In Case of Emergency

by E. G. Scott

  MaxineKD: Don’t even joke about that!

  Miserylovescompany: It’s funny, once we were in person, it felt like we’d been meeting that way all along. It was all very familiar.

  MaxineKD: And we recognized each other right away. We are undeniably bonded.

  Miserylovescompany: Yeah. Trauma bonded.

  Makeupyourmindcontrol: Is that a bad thing?

  Miserylovescompany: Depends who you ask.

  Woundedhealer: How was Harmnoone82? I felt like she was feeling pretty strong the last few chats?

  MaxineKD: She was shaken up but we calmed her down. She just needed to talk.

  Miserylovescompany: Everything is fine now.

  MaxineKD: It was just a misunderstanding.

  Woundedhealer: I should reach out. I’ve been so preoccupied.

  Miserylovescompany: She said she might be taking a break from being online for a while. Get off social media.

  Makeupyourmindcontrol: I’m too much of an addict to ever do that. Good for her!

  Woundedhealer: I feel bad I’ve been so self-involved. She’s always supportive of my stuff. I should have been there.

  Miserylovescompany: No reason to feel bad. We all have life getting in the way of our best intentions. She understands.

  Woundedhealer: Still. I’ll message her just to let her know I’m thinking about her.

  Biggirlsdontcry54: I’m sure she’d appreciate that. You are always so thoughtful, Woundedhealer.

  MaxineKD: And we should do it again!

  Biggirlsdontcry54: All of us together in the same room? I might actually leave my house for that.

  Trauma Survivors Private Chat Room: 10/3/19

  12:00 p.m.

  Private Message from Woundedhealer to Harmnoone82 (offline)

  Woundedhealer: I wanted to check in and see if you were doing okay? I thought I would reach out since you haven’t been online for a while. I heard that you had a rough night and when I went back to check the chat history, I couldn’t find anything. I’ve been thinking about you a lot and would love to chat one-on-one. Something happened this week and I can’t bring myself to talk about it with the group yet. I was hoping I could talk it through with you first. Anyway, I hope you are okay. I’m here if you want to talk. Always.

  TEN

  CHARLOTTE

  “Everything he told me was a lie.” She gratefully accepts the Kleenex from the box in my outstretched hand. She asked for an emergency session for nine A.M., and while I’m happy to have the appointment, it’s hard as ever to see her discomfort.

  At twenty-two, Cameron is my youngest patient, and her sessions typically start in tears. She is a highly sensitive person carrying a lot of trauma. The hardwired stress wreaked havoc on her nervous system, and after many fruitless attempts at Western medical intervention for her myriad immune disorders, she found her way to me, thank goodness. I feel more protective of her than most patients, because I see a lot of myself in her. After a year of our working together, her body is stronger than ever. Her self-esteem, on the other hand, could use some strengthening.

  “You can’t ever really know someone, can you? I thought I did with Kyle, but wow, I was so wrong.” Her body and voice are shaking.

  I put my hand on hers to keep her from upsetting the needles I’ve just placed along her wrist, and she continues spewing, unfazed. I feel bad, but my attention is not on her as completely as it should be. Rather, it’s on the bouquet of flowers that was waiting for me on the stoop of my office this morning. My pulse hasn’t taken a break from sprinting since I came in an hour ago.

  “God. I am such an idiot. I thought I knew him.” Her pulse is slippery, and I know she needs to unleash the energy spilling out of her before I can effectively calm her. I take a step back, with my next needle waiting.

  “He told me that he was ready to be in a committed relationship. I thought it was safe to assume someone who says that is actually single at the time.”

  Cameron’s neck-deep in dating quicksand, an unfamiliar place for me.

  “You are not an idiot.” I catch a break in her animation and work in a needle on the first spleen point, the organ of obsessive thinking and processing emotions. I mentally suggest giving myself a spleen tune-up after my appointments today. I am having a little trouble focusing as well, and the excitement/nervousness that I’m feeling about Dr. Jack Doyle’s imminent arrival is distracting.

  Cameron continues. “I don’t even understand why he would lie about that. What is the point of emphasizing that you want to be with one person if that isn’t what you actually want?”

  I don’t tell her what I’m thinking: that Peter would classify that particular tactic as sociopathic misdirection.

  “Maybe he aspires to be the kind of person who wants to be in a monogamous relationship but can’t quite get there yet. Sometimes people tell lies because they believe they are true, or want them to be.” I place a needle in an especially calming point in her ear called “the heavenly gate.”

  “Charlotte, I love you, but you have to know how utterly naive that sounds.” She’s precocious as hell, and I laugh hard. “It’s pretty scary if you think about it. Anyone can say anything they want about themselves and you just have to decide to believe them. But it’s all bullshit.” Tears are running down the sides of her face and into her ears. I’m reminded of an early conversation with Peter about the unbelievable ways people misrepresent themselves online. It’s such a big part of his job to suss out the truth, I wish he was here to talk to Cameron and reassure her about how common what she’s going through is. It wouldn’t take away the heartbreak, but maybe she’d beat herself up less.

  The needles are taking effect and she is becoming calmer with each spoken thought. I can see her breath deepening.

