Chapter 31 EVE
Chapter thirty-one
EVE
A few days later, my phone buzzes with another text from a LC Hospital Number as I'm preparing the exam room.
LC Hospital number
I still haven’t gotten the ornament.
I really think you need to be reasonable about this.
I'm thinking about doing a podcast episode about medical ethics. What do you think?
I slip my phone into my pocket, hands trembling slightly. He's escalating. Using yet another hospital number. This isn't the calculated, cold manipulation I'm used to. This feels... unhinged.
"Does it hurt when I press here?" I ask seven-year-old Jamie, who's perched on the exam table in his Spider-Man hoodie. He shakes his head, but his eyes remain fixed on the floor.
"Can you take a deep breath for me?" I demonstrate, expanding my chest dramatically. Jamie follows, but the breath catches halfway, turning into a small cough.
"Jamie's been coughing at night," Mike explains, his usual confident demeanor replaced with the universal worry of someone responsible for a small life. "And he's not eating much."
I listen to Jamie's lungs, keeping my movements gentle and predictable. "Good job, buddy. Just a few more deep breaths."
As I examine him, I notice Jamie clutching something in his pocket. "What have you got there?"
He hesitates, then slowly pulls out a small toy dog. "It's sick too," he whispers.
"The toy?" I ask, momentarily confused.
"No," Jamie says with the exasperation only children can master. "Rocket from the rescue. I really really love him. He's at Dr. Adam's clinic getting fluids. He's really, really sick."
Mike nods, confirming. "Acute pancreatitis. Adam's been treating him since late last night."
I watch Jamie's face fall at the mention of his dog, and something clicks into place. "Is that why it's hard to eat? Because you're worried about Rocket?"
Jamie nods, clutching the toy dog tighter.
"You know what might help both you and Rocket feel better?" I say, having an idea. "If you take care of yourself too. Can I show you something cool?"
Jamie tilts his head and I wait for him to murmur, "yes, please."
When he does, I pull out my stethoscope. "Want to hear your own heartbeat?"
His eyes widen as I place the earpieces in his ears and position the chest piece over his heart. The moment he hears it, his whole face transforms.
"That's me?" he whispers in awe.
"That's all you," I confirm. "And when you use your inhaler properly, it helps your lungs work better, which helps your heart work better too. Then you have more energy to visit Rocket and help him get better."
I demonstrate the proper technique for his new inhaler, having him practice several times. By the third try, he's mastered the coordination, breathing and pressing at exactly the right moment.
"You're a natural," I tell him, and mean it.
After explaining the dosage schedule to Mike, I pull out my phone while they gather their things.
"Would it help if we checked on Rocket?" I ask Jamie, whose eyes immediately light up. "I can text Dr. Adam for an update right now."
Jamie nods enthusiastically, and I send a quick text to Adam:
Me
I have someone who is very worried about Rocket. Any updates on his condition? Might help with treatment compliance.
Adam's response comes back almost immediately:
Adam
Rocket's responding well to IV fluids. Pancreatitis improving. Eating small amounts this morning. Definitely well enough for a short visit if that someone wants to ask his dad.
I show Jamie the message, and his entire demeanor changes. "He's eating again? Can we go see him right now?"
Mike laughs, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing. "Let's finish up here first, buddy. Then we'll head straight to Dr. Adam's."
As I document the visit, I catch Dr. Harrison Sr. watching me from the doorway, that Santa hat tilted at a jaunty angle.
"Making good use of our veterinary connection?" he asks, nodding at my phone.
I nod, feeling strangely caught. "It might help Jamie take his medication if he knows his dog's improving too."
"That's good thinking," he says approvingly.
After Mike and Jamie leave—with a prescription and a promise to visit Rocket—Dr. Harrison hands me another patient file, but I can't stop myself from asking: "Why did you hire me?"
He pauses, those kind eyes - so like Adam's - studying me.
"I mean," I continue, the words spilling out, "you saw my file. Why do you do those second chance contracts?"
He clears his throat. "Twenty-five years ago, I lost my license for six months. Prescription drug dependency after a car accident," he says, adjusting his Santa hat. "Best thing that ever happened to me. Made me a better doctor. More compassionate. More aware."
