Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Holly
“You wanted to see me?”
I peek my head into the office of our hospital administrator, Keith, expecting to find just him waiting for me.
The rest of the heads in the room turn at the sound of my voice, and for a moment I’m stunned, taking in the other individuals here.
Sarah, who I had been working with from employee resources, sits against the far wall with a soft smile on her face.
Our medical director, Dr. Kellerman, sits in front of Keith’s desk, and next to him is Regina, who I’ve seen working some of the events at the hospital over the years.
I think she’s sort of a PR person. She has the largest smile on her face as she reaches to pull out the chair seated next to her, and it doesn’t take long for my stomach to fall, for the numbness to start in the tips of my fingers.
“Quite the crowd,” I joke, a half-hearted attempt at settling my nerves. “I should’ve brought the donuts.”
Keith has the decency to offer a quiet chuckle at my attempt at humor. “Have a seat Dr. Carrington, and please, this isn’t a formal meeting of any kind, nothing to worry about.”
I nod at him, taking the chair Regina offered, moving it out and slightly away from everyone.
“I’ll make this fast since I know we’re taking up your lunch break,” he says. “Thank you for meeting with us. I guess…” He looks around the room, seeing if anyone wants to begin. “Well, how have things been since you’ve been back?”
I fidget in my chair, tucking my hands underneath the back of my thighs. “To be honest, it’s been an adjustment, but I think I’m doing well overall.” While it’s still the fast-paced, think-on-the-fly job that I remember, I’ve been able to keep my anxiety under control for the most part.
“We’re happy to hear that.” He nods, and a few other voices in the room murmur the same.
“We want to talk with you about our fundraising event next month,” Regina pipes up.
She scoots to the edge of her chair and hands me a flier.
I take it from her outstretched hand, eyes perusing the form as she continues, “The hospital is dedicating extensive resources to our rural health initiative, and we are hoping to garner some attention from our more generous donors.” The flier talks about expanding services for rural areas, which would include remodeling older clinics, providing mobile clinics, and offering bonuses to doctors who are willing to work in these areas.
“I think that all sounds wonderful,” I say, handing her the flier.
“I witnessed that firsthand. I met someone … people, who have to drive forty-five minutes to the nearest urgent care. There are some clinics in the small towns, but like you said, they aren’t able to keep staff, so they aren’t open full-time.
It’s a huge disparity for those communities. ”
Regina smiles, seemingly satisfied with my answer. “You’re a very perceptive woman, Dr. Carrington.” She tucks the flier into a file folder, and sets it on the small table next to her. “We’d love for you to be a part of this initiative.”
My heart leaps in my chest at the possibility.
Maybe they will offer me a clinic job somewhere near Copper Ridge, or even at the urgent care center in Willow Creek.
It’d be incredible to get to know the community, to have the hospital recommend I move in that direction instead of feeling like I let them down.
Before I can verbalize my thoughts, Sarah speaks up, “I’d like to point out to Holly that this is just an opportunity if you’re interested. You are not obligated to say yes, nor does it affect your position with Westmont Hospital System if you decline.”
My brow furrows, and I look from her, to the medical director, then back to Regina. “What am I not getting?”
Regina smiles. “We’d like to ask you to be a keynote speaker at next month’s fundraiser. With everything that happened … with your incident…” I cringe at her calling it my incident. “We’d be able to put a positive spin on it and show our donors all the good that came from it.”
Ah. As she speaks, the more it makes sense.
My “incident” that day wasn’t a public event, but there were enough patients in the triage area and waiting room that the commotion didn’t go unnoticed.
That, coupled with some disgruntled, gossipy staff, meant that word got out.
It didn’t make national news, and it wasn’t an event that people talked about for long.
But there were whispers of a crisis at Westmont Hospital, of a trauma doctor who had a breakdown on the job.
Some speculated that it was because of the poor working conditions or the pressure that the Westmont System puts on its employees.
“Is someone worried that what happened is going to reflect poorly on the hospital?””
“Oh gosh, no,” Keith answers. He looks at Regina, who chuckles a little forcefully, in my opinion. “We just think it’d be a good way for everyone to see that you’re back, and that you’re doing well. You’ve seen firsthand what impoverished communi—”
“I would never call them impoverished,” I bite out.
“Rural? Yes. Rural with limited resources available because of their location? Absolutely. But they are wonderful communities.” Every employee I met working at these smaller clinics were incredibly kind.
They welcomed me, no questions asked. They thanked me for filling in.
They genuinely asked me to come back. The patients were hard-working individuals, much like Grayson and his family.
“I won’t agree to be the poster child of”—I raise my fingers for air quotes—“‘impoverished communities’ just so this hospital can make a few bucks.”
“He didn’t mean to say impoverished,” Regina responds, fumbling slightly with her words. “But the financial aspect is something that research shows affects one’s ability to pursue the proper healthcare.”
My eyes flip to the watch on my wrist, and I stand abruptly. “Sorry to rush out, but it’s nearing the end of my lunch hour. Was there anything else that we needed to discuss today?” With my hands on my hips, I look around the room, making direct eye contact with every person there.
Dr. Kellerman sighs heavily, leaning back in his chair with an arm slung over the side.
“Don’t take this personally, Dr. Carrington.
We aren’t singling you out, or trying to make you a puppet, if that’s your concern.
We want this initiative to be successful.
We’ve poured a lot of time and manpower into research, into drawing up plans and making this presentation.
A speech from you about what you’ve seen firsthand would drive it home.
It’d be the final push our donors need so we can get financial backing.
If we have the backing, then the very clinics that you worked in would benefit.
We don’t need to make this about your medical issues or leave of absence.
” He looks pointedly around the room. “But you are one of the few people that has worked both the ER side, where we treat individuals that could’ve been managed outpatient, as well as the rural health side. Your expertise would be invaluable.”
Guilt seeps from every pore. This isn’t about me, necessarily.
It’s a request of me so families like the Harts can have access to proper healthcare.
It’s so people can actually seek out preventative care, or establish with a local physician instead of using the emergency room for all services.
I’ve studied their rural health initiative myself, hell, it was even a topic in one of my med school classes.
If I could suck it up and give one hell of a speech at this event, I might be able to do some good in this world.
“Can I think about it?” I ask softly, and when I’m met with a round of complacent nods, I politely excuse myself to return to my shift.
The hallway stretches out in front of me, too bright, too loud.
Each step back toward the ER feels heavier than the last. I know this isn’t really about me—yet somehow, it feels selfish to even hesitate.
Like saying no would mean turning my back on people who aren’t offered the same choices as everyone else, or the chance to own their health.
It’s a chance to help people very much like Grayson and his family, and that alone should give me my answer.