Chapter 4 Steven
Chapter four
Steven
“Patient, a nineteen-year-old male, post bicycle wreck. Complains of pain to the right leg.” My words pop up onto the computer screen, dictated, as I speak into the handheld voice recorder.
The dragon is it’s official name. “X-ray resulted,” I continue, “confirms no fractures or deformities. Referral sent to orthopedics per patient’s request.”
“Are you sure it’s not broken?” Garrett Connors, a recent Glendale High graduate, asks from the other side of my computer screen.
“It’s not broken, Mr. Connors,” I repeat for the third time.
“I told you,” Devon, another recent graduate, pipes in from the other side of the desk.
“You’ve got some sturdy hardware in there.
I think you’ll be fine,” I tell him. It’s become my quarterly duty to remind Garrett that his leg is about fifty percent titanium now, and tumbling off his bicycle, or twisting wrong in the gym, or even sleeping on it wrong, won’t rebreak it.
He doesn’t always believe me, though, hence we make good use of his low deductible and run tests.
Against medical advice. But he’s adamant, and I’m too exhausted to fight him on it.
“Thanks, Doc.” Devon shakes my hand while giving me an apologetic look. He thinks these recurrent ER trips are unnecessary too.
“You’re a life saver.” Garrett gives me a hug and, at six-foot-two, makes me feel like a child.
“Look.” I clear my throat and right myself. “I can’t do this forever.” The underlying truth that this is getting out of hand makes Garrett blanch. A twinge of guilt stabs me behind the ribs.
“You’re going to be fine,” I say. “You’ll be three hours away next month. The best thing you can do is get established with a new doctor and keep doing PT.”
He eyes me warily, not wanting to accept this information, but Devon elbows him. I’m not his primary doctor, but I’m the one who treated him when he broke his leg four years ago, and ever since then, he’s had an odd emotional attachment.
“Dude, you’ll be fine,” Devon groans, nudging him out the front door. I follow, standing in the ambulance bay. Garrett’s eyes linger on his leg, visibly less defined than the other, paler too. I give him a pat on the shoulder, and he perks up.
“So, Doc, how do you feel about Mrs. Jones being the new principal?” Devon asks.
“Why couldn’t she have taken the job last year?” Garrett grumbles, his leg now forgotten. “We had Clinton for senior year. That’s cruel.”
“I’m happy for her. The school is lucky to have her.”
Why do I sound bored talking about my wife? I force a smile.
Emma’s career goals have been an evolving venture the longer we’ve been married.
At first, she was content being a doctor’s wife, putting her dreams of art on pause until I finished residency.
But then we had the twins, and being a mom became her dream.
But she needed an outlet, and teaching is natural for her.
Eventually, she found herself with an entirely new list of aspirations.
Adapting hasn’t been easy, but I’ve tried.
“I’m really excited for her,” I say.
The kids watch me, skeptical.
“I’m really excited for her.” Repeating it doesn’t make it any more convincing.
“Right,” Devon says, “well, I think she’ll do a great job. Sucks we won’t be around to see it.”
“I’m sure you’ll be around.”
They both smile at this and shrug. This town couldn’t get rid of these two if it tried. They jog off to Devon’s truck, a black Tundra with faded chalk lettering plastered across the back window.
Off to a wedding.
He was one of Benny’s groomsmen last month, went as far as tying Coke cans and ribbon to his fender, when the couple drove off in their own car.
The entire day, I was selfishly thinking about my own wedding. Fifteen years ago.
Emma spent four months creating vision boards, binders, outlines.
Anything you can think of for the pre-planning stage of wedding planning.
Then it was another six months of official planning before the actual day.
The longest ten months of my life. I would’ve married her in ninety-degree weather at two in the afternoon, inside a garbage can.
I didn’t care. I was so in love with her; I just wanted her to be my wife at whatever cost.
A rush of something comes over me, a nearly forgotten sensation, as the memory of her floods my brain.
She was dressed in silk and pearls. Her dark hair was smoothed back, with one rogue piece near her left ear.
Her skin was dewy, with pink cheeks and lips to match.
The ceremony was small, but every detail was pristine.
It was simple and stunning. She was stunning. But she didn’t have to try very hard.
The memory is clear as day, replaying like a movie I’ve seen ten times.
Emma…when I first met you, I was stunned. Sure, it might’ve just been the dart skills or the captivating green eyes, or the giant poster board in student hall—TIPS ON HOW TO ORGANIZE YOUR TOILETRIES. Whatever it was, I was entranced, and it became my mission to wear you down.
