by R. R. Banks
The man was going to need extensive surgery immediately – and even that wasn't a guarantee to save his life. He needed more than I could do in my temporary med station. A lot more.
“Captain,” came Sergeant Willis' voice. “I've got another man that needs help.”
I looked to the doorway and saw him helping another soldier in. Blood saturated the leg of his uniform and he was grimacing in pain. I looked at the man on the table before me. His skin was growing pale and his breathing was shallow. Ragged. Donovan looked at me, the obvious question in her eyes.
“Captain,” said one of the men standing next to me – Corporal Norton. “Can you help him? Can you get him back on his feet?”
I looked at the soldier, opened my mouth to speak and then closed it without saying anything. I looked back at the man on the table, watched the rivulets of blood spilling out of his ragged wounds to pool on the table beneath him.
I knew the answer to the question, I just didn't want to give voice to it.
“Captain?” he asked again.
“Sir?” Donovan said.
I hesitated, my emotions swirling around inside of me. A dark maelstrom of fear and grief that was causing me uncertainty and indecision – things that were deadly in my line of work. I didn't want to let this man die and yet, I knew intellectually, that I couldn't save him.
“Please, sir,” said Norton, “He's like my little brother. Can you help him? Please, sir. Help him.”
I stared at the man who had tears in his eyes. His lower lip trembled and the grief-stricken look that contorted his face tore me apart. Med school never prepared me for moments like that and I didn't know how to react. I'd never felt more helpless before in my entire life.
“Sir,” Donovan snapped. “There's nothing we can do.”
The man looked at her, his face blanched with horror. “No, you have to –”
Donovan's voice snapped me out of my haze. She was right. And I knew it. As much as I hated to admit it, there was nothing we could do for the man on the table. Maybe if we'd been in a properly equipped operating theater. Maybe. But there in the dirt and rubble of that bombed out neighborhood, there wasn't anything I could do.
“I'm sorry, Corporal,” I said gently. “I truly am.”
The man on the table wheezed, his breath rattling in his throat. And then he was still. Corporal Norton's face twisted in anguish as he stared at the man on the table. The man who'd just passed. The man he thought of as his little brother.
Turning away from him, I brought in the other soldiers, tending to their wounds. Thankfully, most of them were superficial and didn't require much thought. In my head, I continued to see not just the face of the dead soldier, but that of Corporal Norton.
We only lost one that day, but it was the first in a long line of faces I knew would haunt me until my own dying day. It was the first, bitter taste I had of actual war – and the high cost of it.
And I knew the only way I was going to make it through was if I shut down my emotions. Grew cold. Numb to it all.
Emotions and allowing myself to care for those I served with, were luxuries I couldn't afford.
~ooo000ooo~
Sitting on the balcony of my condo, I look out at the Pacific Ocean and try to banish the memories from my mind. The memories of my time in Afghanistan came on unexpectedly and sometimes, at the most inconvenient of times. I can't control them. Can't stop them. All I can do is let them roll through me like some hellish highlight reel. When they finish, they never fail to leave me feeling shaken.
And the only thing I've found to combat the way I feel after suffering through another episode is to drink. To numb myself to the memories of that place. Of the death and violence I saw on a daily basis.
No, it's not the healthiest coping mechanism, but it works for me.
The night is dark and the sky overhead cloudless. The moon sparkles dazzlingly off of the water, making it shimmer like a giant pool of liquid silver. I take a long drink from my glass of scotch, savoring the feeling of the burn as I swallow it down. I smile as the familiar warmth spreads throughout my gut. The liquor in my system slows my thoughts. Slows the anxiety that is coursing through my veins. It calms me.
I know I didn't have it nearly as bad as some of the guys I served with. I wasn't one of the guys kicking the doors in and facing down the bad guys. I was a combat medic for about a year and a half which meant I wasn't usually being shot at. I was safe in the back, just there to patch the guys up as best I could.
But growing up in the country club, private school set like I did in no way prepared me for the horrors of war. Growing up wealthy and privileged, I'd been kept well insulated from all of that. In some selfish ways, I wish I'd remained insulated from it. The things I saw – I know I'm never going to be able to wash them away no matter how hard I try.
I know though, that even enduring what I did, bearing witness to the horrors I saw, made me a stronger man. And in some ways, a better man. Stripped of my insulation and air of privilege, I saw the world for what it really is. I saw it for the ugly, violent, bloody place it can be.
But I also saw incredible acts of heroism, love, and sacrifice. I saw men and women literally laying down their lives for one another. For me.
And it was because of that, because of the sacrifice and courage I saw in others that I was able to get myself under control. That I was able to be an effective field medic. To be good at my job. I know I don't have the same kind of courage those soldiers I served with have, but I learned to lean on them for strength. It helped me get through some of the worst times.
But it also came at a price.
I take another sip of my drink as Lara's words from the hotel come back to me and rattle around in my head. What she said about the darkness inside of me. The walls I keep myself behind. It's necessary to do the job I do. I have to be able to maintain some professional distance from my patients.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
But is Lara right? Is it something more than that? Is there some darkness, some missing puzzle piece inside of me?
