Chapter 6
Sydney
“Hi, Mrs. Sanchez. How are you feeling?”
“I’m doing very well, doctor.”
“Good, good. Let me take a look at your incision.” Pulling back the thin blue hospital gown, I peel down the clean dressing applied to her back and find the sutures are intact and the wound appears to be healing well. “Beautiful. I think this is going to do just fine with very little scarring.”
“Oh, I’m so grateful. I know I should’ve come to you years ago to have it removed. But there was always so much to do.”
“I completely understand. There just don’t seem to be enough hours in the day to accomplish everything. But it’s time to make your health as big a priority as all of the other people in your life.”
The sweet older woman gives me a bashful grin. She’s been taking care of her ninety-year-old mother in her home while raising her grandchildren. I didn’t ask what had happened to their parents. She barely found time to squeeze in an appointment with my office to look at the growth on her back, much less arrange for surgery. Luckily, the lipoma appears to be a fatty, noncancerous tumor, but I sent it for pathology, nonetheless.
Unfortunately, her preoperative work-up indicated she’s diabetic. She hasn’t seen a primary care physician in so many years; I doubt she realizes how high her sugars are. Her only symptom is frequent urination, which she attributed to the multiple cups of coffee required to keep her going throughout the day.
“I’m sorry we had to bring you into the hospital to have the surgery performed, but we needed to ensure your blood sugars were stable in order to reduce your risk of infection. Dr. Thayer is a wonderful endocrinologist. Try to make it to your appointments and take your insulin like they showed you, so we can get that under control.”
“Oh, I will, Dr. Cunningham. Thank you for everything.”
“I’m glad I could help.”
Leaving her room, I almost collide with someone outside her door. “Umph. Oh, Dr. Weston. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be silly, Sydney. It’s my fault. I was in a hurry to make it to the pharmacy.”
My cheeks heat. “Business or pleasure?”
“You caught me.” He chuckles. “My dear wife brought me some lunch.” Dr. Weston, a surgeon in my practice, is married to Poppy, a pharmacist here at St. Luke’s. They’re so cute together. But no sense dwelling too much on that. It’ll only make me jealous.
“Sorry to plow over you and run.” He laughs. “Have a short window to eat before my next case,” he says as he waves over his shoulder and picks up his pace toward the elevator.
Heading back to my office to finish my day with clinic patients, I can’t help but recall a time when I’d rush home to my significant other. Although both of our days began early, Matteo would often be home with dinner on the stove waiting for me. He’d insist on my sitting down with a glass of wine, despite the fact he didn’t drink, and prop my feet up as he cooked. He knew I spent long hours in the OR and doted on me when I was done for the day.
There was never a time I didn’t feel the pride emanating from him. I remember being surprised he didn’t mind I kept my maiden name after we were married. In retrospect, he almost seemed to prefer it. I’d explained how difficult it’d be to get my licensure changed, and he brushed it off. My husband had always seemed so possessive and proud, I anticipated more push-back. Had he known there was a likelihood he’d get bored with me and move on?
There was never a time I felt he married me for my money. We didn’t travel or spend money on a lavish lifestyle. Not once during our divorce had he asked for anything from me.
Anything but my absence, that is.
While my desire to become a surgeon had snuck up on me during a mission trip, I’d known I’d wanted to become a doctor at an early age. My grandfather had been an Ob/Gyn. He’d shared stories of all the babies he’d delivered over the years during my visits, and I dreamed of doing the same one day.
His patient population included the high society crowd in Manhattan. He was compensated well to be at their beck and call. The long, unpredictable schedule was too much for my grandmother, who left him before I was born. Knowing my self-serving mother, the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.
My parents hadn’t worked much since I was a teenager. Both were descendants of old money and were more focused on living a life of luxury than contributing anything meaningful to the world. I spent more time with nannies and at boarding school than I had with them. I assumed this contributed to my lukewarm feelings on motherhood. But it may have been that my career took so much of my time, it didn’t seem fair.
Matteo and I hadn’t spoken much about children before we were married. But then again, we’d tied the knot within six months of meeting, so there wasn’t a lot of discussion about the future. Whenever the conversation leaned toward kids, Matteo seemed noncommittal. Guess it was just as well. My heart clenches at the thought.
He never spoke of his family, beyond saying it “wasn’t good.” I assumed it was why he and his siblings had come to the states. I knew his sister had dealt with something serious, but other than his brother and cousin discussing it in hushed tones, in Italian no less, I had no idea how bad it really was.
I’d never met his sister, Luna. And had only seen Luca and Giovanni with Luigi on occasion at the restaurant. We never engaged in any real meaningful, deep conversation.
Matteo and I spent the next six months dining at either Luigi’s or my home, rarely going anywhere else unless it was to pick up takeout. He always seemed so tired, and frequently distracted. There were times I considered whether he had some medical condition he was hiding from me. But then I reasoned our early schedules made going out somewhere less appealing.
Plus, there was the sex.
We were nearly ravenous for one another. Matteo was a gentleman on our first two dates. On our first date, we dined at Luigi’s, and the next we met for a movie. He was sweet to hold my hand and offer chaste kisses, but nothing more.
The third date... now that was a different story.