When Tiffany’s turn came, she said she was the lucky one. She studied in D.C. and didn’t have to move to come to this hospital for her internship. She wanted to work in the emergency department as soon as possible.
As for me, I told everyone that I had studied in New York and just moved here last week. When it came to what I wanted out of the internship, although I had not given it much thought until that minute, I said I wanted to become a resident surgeon in that very same hospital.
That remark ignited a moment of silence among the group. All eyes turned to Dr. Kerry.
“I guess I could always use another right hand,” she said jocularly.
That did it. The ice was broken. Everyone erupted in nervous laughter as the last of the new interns made their way to the table.
Since the four of them were late, the six of us made quick work of putting these stragglers on the spot and fire all sorts of questions at them until Dr. Kerry stopped us and declared our first meeting adjourned.
She then showed us to the locker rooms where we could find our lab coats, our scrubs, if we were ever called to assist a surgeon in the operating theater, and boxes of gloves. Each lab coat was emblazoned with the hospital coat of arms and motto. Our nametags had already been engraved and available on the shelf of the locker. Who ever had designed these lockers to provide the doctors with the necessary clothing and accessories, seemed to have thought about everything, for there were boxes of Kleenex, spare coat hangers, and even a padlock for the door. I was impressed.
As soon as I put the lab coat on and pinned my nametag to the breast pocket, I grabbed a couple of pairs of gloves out of the box and slipped them in my pocket. I was about to lock the door with the padlock when I recognized Tiffany’s timid voice behind me.
“Are you ready to do battle?” she asked.
I clipped the padlock closed and turned to her. “As I’ll ever be, I guess,” I replied. “And you?”
“A bit nervous. I hate exams and quizzes. And this feels exactly like the day before those dreaded finals. Mind you, I don’t think Dr. Kerry is going to grill us on our first day. What do you think?”
It sounded more like a plea for reassurance to me than a question. I stretched an arm across her shoulders and said, “Let’s not worry about anything, okay?”
With a nod, Tiffany just smiled at me.
The day went by at an incredible pace. Between introducing ourselves to the nursing staff; making our morning rounds with Dr. Kerry; watching a surgical procedure on the pancreas of a cancer patient; visiting a couple of amputees in the re-hab center and finishing the day with a visit of the children’s ward; I thought my legs wouldn’t carry me as far as my home that evening. I was exhausted. According to Dr. Kerry, this had been a slow day for us. We hadn’t gone through the emergency department yet; we hadn’t attended to ICU patients; and we hadn’t had time to review what we did that day.
Instead of going straight home, I decided to take a breather in the ground floor bistro. Maybe I would have an herbal tea with some biscotti, which I had spotted passing by the place that morning–which seemed eons ago now.
Tiffany was on her way out of the door when she spotted me and walked in the café. She came to stand beside me and order “the same” for her.
I was surprised but smiled. Obviously, she found me good company, or, at least, I hoped she did.
As we sat down at a table near the window, she said, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to impose, but I heard you say that you came alone from New York....” She paused. “Are you renting an apartment around here?”
I recognized the shyness in her again. When timid people need to express themselves, they come right out with what they want to say. Tiffany had a question and she posed it.
“Yes,” I replied, dunking the biscotti in my tea. “What about you; where do you live?”
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” she said almost inaudibly. “I live with my parents.” I raised an eyebrow. I couldn’t imagine myself still living with my mom and dad at this point of my life. “I know,” Tiffany went on, “I’m too old. But I can’t see myself moving out on an intern’s salary.”
“I know what you mean,” I put in. “But I had no choice.” I paused to finish munching on my biscotti, sipped a bit of the tea and looked into those gorgeous hazel eyes of hers.
“Would you mind sharing your place with me?” Here we were again–a direct question, which demanded a direct answer.
“No, I wouldn’t mind, but maybe it’s not going to be as comfortable as living at home.”