I shut those thoughts out of my head. They aren't worth thinking about right now. Instead, I fill up my glass and slug half of it down in one swallow, enjoying the way it warms me from the inside. I don't want to think about Lara's assessment of my personality and I don't want to remember my time over in the Shit.
All I want to do in that moment is drink myself numb and forget it all. So, I raise my glass to my lips and take another long swallow, heading farther down that path of inebriation I know so well.
Chapter Seven
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Renfro,” I say. “Your surgery is scheduled for two weeks from now. Unfortunately, I can't move that up.”
“There has to be something you can do,” she replies, desperation coloring her voice.
“I really wish there was,” I say, doing my best to keep from sounding as irritated as I feel. “But I can't change the schedule at this late date.”
I actually can change the schedule if it's a medical emergency – but it's not. Mrs. Renfro is, to put it bluntly, a pain in my ass. She's a bit of a hypochondriac to begin with, and now that she actually does have something that needs to be surgically corrected – a minor procedure – her delusions of imminent doom have kicked into overdrive.
“Doctor Galloway, I don't think you understand,” she says. “These tumors in my stomach –”
“Are completely benign,” I cut her off, tapping the file sitting on the desk in front of me. “I've already gone over the results of your biopsy with you.”
“But how do you know for sure?” she asks. “I mean, tests are sometimes wrong. One time, I had a doctor who –”
I hold up my hand. “Mrs. Renfro, I've gone over your biopsy results seven ways from Sunday,” I say. “And I've been doing this long enough to be able to determine a benign from a malignant tumor. Yours are completely harmless.”
“But they make my stomach hurt,” she says. “That's
not normal. I went on the Internet –”
And there it is. I sigh and run my hand through my hair, doing my best to keep my irritation from boiling over – and failing.
“Well, I guess I wasted all those years in med school,” I snap. “Why come to me when you can diagnose yourself online? Maybe you can even YouTube how to do your own surgery.”
The woman sits back in her seat looking for all the world like I'd slapped her across the face. She's a middle-aged, rich, privileged housewife – a woman used to getting her own way. And she's definitely not a woman used to having people talk back to her. Mrs. Renfro is used to snapping her fingers and having her hired help do her bidding.
And I am under no illusions – she considers me her hired help.
“I don't appreciate being spoken to in that manner, Doctor Galloway.”
“And I don't appreciate you questioning my medical expertise because you found an answer on the Internet that you like better than what I'm telling you.”
“Well, I'm sorry for taking my life seriously, Doctor,” she hisses. “I'm sorry that I don't want to die.”
I sigh and shake my head. “You're not going to die, Mrs. Renfro,” I say. “As I keep telling you, your tumors are completely benign – regardless of what you read online. Now, if you would rather take your case to another doctor, I will happily forward your files to –”
A knock on the conference room door interrupts me and I look up, irritation undoubtedly coloring my face. Our nurse practitioner, Jean Kelly, is standing there looking back at me, her expression one of curiosity and concern.
“I'm sorry to interrupt,” she says. “I just wanted to know if I could be of any assistance?”
I sigh and lean back in my chair. “No, we were just finishing up here,” I say.
“Your surgery is scheduled for two weeks from now, Mrs. Renfro,” I say, my tone ice cold. “Unless you would prefer to have a second opinion and another doctor take over your case. If you decide to go that route, please let us know so we can forward your files to your new surgeon.”
I stand up and walk out of the conference room, leaving both Mrs. Renfro and Jean standing there, looking completely flabbergasted. I walk down to my office and slam the door behind me – slamming the door to my private bathroom behind me as well, just for good measure.
After splashing my face with cold water, I stare at myself in the mirror – and don't particularly care for what I see. There are dark circles beneath my eyes and a haunted expression painted upon my face. There's hostility and a deep, abiding anger running through me that I can't quite seem to banish entirely. Although I can keep it at bay most of the time, ever since rotating out of the military, it's been my constant companion.
I dry my face with the hand towel and drop it on the counter. Opening the door, I step out into my office and find Jean sitting in the chair across from my desk. She still has the same expression of curiosity mixed with concern on her face that she'd had in the conference room. I step over to the small, discrete bar I keep in my office. After pouring a couple fingers of scotch for myself, I raise the bottle and look at Jean.
“No, thank you,” she says. “And it's the middle of the day. Are you sure it's a good idea to be drinking? You still have patients to meet with.”
Dropping down into the seat behind my desk, I look Jean in the eye and take a long swallow of my drink.
“When did you become my mother?” I ask.
“Ever since you thought that berating our patients was a good idea,” she snaps back. “What were you thinking, Eric?”
Jean's eyes narrow, a baleful expression upon her face. She and I have a bit of a contentious relationship and have crossed swords more than a few times over the years. She wasn't my first choice to be our office's nurse practitioner. She wasn't my second or third choice either. But, my partner, Vance McDermott, had been really partial to her after we'd interviewed potential candidates after opening our practice. But, since I hadn't been attached to anybody in particular, I didn't put up too much of a fight and we hired her.
