save your recruitment spiel.” Then she turns away, rejoining the fragmented discussions around us.
“I’m not a recruiter,” I murmur.
As the meal continues, I might as well be invisible. By the end, I’m left alone at the table.
“Mind if I ask what you said to scare everyone off?” A curious voice breaks through my thoughts.
I glance up to find a man standing over me, his expression open and a hint of humor dancing in his eyes. “Just the truth,” I reply with a shrug as I rise and collect my things. “I work in hospital administration.”
“Ah…” He nods knowingly before extending a hand. “That would do it.” He extends his hand. “Carl Gordon, also in the unenviable world of administration.”
He leads me across to a corner where a group huddles together. They greet me with smiles as Carl introduces them—pariahs, as he playfully dubs us. As we exchange administrative stories, I find solace. Without us, they agree, doctors would drown in paperwork and financial chaos.
Pleased with this newfound alliance, I move with several from the group to our next session, “Why Every Second Counts: Lessons from the Emergency Room.” This is the presentation that convinced me to come to this conference.
I settle in a seat between Carl and a woman he introduced to me as Karen. I leaf through the program, skimming for the umpteenth time over sessions on cardiac breakthroughs and neuroplasticity. My mind wanders, envisioning streamlined triage processes and reduced wait times, a dream scenario for any hospital administrator tasked with overseeing an emergency department.
Then a hush falls over the crowd, and my gaze lifts from the glossy pages to the stage. The moment the speaker steps into the spotlight, my heart stumbles. Greyson Paradise . The man who whispered promises to me under the cover of night is now center stage.
I used to dream of standing up there myself, speaking to a crowd about leadership in healthcare. Now, I know administrators don’t get applause.
Yet already, Greyson owns this room with his easy charm. And he looks good in his chino pants, a crisp button-down shirt, and his big watch and fancy shoes. He hasn’t even spoken yet, and his confidence is palpable. That stokes my frustration to burn hotter.
My fingers tighten on the program as his voice fills the room, smooth and authoritative. There’s no hint of the man who traced circles on my back as we lay tangled in hotel sheets. Instead, he’s the golden boy, effortlessly respected by the very people who turned their backs on me at lunch. And as much as I want to roll my eyes, I can’t tear them away.
“Please welcome Dr. Greyson,” announces the moderator, “head of the emergency department at Paradise General Hospital here in British Columbia.”
Applause erupts like a thunderous wave, and a playful voice calls, “Fancy Pants!”
Laughter ripples across the audience, and even Greyson’s lips curve into a smile. My pulse races, and my thoughts return again to last night and the time we spent together. How did I miss his name, emblazoned right here in the schedule? I meticulously planned every session I’d attend, strategically pinpointing each talk for maximum benefit, yet I overlooked the name of the man I spent last night with. How could I have been so unaware?
As the chuckles subside, Greyson steps forward, ready to impart his wisdom. I’m still reeling from the revelation, trying to regain my composure as he leans into the microphone, a wry smile playing on his lips.
“Ah, Fancy Pants,” he says, “a moniker given to me by my dear friend, Griffin Martin, back in medical school.” He rolls his eyes with a touch of feigned exasperation. “Though leaving behind the hijinks of our academic youth wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
Laughter flutters through the audience once more, and I shake my head, even as I feel the corners of my mouth tug upward. The camaraderie among medical students is something I’ve only observed from the sidelines, but their bonds seem unbreakable.
Squaring his shoulders, Greyson shifts gears. “Now, let’s dive into the heart of why we’re all here today.” He pauses, sweeping a glance over the crowd, and for a split second, I fear his eyes might find mine. But he continues, and the moment passes.
“My hospital serves over a dozen communities,” he says, gesturing with his hands as if painting the picture. “We have retirees enjoying their golden years, retail workers who keep our local economy buzzing, professionals who spend their days in offices, and farm workers who till the soil that nourishes our town—and make a little wine.” The crowd laughs.
I listen, intrigued. It’s a clever way to frame the talk, grounding us in the realities of a diverse patient population. Yet notably absent from his introduction is any mention of the Paradise name being his legacy, not merely the town’s. I catch my breath, realizing this omission isn’t accidental. He’s likely glossing over that detail as a way to avoid seeming privileged or disconnected from the grassroots level of healthcare delivery. Nonetheless, he probably plays by very different rules than the rank and file.
He’s good at this , I begrudgingly admit to myself as his talk continues. As Greyson speaks, weaving narratives of community and care, I find myself drawn in, not just by the content, but by the realization that there is more to him than even I’ve glimpsed beneath the dim lights and sheets. And whether I like it or not, I’m curious to learn what drives this man who both infuriates and fascinates me, this man who doesn’t flaunt his lineage like some would expect but rather seems to shoulder it as a quiet responsibility.
“At Paradise General Hospital, we see an average of sixty-five-thousand patients a year,” he explains. “In the emergency department, each doctor handles between one-point-eight and five patients every hour.”
I glance around, catching a sea of nodding heads, acknowledgments of a shared struggle. The numbers mirror the volume at my hospital.
“When I took over, wait times were as long as thirty-three hours,” he says, and a ripple of disbelief travels through the crowd.
That is an average wait time at my hospital as well, because like so many, we’re understaffed, not just with doctors but with nurses and lab workers and radiology techs, and then there’s just the lack of space. We run CT scans twenty-four/seven, three-hundred and sixty-five days a year.
