Chapter 2 #2
I let out a long breath. "I mean, yeah, objectively, I suppose it is kind of fucked up. But then, how could it not be? What were they supposed to do? History proved that their families were going to be dragged into things at some point. And look—here we are. And guess what? We know what to do: bide our time, choose our moment, and use the skills we’ve worked so hard to develop.
Obviously I'm still scared out of my mind because I know all too well that no matter how well trained you are, things can happen.
Plain old bad luck is real. Some goon who barely knows how to hold a gun can get off a lucky shot.
You can catch a ricochet. But I also know that of anyone in the world, you, me, Bryn, and Cal can take care of ourselves in a situation like this, and our parents know it because they raised us that way.
" I shrug and shake my head, even though I know he can't see the gestures.
"I don't think we have a very good sense of what normal even means, though, Killy.
I certainly don't. I was involved in a mass shooting at five and watched my parents get killed, and then I watched my adoptive mother get kidnapped, and then I watched a man I'd just met kill a bad guy with a knife.
I… I saw a lot of unpleasant things in that whole experience.
There's no normal after that, Killy. How can there be? "
He leans into me, hard shoulder nudging mine. "So it's fucked up, but for a good reason?"
I can't help laughing. "Yeah, basically." I yawn. "God, I'm tired."
"You'd think after being drugged unconscious for however many hours, you wouldn't be," Killian says.
"You'd think, but drug-induced unconsciousness is not the same as natural sleep. You don’t and can't enter the various stages of sleep, so it's not restful.
Or not as restful, at least. It's…well, it's kind of complicated, honestly, because there are a lot of different drugs that induce different kinds and levels of unconsciousness in different ways.
But as the chief anesthesiologist told me when I was doing my rotation in that department, anyone can administer anesthesia to a patient.
It's the whole keeping them alive afterward part that's tricky.
The tiniest bit too much and you can stop their heart or shut their brain off.
Too little and they wake up mid-surgery, or worse, only partially wake up. "
"Wait, what?"
“Oh yeah. It happens to redheads a lot, actually."
Killian is quiet—I can almost hear him blinking his shock. "Redheads?"
"Oh yeah. True redheads have a gene that makes them resistant to drugs.
They have naturally higher tolerances. It happens more with twilight anesthesia.
I mean, not a lot, but it happens. The patient's brain will wake up enough that they're conscious and feeling everything but not conscious enough to be able to alert the doctors. "
"Jesus fucking Christ, what a nightmare that would be."
“Yeah. That's why anesthesiologists are among the highest-paid doctors in the hospital, after the specialists."
"Specialists?"
"Neuro, thoracic, and orthopedic—those docs with all the extra letters after their names. Those guys make the most. But anesthesiologists are paid the most of any non-specialist, non-surgical doctors because of how difficult it is to do the job well and correctly."
"Did any other field interest you, or was it always the E-R?”
I hum, considering. "I thought about surgery, to be honest. I've got the hands for it.
I also thought about the ICU. But in the end, it was always emergency medicine.
I know how this is going to sound, but it's kind of an adrenaline thing.
The pace, the challenge, the variety of cases.
Unless you're in medicine, that can sound cold.
Like, we're talking about the worst days of people's lives.
If you're a patient in a hospital for any reason, you’re having a bad day.
So, talking about pace or variety or the challenge or how I need the adrenaline rush?
Objectively, it can sound shitty. But it's a job, at the end of the day.
There has to be a sense of satisfaction.
Not…enjoyment, maybe. That's not the right word.
I don't enjoy it, like you enjoy a steak or a movie or a good hard orgasm.
" I go red-faced, not that he can tell. "I, um. Yeah. Forget I said that last part."
"I can comprehend what you mean,” he says, mercifully ignoring the bit about orgasms. “Sort of like how you can appreciate an excellent, well-made movie about a difficult subject but not necessarily enjoy it."
"Exactly," I say. “Like…Schindler’s List. I’m glad you get it. Not everyone does."
"No? Seems kind of…obvious. I dunno. I mean, I’m clearly not a doctor or nurse like you, but I can comprehend what you mean. You've had people not get that?"
I'm not sure I like the direction of this conversation— it's heading into awkward territory. "I mean, yeah."
"I don't understand how you don't understand."
"I don't either. But then, he turned out to be a world-class jackass, so maybe it was just him."
"Ah."
I turn my face toward him. "Ah? What does that mean, ah?"
"Just…ah. Like, ahhh, that kind of guy."
"What kind of guy would that be, Killian?" I ask, my tone dry and sharp. "I did date him for nearly two years."
“But he didn't understand the whole enjoyment piece?"
"There was more to our relationship than that," I mutter. "He wasn't a bad guy."
"You just said he turned out to be a world-class jackass."
Why do I feel pissed off by this line of conversation?
Embarrassment? I've done a lot of work in therapy in my life, dealing with the anger I feel.
Anger is a secondary emotion, Dr. Albright tells me.
Anger is a byproduct, usually of pain, fear, shame, guilt, or embarrassment, or a combination thereof.
Why am I getting pissy with Killian?
Because he's right.
I dated Jocko for far too long, well after I knew he was, objectively, a tool.
"We don't have to talk about this," Killian says. "I'm sorry if I was out of line."
I'm taken aback by the ease with which he apologized—my dad has apologized to me a few times, usually for a case of mistaken blame.
But no other male in my life has ever apologized.
I don't mean Cal, or the "uncles"—I only see them for a month or two in the summers, rarely enough for a situation to arise that would require apologies.
I mean the people I live and work with daily. Boyfriends, coworkers, bosses.
"You weren't out of line," I answer, after a moment. "Jocko was—"
He snickers, cutting me off. "Wait, wait, wait. You dated a guy named Jocko? Like Willink?"
I snort. "Well, obviously he wasn't Jocko Willink, but yes."
"I'm shocked that a guy named Jocko would turn out to be a jackass. Shocked, I tell you."
"Sounds a bit prejudiced, Killian. A bit judgmental."
"What?" he protests. "It's a douchey name."
"Some might argue Killian is a douchey name."
"Can we start this over?" Killian says, sounding annoyed. "I only meant to convey that I don't understand what there is to not understand about what you said regarding needing the challenging aspect of emergency medicine."
"He was…" I trail off, sigh. "Jocko was complicated, okay? And to be clear, I'm only using past tense because I'm not dating him anymore. He’s still alive and well, last I heard."
A chuckle greets this. "Thanks for clarifying."
“He was sensitive. Which was weird for me, because on the surface he's this big, brawny, confident alpha male sort of guy.
But under that, he was sensitive. He wasn't…
tough. He didn't—he wasn't a fighter. Blood made him faint. So he just couldn’t mentally or emotionally wrap his brain around how, when I’m in the zone, treating patients, there's an objectivity that's necessary. I don’t always see John or Jane Smith, the person, with a life and feelings and friends.
I see that later, when I'm checking in on my patients.
But when it's the frenzy of trying to keep someone alive, it's a puzzle.
It's…a problem to be solved. That's how my brain works—it solves problems."
"Hmm, interesting way to look at it," Killian says.
"Is that sarcasm?" I ask. "I genuinely can't tell."
"No! Not at all," he answers. "Say more."
"Um, I…well—if I’ve got an MVC victim with an open skull fracture and a GCS of four, an open femur fracture, multiple severe lacerations and contusions, and free fluid in the belly, the problem is which to treat first and then what to do for treatment.
If I’ve got a GSW victim, it's a more straightforward question of stopping the bleeding—but straightforward does not mean easy. "
"Clearly."