The Anatomy of Perception

by AJ Rose

  I raised a brow, not understanding but also not interrupting.

  “When they become patients.” Comprehension dawned. “You see? You know how it feels to be on the opposite side of the chart, to be the vulnerable one lying under scratchy cotton blankets with a gown on and your ass exposed to the world.” He waved a large hand and smiled. “Well, metaphorically speaking. My point is, a good doctor knows the multi-syllable words, the treatments for this injury or that disease, and the symptoms to look for in diagnosing someone’s sickness. A good surgeon isn’t afraid to cut into a human body to fix what’s broken. A great surgeon knows all that and how to administer the information and treatment in a humane manner. You, Dr. Perry, will never forget what it’s like to be a patient, and an incredibly vulnerable one at that. I suspect, even with your change in focus, that alone will elevate you above your peers. So you came into your current position a little sideways,” he minimized. “When you get your feet beneath you again, your career will be something remarkable. I wouldn’t be a very good department chair if I didn’t recognize that and do what I could to help you back into this hospital in whatever department I can get you. Don’t look at it so much as me granting you leeway. Think of it like me loaning you time, and when the loan comes due, you can pay me back by being an outstanding patient advocate for years to come.”

  My heart had resumed its normal place in my chest, but now my pride, so battered in the last two years, clogged my throat, and I had to clear it a couple times before I could speak. Chief Noble, however, was a busy man, and leeway or no, he didn’t need me sniveling in his office.

  “Don’t you have patients to see to, Doctor?”

  I could only nod and shuffle out the door, moving toward the all-purpose locker room to change into my scrubs and see what was on the schedule for today. White coat on, I was sorting through the overnight admissions when my former resident teacher strode through, a new crop of interns in her wake. I had been given my own interns at the start of my third year of residency, but they’d been reassigned when I got sick and, well, PTs didn’t get to do much mentoring. I was in sort of a no-man’s land, more qualified to assist in surgeries and handle patients than those just starting out. But not working in that capacity anymore, I was viewed as less than, even by kids right out of school who were so new they still looked plastic and precious, just out of their wrapping. Little bastards. It was lonely, to be truthful, not having anyone in my position to commiserate with when I had a bad day.

  Dr. Susan Zeller strode up. If anyone got it, she did. She was supportive of me without babying, and while there were occasions she was probably a little too hard on me, I appreciated her treating me as though I was a guy with a diagnosis, not a guy who was a diagnosis. She was a badass, solid and strong physically—orthopedic surgeons had to be to manipulate dead-weight limbs during surgery—and quick on her feet. She was blunt, no-nonsense, and had told me on more than one occasion how she envied my autonomy.

  “It’s just like being an attending, except you don’t get to pick and choose your cases or your teams. Well, and you don’t get to cut. If it weren’t for that, it would be perfect.”

  “It’s not great, feeling like I have to beg to assist in some of the more complicated cases, and even then, I only get to watch the surgeries from the gallery. I’m like an intern again,” I countered.

  “Not having to shuffle off five warm bodies who you’re not convinced can wipe their own asses if you hand them a roll of toilet paper and shove them into a restroom.”

  “No consults where your opinion matters, just barked orders because you’re that guy who went missing for eighteen months and they think all the med school stuff leaked out of your ears. And when you come back with a different title, they think you’re lower than other PTs because you failed at the surgery program. The PTs don’t like you because this profession is your ‘second choice.’ They accuse you of prejudices you don’t have simply because they assume you’ll be an asshole who thinks once a doctor, better than a physical therapist. Always.”

  “Not dealing with drama because one intern slept with another and now they hate each other, so you have to keep them apart or they might go at each other with a ten blade.”

  I paused, raising a brow. “Oh, that’s the juicy news this week?”

  She scowled at two of her interns, who were too busy glaring at each other to notice her displeasure. “Maybe I should let them have it out. Could result in an interesting surgery or I could get myself two interns who behave themselves.” She raised her voice on those last two words and pointed her focus at them, so they snapped to. Neither had looked apologetic enough. Maybe Zeller had been right about that whole not-having-interns thing.

  “Morning, Perry,” she greeted me now. I tried not to let her see how tired I was, not that it would have mattered much. On heavy rotations, doctors all got tired, had bags under their eyes, had to take in coffee intravenously. Or wished they could. Physical therapists weren’t supposed to have heavy rotations, but in the three days since Craig and I had talked, I’d done my best to live at the hospital. There was more to life than work, I knew, but work also gave me confidence to deal with things when life outside got big, now that my job wasn’t a source of stress. While I’d certainly understood Craig’s upset, that didn’t mean it wasn’t a bitter pill to swallow.

  “Dr. Zeller,” I returned. “In what glorious and intrepid ways are we serving the masses today?”

  She wasn’t fooled by my fake demeanor, and she narrowed her eyes at me. “I needed you for a post-op patient today, but seeing as you’re trying to kill yourself with too much work and not enough sleep, I shouldn’t let you near him. I am not in the mood to let any of these yahoos scrub in, so maybe I’ll have them shadow you instead of me.” The interns started to protest. “Hey! When you can prove to me you’re adults, I might consider your opinions.”