“Oh don’t worry about that. I’m dying to cook my own meals, and watch my own programs on TV. Dad has taken possession of the remote a long time ago and although I’ve got a small TV in my room, it’s not the same. Anyway, I was just asking.”
“And you did well to ask, Tiffany. I would love to have a roommate. I actually need someone to share the expense with me.”
“Great. I can certainly do that. And I can bring a car into the deal, too,” Tiffany added with a broad smile adorning her lips.
I was staring by this time. Although I didn’t want to depend on a car to go shopping or go anywhere in the neighborhood, it was going to be a nice change to pay for gas rather than paying for a taxi fare any time I wanted to go somewhere farther afield. Whenever we would have time, maybe, Tiffany could take me to visit Capitol Hill, and…go to the flea markets with me, or simply show me around her city.
I returned the smile, finally, and nodded. “You got a deal, Tiffany!”
A half an hour later, Tiffany parked her car at the back of Mrs. Camborne’s building and followed me to “our” apartment. She looked around the place and seemed pleased with the big bedroom that was to become her domain. In the living room, she made a beeline for the turntable and the stack of records, which I still needed to sort.
“This is a great collection you’ve got, Heather. I love listening to LP’s. They’re much better than CD’s.
After warming up the lasagna and getting a salad ready, we ate and chatted about anything and everything as if we had been friends for years. Around nine o’clock, Tiffany said that she’d see me the next day–at the hospital, of course–and that she would make arrangements to move her stuff to the apartment by the following weekend.
When I closed the door on her, I exhaled a huge sigh of relief. Yeah, I have a roommate! You’re going to be fine, girl.
Chapter 7
Since Tiffany wasn’t going to move in until the weekend, and I only had a few things to do around the apartment before she arrived, I decided to go back to the mall and see what they had on sale. The fall fashion was starting to invade the stores, which meant that I could get a couple more jeans, t-shirts, and summer outfits for a good price.
Then, there were shoes. I firmly believe that all girls and women have a shoe-fetish. I am no exception. I love shopping for shoes. Although I could not afford anything fancy except for a pair to wear outside the hospital, I had to look and try on a couple more, just to imagine myself wearing these gorgeous Italian slippers while walking down the red carpet of some famous movie premiere. Girls will be girls, I said to myself quietly while dreaming the shoes off my feet. And then I had to return to the sports department and choose some sneakers that I could wear at the hospital every day. High heels or even soft leather pumps were not going to support my feet day after day with all the walking and standing I would have to do.
Once I ran out of money and I thought I had indulged myself enough for one evening of shopping, I walked home. I was happy with my purchases. I had not fallen into the traps of buying anything extravagant and I had found quite a few good bargains in the process.
For dinner that night, I cooked a chicken breast with some veggies, mushrooms and a potato nugget or two in the oven. It was ready in forty-five minutes while I watched an old show on TV. Thank goodness for Mrs. Camborne, she had let the TV cable guys into the apartment to get me connected properly and install the DVR. Since I had f
ound a bracket for the TV and sorted my records the day before, I was all set.
I ate my meal while listening to some classical music and reading some of the latest news articles in the paper. Call me old-fashion if you like, but I still enjoy buying a newspaper in the morning, reading it throughout the day during my breaks, and listening to music on a turntable. I hadn’t graduated to reading a book on a tablet yet, or listening to streaming music on my laptop.
Once I had finished eating, I decided to call my mother. I hadn’t talked to her in a couple of days.
“Mom?” She sounded distracted when she picked up the receiver. “How are you?”
“Just fine, Heather. Just fine. It’s your dad who’s not quite himself…”
My heart skipped a beat. “What’s wrong? What’s going on? Is Dad sick or something?”
“I don’t think he’s really sick, no. It’s just that he’s probably eaten too much guacamole last night at Lydia’s party.”
“And probably drank a couple of beers to many,” I added.