My chest tightens. Because Adam never mentioned it. And his father says it so matter-of-factly, like it was... a thing that happened. A hard thing, sure, but not a life sentence. Not something he had to claw his way out of for the rest of his career.
I've spent the past year treating my suspension like a debt I had to pay down, like every patient, every shift, every cautious step forward was proof that I deserved to be here again. But Dr. Harrison Sr. kept going. Found a different way to give back.
"I stayed overnight with a patient during a blackout," I find myself saying.
"Against protocol. Then when I questioned an attending's order about starting with Dilaudid for a patient with moderate pain and respiratory concerns.
.." I pause, the memory still raw. "I followed protocol - documented my concerns, suggested alternatives, got pharmacy consults.
But my ex, Chuck, was Chief of Emergency.
He twisted it, made it sound like I was refusing to give ordered medications, letting emotions interfere with patient care. "
"The board takes those allegations seriously."
I nod. "Three-month investigation. Had to surrender my license during the review.
Even after they cleared me - found I'd followed proper channels for questioning orders - there were conditions for reinstatement.
Supervised practice hours, peer review meetings, documentation audits.
Plus completing additional continuing education in medication administration and ethics. "
"Not easy, coming back from that."
"Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was at fault."
"My son told me you were stubborn but also… harder on yourself than anyone else would ever be. I think you'd have admitted to a fault."
"Maybe. Maybe not."
"Hmmm." He doesn't sound convinced.
I'm not perfect, though. "I've made mistakes, you know."
He gives me a smile. “See, there you go, admitting to faults.”
“I started as a nursing assistant again. Had to rebuild trust, prove I could balance advocating for patients with following the chain of command.” I meet his eyes.
“But Chuck kept practicing. His new fiancée is being considered for the Trauma Coordinator position I developed. The one with my family support protocols.”
“That must have been difficult,” Dr. Harrison Sr. says quietly.
I nod. “But it taught me something important—that sometimes good healthcare means having the courage to speak up, even when it costs you.”
His smile is knowing. “And that’s exactly why I wanted you here.”
My phone buzzes again.
Adam
Jamie visited Rocket. Thought you'd want to know that he remembered to use his inhaler before coming in, told me his nurse showed him how. The kid looked like you hung the moon.
Dr. Harrison notices my smile. "Good news?"
"Jamie remembered his inhaler treatment before visiting Rocket."
He watches me thoughtfully. "You know, you have quite a way with children. The way you handled Jamie just now—making the connection between his health and his pet's... Have you really never considered pediatric nursing?"
The question catches me off guard. "I've always been in trauma and emergency."
"And you're excellent at it, I'm sure. And it may have been exactly what you needed for years.
But sometimes changes are okay. Changing your mind.
Evolving. Those are all okay." He gestures toward the exam room where Jamie had been.
"That little boy was terrified when he came in.
You not only examined him effectively, you made him an active participant in his own care. That's a gift."
I think about the children I've seen this week: Megan with her diabetes, Jamie with his asthma, little Sarah with her persistent ear infections.
How much easier it's been to connect with them than with some of the adults.
How natural it felt to translate medical concepts into terms they could understand and embrace.
"I... hadn't really thought about it," I admit.
"Maybe you should." He types something into the computer, then adjusts his Santa hat again - a nervous habit I've noticed when he's saying something meaningful.
"When I lost my license, I was also determined to prove everyone wrong.
To show them I was still a good doctor. It took me years to realize I was spending so much energy trying to prove myself that I'd forgotten why I became a doctor in the first place. "
The words hit with unexpected force.
"Something to think about," he says gently. "Now, I believe Mrs. Peterson is waiting with her son's UTI. Third one this month - might want to check if he's been finishing his full course of antibiotics."
As I head to the exam room, his question sits with me as I explain the importance of finishing all the medication to his tired mother, as I document everything in the chart.
For the first time since my suspension, I allow myself to wonder: What if I don't have to claw my way back to exactly where I was? What if, instead, I could simply step forward into something new?