Greyson’s next words pique my interest further. “Our focus has been on decision-making under pressure. It’s not just about medicine. It’s the implications for life beyond our hospital walls.”
He’s talking about leadership, strategy—my world, where every choice trickles down into someone else’s reality.
“By adopting rapid assessments and prioritizing emergencies effectively, we’ve managed to decrease our longest wait time to twenty hours, with an average of six hours.” Greyson’s voice is tinged with pride, and rightly so. “And in our mind, that is still too slow. We still have work to do.”
That kind of improvement is monumental. My mind races. Could we implement something similar? What barriers would I face in my department?
“And we’ve streamlined the process of admissions,” he continues.
My ears perk up. Streamlining, the holy grail of administrative efficiency. How did he manage it? Does his facility possess resources mine lacks, or was it simply innovative thinking?
“We did this by cutting down administrative redundancies and focusing on what’s essential for patient care.” He smirks and rolls his eyes.
Suddenly my brain is stuck, frozen on those words. Administrative redundancies? There are no redundancies in our administration. He’s blaming wait times on my department? How about the government requirements? My pulse thrums.
“Split-second decisions,” he says, “they’re not just critical in the ED. They resonate through every facet of life, every business model. The key is to trust your instincts and act decisively.”
Instincts ? As long as his department can document and my department can bill, instincts are fine. But there is no room for experimentation. It’s not like we can just wing it.
“Improving our emergency-response systems isn’t just a local challenge; it’s global. Lives depend on it, and we all have a part to play.” His gaze sweeps the crowd, a sea of intent faces.
A moment later, he opens the floor for questions, and my hand shoots into the air like an arrow. Greyson’s eyes find mine, and for a split second, the world tilts on its axis. Surprise flickers across his handsome features. He points to me. “Trinity.”
At least he remembers my name, though I’m still fuming that he threw hospital administration under the bus.
I want to ask him if it was so easy to make changes at his hospital because his name is on the door, but I refrain. “Can you elaborate on how you’ve streamlined the admittance process while ensuring all healthcare coverage information required for reimbursement of costs is captured?” I ask instead.
Greyson clears his throat. “My team started with the admittance form,” he says. “In our case, and perhaps in many others, it asked for the same details multiple times, which can lead to contradictory data. As you are likely aware, in Canada, the essentials are a patient’s social insurance number, address, and name.” He pauses, looking over the crowd before adding, “What truly matters to the physicians, however, are allergies and medical history—information likely already stored in our electronic medical records, as long as we have the required essential information to access it.”
My irritation flares. “Redundancy?” I ask. “Is that what you’re saying? You mean the national requirements that keep hospitals from being sued into oblivion? That enable services to be paid for?”
Greyson’s gaze flicks toward me, unreadable, but he doesn’t falter. “I’m not dismissing their importance,” he says smoothly, “but there’s always room to make things more efficient.”
Efficient . The word grates on me. It’s easy for him to criticize when he’s standing up there, basking in applause. I cross my arms tightly, feeling solidarity with every dismissed administrator in the room. He doesn’t understand—none of them do—that our work is the foundation their miracles rest on.
From across the room, the woman who dismissed me at lunch raises her voice, “This is precisely how hospital administration hampers medicine!” Her words draw eyes—and judgments—from every corner of the amphitheater.
Greyson’s gaze briefly meets mine before he turns to acknowledge another eager participant. It stings, this dismissal, not just from him but from an entire profession that fails to see the necessity of each cog in the healthcare machine.
When the session ends, I stand at the side of the amphitheater, arms crossed, as Greyson is swarmed by admirers. They buzz around him, eager bees to the honey of his words and charm. He spares me a fleeting glance, one that skims my face without truly seeming to see me. My lips press together tightly, a barrier holding back the torrent of words clawing up my throat.
I can’t watch this any longer. I turn on my heel and exit up the aisle.
“Trinity!” Carl calls, hurrying to catch up. But I don’t slow down until I’m through the hotel lobby and outside, the briny harbor air cooling the fire under my skin.
“Are you okay?” Karen asks.
I let out a breath, forcing a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Fine. Just tired of being the enemy .”
Carl gives me a knowing look. “They’ll come around one day.”
I want to believe him, but as I stare out at the shimmering water, all I can see is Greyson Paradise standing at the front of that room, untouchable and unbothered. And I hate how much I care. After making the sort of changes he’s made, I would hope he’d see things differently. I can’t believe I slept with that guy.
“Hey,” Carl’s voice breaks through my internal storm. “What do you say we head out for a drink?”
Karen nods in agreement.
“Sure,” I reply.
“Trust me, you’ll love the Empress Martini at the Fairmont,” she assures me as we make our way down the sidewalk. “It’s absolutely to die for.”
The thought of anything to die for feels ironic considering my current mood, but I nod, grateful for the change of scenery. We stroll along the harbor as the late afternoon sun dips lower, casting a warm glow over the water, softening the edges of my irritation.
Carl and Karen chat animatedly, discussing the day’s seminars and speakers, but their words float past me. My mind remains back in that room, fixated on the condescension directed toward hospital administration like an unshakeable stigma. How can they not see that what they call red tape—forms and protocols—are what keep the system from spiraling into madness?
“Are you okay?” Karen’s voice cuts through my ruminations.
“Hmm?” I turn toward her, forcing a smile. “Yeah, just thinking about the conference.”
“Let it go for now,” she advises. “Enjoy the moment. Enjoy the martini.”