“Well, no. Lydia was serving sangria with the paella and nachos with guacamole. That was all really good. But your dad is having a bit of indigestion I guess…”
I had heard enough. As a doctor, I knew indigestion is another word for a mild heart attack in quite a few cases. “Listen to me, Mom”—I adopted my physician’s tone of voice—“you are going to drive Dad to the hospital right now…”
“But, dear, do you think…”
“I don’t think, Mom, I know it’s absolutely necessary that Dad sees a doctor as soon as possible.”
“But why? What could be wrong with him?”
“Just don’t ask, Mom, get him to the clinic or hospital now! Do you hear me?”
By then I was making myself sick with worry. That’s why family members or friends do not treat their loved ones. Their emotions interfere with their judgment.
“Okay, okay, Heather, you’re the doctor now, but I don’t know if he’ll go…”
“Let me talk to him, then,” I demanded.
A few seconds later, my dad’s voice came over the line. “What’s this I hear, Heather? You want me to go to the hospital just for a bit of indigestion?”
“Yes, Dad. Do it for me if you don’t want to do it for yourself. Get yourself checked up now!”
I hated yelling in my father’s ear, but it was about time he listened to me. My brothers were not home to get him to do anything, so, he had to listen to me.
“Okay, I’ll go with Mom, but only because I want to prove you wrong. Deal?”
“Yeah, Dad, you got a deal. And phone me when you get a doctor’s diagnosis, alright?”
“Fine! Here’s Mom.”
“What about you; how are you? How was your first day at the hospital? I didn’t want to bother—”
“Mom, please, we’ll talk later, okay? Everything is fine. Just get Dad to the doctor, okay?”
An hour later, my phone rang. My mother was on the line.
“Okay, you’re dad is fine, Heather. The doctor said that he suffers from mild rhythma…or something like that.”
“You mean arrhythmia, do you?”
“Yes, that’s it. That’s what he told us. The doctor gave him a couple of pills to stop his heart from “dancing the jig”, he said. And we’re now on our way home. I’ll call you later or tomorrow, okay?”
“Thanks for doing what I asked, Mom. I’m sure Dad will be fine now. But you go for a check up with Dr. Bernard soon, okay?”
“Yes, that’s what the doctor here said. Your Dad needs to have a complete physical and get that problem under control as soon as he can.”
“Okay, Mom. Glad to hear Dad’s okay. Call me later, alright?”
As soon as I hung up, I smiled to myself. My instinct hadn’t lied to me. I was getting my sea-legs as a doctor. And I was very pleased because my dad finally listened to me. He had the nasty habit of checking with my brothers on everything I suggested. It was most unnerving because ninety-eight percents of the time I was right. But the two percents were the bane I had to hear about every time another discussion came up.
I got the dishes done and settled on the couch for a night of watching TV. The silence of the apartment was starting to bother me. I had to have the stereo, radio or TV on all the time while I was home. I didn’t suffer from any form of phobia, but I was simply glad to hear something other than silence. I was looking forward to Tiffany moving in. Yet, I enjoyed being able to watch whatever program I liked on TV, listen to my favorite music without having to ask if Tiffany was okay with it.
Such as with everything in life, there is always a form of give-an-take in any relationship.
The next day, we finally hit the emergency room. What a shock to the system that was. I only had gone to the emergency room in Omaha twice as I recall. The first time was for a broken arm and then, when I began jogging where I shouldn’t have been, for a sprained ankle. Nothing major such as what we witnessed that morning. Tiffany looked totally absorbed during the entire experience. The resident doctors told us to stay away from the main action and not to ask questions until the patient was stabilized and sent to the ward.
The first case was some guy who tried cutting his wedding band off his finger. The blade slipped and ended in his bicep. The bleeding from the injured muscle all the way down to the finger was draining the poor man so fast; he only had minutes to live. The paramedics who attended his injuries only managed to slow the bleeding down enough to reach the hospital.
When the doctor finished stitching the guy up, he told him to try soap next time he wanted to take off his wedding band.
Tiffany and I exchanged a smile before getting out of the room. Some of the other interns asked a few questions about the man’s injuries and I asked Dr. Kerry why the paramedics couldn’t do more for the guy.