Laughs filter through.
But behind all the art, and organization, and humbling whit, I saw so much more.
A woman who is gentle and kind, yet brutally honest. Laser-focused, yet easily distracted by puppy commercials.
Serious about everything that matters, big and small.
A woman who puts everyone else before herself.
I can’t believe I’m the man lucky enough to spend a life with a woman so loving, generous, and capable.
I want to care for you the way you care for me.
I want to give you a life you love and a love worth living for.
Saying our vows was the hardest thing I had ever done; my heart was in my throat. Not because they were difficult to say, but because they were everything.
The memory distracts me long enough to miss Devon and Garrett pulling out of the lot.
I wave them off anyway and take a lap around the building, the sun warm on my face as the cold January air whips past. I check my phone, hoping to hear from Emma, but nothing yet.
I check my email to confirm my order was placed. It was. So I wait.
A few patients come and go—still no text.
I was a jerk in the car this morning, and instead of apologizing the second I snapped at her or the kids, I just walked inside.
Left her in the cold. So I sent flowers.
Because she deserves flowers. And I probably should’ve sent them on her first day as a principal, but I dropped the ball there too.
I’m incapable of admitting my wrongs without a dramatic display anyway. Like I need to ensure that she, and everyone watching, knows I’m a bigger man than I really am. So overpriced flowers it is.
Things haven’t been easy. Being a dad and husband comes with the typical struggles, sure.
But being a husband to a woman who has been through hell and comes out still standing?
There’s an unspoken pressure lingering over me at every turn.
Not because Emma puts it on me, but because she refuses to let anyone see her struggle, which means I can’t let anyone see me struggle.
Being a healthy forty-year-old with three healthy kids means I shouldn’t struggle.
I remind myself of this as I move through the patient load. It’s a typical Tuesday—busy but smoother than yesterday. I’m grateful but also aware we’re only two hours in.
My next patient is a thirty-seven-year-old female with nausea and stomach cramps times five days.
“Ms. Richards, how are we doing this afternoon?” I shake her hand and clock the daunt skin, dark circles, and sweaty temples immediately. “What’s been going on?”
“I feel like trash,” she says weakly. “I don’t think I’ve felt this bad since I got the flu last year.” She shoves a fist to her mouth as a soft belch escapes. I see the embarrassment flush her cheeks, but I’m unfazed, not letting the motion waver the smile painted on my face.
“May I?” I gesture to her abdomen, and she leans back for me to palpate. She winces when I reach the lower left quadrant, pressing a hand to her chest and swallowing hard. “Any diarrhea?” I ask.
“No. Just the upstairs issue.”
“No diet changes or recent travel?”
“Nope.” She pops the P like this adds emphasis.
“Any fever? Dizziness?”
“No.” She shrugs. “I’m as healthy as ever. Could it just be a stomach bug?”
“Possibly,” I say, taking a seat at the computer. I skim her history, noting no documentation for her premenstrual cycle. “Are you sexually active?” I ask, eyes still on my screen.
She chokes out a cough. “What? No, I mean, yeah. Kind of. It’s complicated.” Her tone goes from anxious, to defensive, to sheepish all within five seconds.
“Alright, when was your last period?”
“I don’t know. It’s not regular. I stopped tracking years ago.” A mix of emotions moves across her face in a flurry. Confusion, maybe? Definitely dread. Maybe a tiny bit of hope. All fighting for a front-row seat before anxiety inevitably wins, settling deep in her eyes.
It’s a familiar look—one I saw in this very space a year ago. One that impacted me more than any other.
“Why don’t we just check?” I encourage.
She gets what I’m asking without having to spell it out. I hand her a blue specimen cup and point in the direction of the bathroom. Double fisting the cup, she takes the walk that many come in here to take. Whether it’s the walk of shame or walk of hope is up to the patient.
Ms. Richards returns quickly, and I dig up an HCG dipstick from the cabinet. The double line, the one that confirms pregnancy, lights up before I’ve even thrown the wrapper away.
“It’s positive, isn’t it?” she asks, and I can’t tell if she’s scared or excited.
My back is to her, so luckily, she can’t see my face. But I forgot to tell the rest of my body to play it cool. My body shoots upright, shoulders touching my ears, tension brimming at every corner. Without even speaking, I’ve already said too much.