But I knew going in that our relationship wasn't going to be sunshine and roses. I will say though, that Jean is very good at what she does. She's an incredible nurse practitioner and honestly, I feel lucky that we have her. Vance had been right on the money about her. But, she tends to overstep her bounds. She sometimes forgets that the name on the office door is Galloway and McDermott – not, Galloway, McDermott, and Kelly.
She's stubborn, hard-headed, and usually thinks she knows what's best for everybody – including me. And nothing pisses me off faster than somebody trying to tell me what I should think, feel, or do. Vance says we're a lot alike and that's the reason we clash as often as we do, but I don't see it. Her place is not correcting or admonishing me – it's tending to our patients. Jean is our employee and needs to remember that.
“What was I thinking?” I ask. “I was thinking that Mrs. Renfro is a goddamn hypochondriac who needs some serious psychological help.”
“No, she's a scared woman who needs some reassurance.”
“Please,” I say. “I've gone over her biopsy with her a dozen times. I've assured her that she's fine, that the tumors are benign, and that she's in no immediate danger. She refuses to listen.”
“She's scared, Eric.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, and she thinks something she read on the goddamn Internet trumps my years of education and experience,” I narrow my eyes and say, my anger rising like a flash flood. “Give me a break, Jean.”
She looks at me for a long moment, the tension and frustration with me on her face more than clear – as it was most days. Like I said, our relationship is contentious and we clash often. This is most definitely not our first rodeo. Especially when it comes to my bedside manner. Or as Jean usually says, my lack of bedside manner. It's been an ongoing argument since her first day with us.
And an argument I am tired of having.
Jean believes in hand-holding and coddling. And while I didn't go out of my way – usually – to be an asshole, I believed in laying out the facts. I believed in efficiency, in giving my patients the unvarnished truth of things so we could lay out the best course of action possible.
I don't see any reason, or benefit, to walking on eggshells or sugar-coating things. My patients need to know what they're dealing with and what their best possible options are. Tiptoeing around the issue or giving them some false sense of hope or security does more harm than good, in my opinion. I feel it's far more effective, efficient, and helpful to give it to my patients straight.
“Eric, our patients – like Mrs. Renfro – are scared,” she says. “They're just looking for a little –”
“Enough!” I shout, pounding my fist on my desktop.
Jean jumps and looks at me, a startled expression on her face. I'm usually not so forceful with her, but I really am not in the mood to deal with her bullshit today. I'm not in the mood to deal with anybody's bullshit, truth be told. In fact, I don't even want to be in the office.
She clears her throat and tries to compose herself. “I will not be spoken to that way, Eric.”
My voice is low and I find that I'm speaking through gritted teeth. “You know where the goddamn door is,” I growl. “Don't let it hit you on the way out.”
“Okay, okay, let's throttle things back a bit, huh?” Vance says from the doorway to my office.
He steps into my office, looking from me, to Jean, and back again, concern upon his face. At least he's got the good sense to not ask if everything is okay, when very clearly, it is not. Vance is the peacekeeper in the office – a role he's well suited for. He's a man who doesn't like conflict. Tries his best to avoid it all costs. And tries even harder to keep the conflict out of the office.
And I do my best to keep my clashes with Jean down to a minimum. But sometimes, like today, I'm just not in the mood.
“What's going on?” Vance asked.
I roll my eyes and lean back in my seat. “Oh, just the usual
,” I say. “Jean feeling the need to play mother figure to me. Again.”
“Well, perhaps I wouldn't have to if you weren't such an asshole to our patients,” she hisses.
I shake my head and finish off the drink in my glass – and contemplate going back for a refill. Ultimately, I decide against it. The last thing I need to do is get buzzed – I might say something I come to regret. Or then – maybe I won't end up regretting it. It's probably not a good idea though. I just needed the one to take the edge off.
“Maybe, you shouldn't be sticking your nose in places it doesn't belong,” I snap back. “Maybe, you should learn your place around here.”
“My place?” she fumes. “What, making your goddamn coffee and fetching your slippers?”
Her eyes are wide and she's trembling with rage. How she's taking it obviously isn't how I meant it. It just came out wrong. Or she heard it wrong. Or some combination of the two.
“That's not what I mean and you know it,” I sigh. “Jesus, do you always have to be so fucking dramatic?”
“Dramatic? Are you serious –”
“You seem to forget that you work for us,” I say, my anger rising to dangerous levels. “That you are our employee, Jean.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Guys,” Vance shouts, cutting us off. “Enough with the petty bickering. Christ.”
The tension in the air is thick as Jean and I continue to glare at one another from across the desk. Vance is standing there, a dumbfounded look on his face. He's played referee to plenty of our fights and he looks like he's getting a little tired of it. Not that I can blame him, really. He's a doctor, not a kindergarten teacher. Intellectually, I know that he shouldn't have to play mediator for Jean and me.
The woman just knows how to piss me off.
“Eric,” Vance says. “Why don't you get out of here? Take the rest of the day and chill out, man. Go get something to eat. A drink or something. Jean and I can handle the rest of your consults this afternoon.”