“Simply because they are not licensed practitioners, Dr. Williams. However, if a patient is in danger of losing his life, the paramedics are authorized to perform minor interventions to prevent the patient from dying.”
“Like tracheotomy?”
“Yes, that’s one of a dozen authorized interventions. Other than that, no EMT wants to be faced with a lawsuit if someone dies because of an injury being wrongly treated.”
The next injury that morning was that of an old woman who had broken the humerus in her upper arm. She was in pain, but being allergic to morphine, there was little the doctors could do to alleviate her suffering. She had the choice of going under the knife to repair the damages or letting the shoulder and upper arm heal itself. Again, the pain management would be a problem.
However, the dear heart chose not to have the surgery–she was afraid of not waking up after the operation–and have her body heal itself. I truly admired her courage. This sort of broken bone is difficult to treat since you can’t put the arm in a cast. The only thing you can suggest is to move the injured arm as little as possible until it heals and then follow an intense course of physiotherapy.
Tiffany and I took ample notes and even recorded the questions our team posed to Dr. Kerry after each treatment on my pocket recorder. It was fascinating, but in the end, emergency treatments were not my cup of tea. I wanted to go all the way to thoracic surgery. That’s what I wanted to do. I wanted to be able to give a new heart to babies born with congenital defects; I wanted to give an older man or woman a new lease on life with a new lung or even a new liver. I know, it sounded ambitious, but since childhood, I wanted to see people I loved live much longer than they did. My grandfather died much too young and I think his death only confirmed my desire to pursue my studies and become a surgeon.
That evening, Tiffany came over to drop off some of her belongings at the apartment. The movers would be here Saturday to bring up her bed and dresser and a few other things she wanted to keep in her room.
As she unpacked the suitcase she brought with her, I noticed that she had a lot of very nice clothes; dresses and suits that I would not be able to afford for some year
s yet. I didn’t say anything and just helped her put everything in the closet.
Tiffany is the one who explained, when we were done, that her parents were always trying to spoil her. She only worked part-time while she was studying to avoid being home. She began hating it.
“You know, Heather—”
“Call me Hattie,” I cut in as we sat on the couch to chat for a bit, “My friends do.”
“Okay, thanks. And you can call me Tiff, if you like.” I had to smile. For me “tiff” meant that I was having a serious disagreement with someone.
Anyway, Tiff was saying…
“The last three years of med school were sheer hell for me.”
“Why?” I asked, thinking the girl was probably exaggerating a bit.
“Because, my parents not only encouraged me to study but didn’t let me “live” my life – not even a little. When the guys at school were going clubbing or arranged to get together for a drink or something, I had to be home by a certain time–just like a kid.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“What was there to say? If they had not pushed me the way they did, I would have given up a long time ago. I am not an easy-straight-A student, Hattie. I had to work my butt off to get an “A”, and an “A+” is not a common occurrence for me. So, I resented them for their pressuring me, but now I can see why they did.”
“Well, I think we’ll get along just fine then,” I said. “You see, I hate pushing people into doing anything, but I also know that if we don’t continue reviewing what we learned in school, we’re not going to make it. And that, Tiff, is not an option, not for me at least.”
We chatted for a while longer before Tiff left. When I had closed the door on her, I went to the chair facing the sofa and sat down. I reclined to the back of it and began imagining what our life–Tiff and me–would be like. She was certainly nothing like Allie. Tiff was organized, neat and proud of the way she looked. Whereas Allie was not organized at all, she didn’t exhibit an ounce of pride in her looks but she was fiercely possessive; her hairbrush; her soap; her towels; her books…and on and on. What was hers was definitely hers. Although we shared most things in the kitchen, she had to use her cutlery or her dishes. I didn’t notice any indication of a possessive trait in Tiffany. Maybe, she had been spoiled but she might have had a couple of siblings to keep her in line.
Destroy (A Standalone Romance Novel) Page 5