  “I can’t believe how wrong I was about him. I thought he loved me. Three whole months of my life just wasted.” My heart breaks for her.

  “It feels like you can’t trust anyone right now, but I promise you that there are good, honest people in the world. This is a rough patch.”

  “My whole life feels like a rough patch. How do I keep making the same stupid choice about guys? Ugh! I’m so mad at myself.”

  “Trust yourself, don’t blame. Your instincts are right; it may just take some time to fine-tune how to interpret them. Look, you knew something was off with him and you found out early; take solace in that. Your intuition is on point. Your gut is a powerful compass.”

  “Oh, I don’t need my gut. I have his secret Instagram feed. Evidently, he is someone who likes to take a lot of pictures with skanky girls perpetually dressed for Coachella named EvieDD and Beckysweetlips. I can’t compete with that!”

  “You shouldn’t feel like you need to compete with anyone, or compare yourself. It isn’t real, honey, even if it seems like it is. Remember that filters and staging make things look like people want them to, not how they actually are.”

  She nods and scrunches her face up. “My brain hears you, but my heart is stuck. I still love him. What do I do?” I hate to see her suffering.

  “Stop making the story about him. Look at this pain as information. You were attracted to this person to see something about yourself. Instead of focusing on what he’s done and is doing, how about looking at all of the ways this is going to make you smarter, stronger, and more centered in your life and in your next relationship.” I hear the words coming out and realize that I’m channeling Rachel.

  “That all sounds Oprah AF, Charlotte, but I’m trying to be a pragmatist. What would you do if you were me?” I’m honored that she asks my opinion. It makes me feel sisterly.

  “Maybe don’t look at his pictures? Can you be kind to yourself and focus on something else? Maybe get offline for a while? Or block him.”

  She side-eyes me as though I’ve proposed sticking needles directly into her pupils. I rub m
y hands together to create healing energy and place them on her stomach. “Okay. Deep breaths. I want you to repeat ‘I forgive myself, I release him’ twenty-eight times. Let go as much as you can. I’ll be back in thirty-five minutes.”

  * * *

  After I shut the door, I wash my hands in the bathroom, which carries the faint odor of next door’s burned cooking oil and soy sauce no matter how much essential oil we put in the diffuser.

  The warm soapy water feels good on my skin and I leave my hands under the tap for an extra minute as I look at my reflection. My face is puffy from bad sleep and my eyes are dull. I turn the water temp in the other direction and splash cold water on my face to perk myself up. I dab some lip gloss on my lips and rub them together, then think better of it, wiping the gloss off with a Kleenex and flushing it.

  I check my phone and see that the doctor is due in a matter of minutes and head back to my desk to unsheath the flowers. As I enter the waiting room, the door buzzes, ten minutes early. I open it for Dr. Jack, who is commanding even before he opens his mouth, his confidence coming off him in energetic waves.

  “We meet again.” He beams.

  “Good morning. Have a seat and I’ll be with you in just a few minutes.” I’m jarred by the instantaneous nervousness his presence brings on and open a new window on my computer to appear like I’m doing something while I gain composure. He steps closer and peers over the monitor.

  “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “Pretty flowers. From someone special?”

  “They are pretty,” I agree.

  “So, what do I call you? Charlotte? Ms. Knopfler?”

  “Charlotte, please.”

  “Charlotte, how long does an appointment with you usually last?”

  “For your first appointment, depending on how much we need to cover, it’s usually about seventy-five to ninety minutes.”

  “Good. Good. I have surgery at one P.M.,” he states proudly.

  Ah. He’s a surgeon. I’m sure he relishes this part of the conversation, when people swoon over his career announcement. I always did.

  “Not a problem. We’ll get you in and out in plenty of time,” I say mildly, not celebrating his proclamation, which seems to stump him.

  “I was disappointed when you weren’t here when I came back the other day. I hope I didn’t scare you away.” He ignores my attempts at looking busy and my suggestion that he take a seat.

  “You don’t scare me, Dr. Doyle.” This comes out way more flirtatiously than I intended. My regret is overtaken by curiosity. “You came back in person yesterday?” I ask, this time careful of my tone. “What time?” Rachel said she walked out with Lucy; he must have come after they’d left.

  He looks up at the ceiling. “Um. Not exactly sure. It was late afternoon. I guess you closed early for the day?”

  “Sorry. I had something come up.” I immediately regret apologizing. I have been trying to stop using “sorry” as my default when there is really no reason to apologize. I bet Dr. Jack Doyle doesn’t apologize to anyone.

  “I hope whatever it was wasn’t anything serious,” he says gently.

  I pull my gaze from the monitor and make full eye contact with him. His face is open and he seems genuinely empathetic, not the typical bedside manner of a surgeon. His intense eyes and the scar running the length of his jawline contradict the warmth in his smile. I feel tempted to ask him what the scar is from, and if he wore a beard to cover it. But these aren’t appropriate questions for a patient. These are personal questions. Date questions.

  “It wasn’t.” I’m hardly going to introduce Jane Doe into the conversation, though oddly, I feel moved to tell this complete stranger about my experience and get his take on it. I open my drawer and pull out my new-patient packet, attach it to a clipboard, and hand it to him.

  “Old school, huh? Most places are using iPads for new clients.” He chuckles as he accepts it.

  “I guess we are pretty vintage around here,” I say lightly. If only we could afford an iPad. “If you wouldn’t mind, could you fill in your basic info and your health insurance info here, and we can see if they’ll cover your visit. More of the major providers are recognizing acupuncture and reimbursing patients. Once you’ve got that completed we can go through what brought you in today.”

  He takes the clipboard from my hand and glances down at the paper. “Actually, I’m going to pay in cash, if it’s all the same to you. I’d like to keep insurance out of it. Too much of a headache.”

  I’m a little surprised by this, but it isn’t unheard of. I haven’t told him my fee yet, but if he’s a surgeon, he won’t likely be deterred by the cost. “Sure. The first visit is three hundred dollars, because it’s a longer appointment with the consult, and two hundred thereafter.”

  “Fine. Fine,” he replies, head down as he jots down his information in surprisingly legible handwriting, and quickly hands the personal info back to me.

  “Great. Let’s get started, then. We are going to be in here.” I gesture toward Rachel’s treatment room and he looks at my closed door, where Cameron is hopefully in la-la land. “Not in there?” He points. “Isn’t that one yours?”

  I’m taken off guard by the question and wonder how he knows which treatment room is mine, but I realize that the last time he saw me, I was coming out of it. “Not today. There’s another patient in there right now,” I respond. “We’ll be using my colleague’s treatment room.”

  “Oh. Right. Rachel.” He has a good memory.

  “Is there a problem?”

  He hesitates. “No. Not at all. I guess I’d pictured this happening in the other room. Glad business is good.”

  I lead him into the room and invite him to sit in the chair across from me. I put my clipboard on my lap, poised with a pen, and give the info he’s filled out a cursory once-over while he gets settled and looks around the room. He’s forty-five, born in January, single, and a nonsmoker. He exercises six days a week and eats a very healthy diet—at least according to what he’s written down. In person and on paper he seems to be in overall excellent health, given his lack of check marks next to preexisting conditions. We’ll see what his body tells me when he’s on the table.

  “So, Jack, how are you feeling today?”

  He smiles big. “I’m feeling very well. Thank you.”

  “Great.” I write the word “great” on my blank page and feel immediately embarrassed when I see him watching me write it. “And what brings you to acupuncture?”

  “This feels a little like therapy,” he quips.

  “It can seem like that a little bit. It can also help in some of the same ways, or be a nice complement to seeing a psychologist regularly. Are you currently seeing anyone?”

  “No one exclusively.” There’s that grin again.

  I muscle through the nervousness I’m feeling. “There is a big connection between your mind and body. Often your emotions appear in your body as physiological issues.”

  “Just don’t make me talk about my childhood.”

  I wait for the inevitable Western attitude to reveal itself and gird myself against defensiveness. He’s a cocky MD, yes, but also a patient sitting in my office. I realize how standoffish and resentful I’m feeling in his direction.

  He clears his throat. “Actually, I’m here because I have been experiencing some preoperative anxiety, which is new for me. I’ve been operating for twenty years and have never had this problem,” he says quietly.

  “When did this start?”

  He rubs his hands together. “About six months ago.”

  I make a note. “Was there one incident that sticks out as the beginning of the anxiety, or was it gradual?”

  “Um. It was pretty gradual. I haven’t had anything disastrous happen,” he replies, unconvincingly.

  I nod, sensi
ng there is more for him to say. We sit for a few moments in silence.

  “Well, my wife left me last year.” His voice quality has altered. For the first time since he walked through my door, I see his soft underbelly. I feel for him. “It wasn’t happening before then.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s very difficult.” And traumatic enough to make the most confident person anxious at work, especially someone whose job deals in life and death, even if he doesn’t categorize it as “disastrous.” I do wonder what made her leave.

  His momentary vulnerability recedes quickly. “I haven’t lost anyone on the table yet, at least not because of my error.”

  I feel exposed, as though he knows exactly what I’ve done. A trickle of sweat slides down my back.

  “What symptoms are you having? Panic attacks? Vomiting? Experiencing tremors in your hands?”

  “All of the above.” I nod and note his symptoms. “It sounds like I’m not the first surgeon you’ve treated,” he replies.

  “Something like that,” I mutter.

  He frowns. “Hmm?”

  “Yes. I’ve done a lot of work with doctors. I actually specialize in the physiological presentation of trauma and have a lot of hands-on experience with surgeons.” All true, just not in the way that he probably assumes.

  “Well, out of all of the acupuncture joints in all the world, I walk into yours. Play it again, Sam.”

  I offer a small smile. “I just hope I can help you.” I know I can, if he’ll let me.

  “And how does sticking tiny needles all over my body help me get my mojo back, exactly?” He’s playfully patronizing.

  “Well, firstly, you need to have an open mind. This work is about energy, and skepticism can block that energy flow even further than it already is.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” By the way he’s clasping his hands, I can see that he is actually nervous, and I feel a little bad about taking a tone with him.