  “Not all of us are children,” one of them said, shooting the fighting couple a glare. “Don’t lump me in with them.”

  Zeller rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Perry. What’s your status? Can you handle taking on one of my patients this afternoon when he comes out of recovery?”

  “I’m your PT, Zells,” I assured her. Part of me wanted to ask if she’d let me scrub in on one of her surgeries just to observe, but not only was that against regulations and hospital policy, I knew it would push me to realms past my limits, even if I missed the OR. I stopped at assurance I was the man for the job. Anything to get my mind off Craig.

  “Hmm,” she hummed her displeasure, eyeing me. But she dropped it and turned to her band of miscreants. “One of you will get to scrub in, but that person will only be chosen based on who annoys me least this morning on rounds. You all better be ready to present.”

  Yeah, she sounded like a hard-ass to anyone outside the medical environment, but she was talking life or death, with huge liabilities riding on her shoulders, and patients letting her and the interns cut into their bodies because they trusted her. It sounded like hazing, but it was real-world preparation. If the grunts couldn’t handle their resident demanding the very best day in and day out, then they couldn’t handle patients demanding it with a lot more on the line. Surgery was risky, and people could still throw a blood clot or have another major complication after being cut on. If interns survived under a resident from Hell, they’d know they could handle a code blue without hesitation. This was why surgery was the hardest specialty. This was also why I couldn’t hack it. I spiraled out of control under that level of pressure, and that put patients in danger. So I’d turned in my scalpel with a sense of relief, and understood that what I did now was valuable and came with a lot more cheerleading and a lot less chance of a malpractice suit.

  Her interns pulled out their index cards and began murmuring to themselves, which gave her a moment to lower her voice and pull me aside.

  “Seriously, Perry. Anything I need to know?”

  I shook my head. She hadn’t been here before my leave of ab
sence, but she’d been briefed upon my return and knew from her stint with the VA what my diagnosis meant.

  “I had a difficult day earlier this week, but I’m fine. Ready to work.”

  Backing up, she gave me a slow smile. “Okay. Walk with us on rounds, then. Some of these will be coming to your service, so you’ll get a leg up if you know what’s going on pre-op.”

  She set off at a brisk pace, and I kept up easily, listening to the grunts get the answers right as we went about the business of taking care of patients and making them feel better.

  Dr. Zeller’s surgery got delayed by a few hours after a bus accident had come in and the OR bookings needed shuffling to accommodate several patients with severe injuries. I spent the morning checking on my patients, two of whom were almost ready to go home and one, Mr. Friedrich, who needed extensive physical therapy for a spinal injury that would force him to relearn to walk after his newly replaced knee healed. While I waited for Zeller’s patient to be rescheduled into the operating room, I worked with Mr. Friedrich as he practiced sitting up in bed to strengthen his core muscles and improve his balance. He was angry and in pain, and I couldn’t say I blamed him. He’d been a marathon runner, and early one morning while training, he’d been hit by a car, resulting in his permanent spinal injury and long road to recovery.

  I hung out for the duration of his occupational therapy hour as well, absorbing the brunt of his frustration so his therapist didn’t have to. Not because I didn’t think she could handle him, but because I’d been in his shoes. Not his exact shoes, but Chief’s words echoed from that morning. I’d been that vulnerable, and when it had been me, I’d snapped and snarled at everyone in my path. If Mr. Friedrich yelled and growled at me, maybe he’d be less inclined to do so when his wife came by after his therapies were done.

  My cell phone chimed with an incoming text while the OT was wrapping up. I made sure there was nothing more I could do for Mr. Friedrich before checking the message, surprised to see Craig’s name at the top of the screen.

  Craig: Do you still talk to her?

  I snorted, earning a curious look from a passing nurse.

  Me: Not if I can help it.

  Several minutes passed before another text came in.

  Craig: You never touched her?

  That this conversation was even taking place made my heart pick up.

  Me: No. I never did.

  Craig: Why should I believe you? Either you lied then or you’re lying now.

  I carefully considered my answer before realizing it was simple.

  Me: I already lost you. To lie to you now is pointless. And would only hurt you more. Not interested in hurting you any more than I already have.

  Several long minutes ticked by, and I feared the conversation was over. I wished I could see Craig’s face, be able to read in his eyes what he was thinking. There’d been so many nights, so many, many hours spent in this hospital, passing time texting back and forth with Craig in slow moments. That was part of what I missed most since returning to work: having something to soften the intensity of the long hours of the job. Granted, the job itself was less intense, but no less monotonous at times. I missed his dry humor, evident even in text. I missed the silly jokes and the rambling conversations. It might have been too much to hope that this text string would lead us back to that, but hope I did. After ten minutes of playing on the phone, hoping another text would come in, it remained stubbornly silent, so I put it away and shuffled to the nurses’ station to find out what was going on and if I could help. I had case notes to write up, but that was an extended task I didn’t want to start before getting to sit in the gallery for Zeller’s knee replacement.

  “Perry,” Dr. Zeller called, striding down the corridor with an eager puppy of an intern in her wake. “The OR’s been prepped and we’re ready to go on the ligament reconstruction. You still available to observe from on high?”

  “Of course,” I smiled. Anything to keep my mind off the spectacular mess I’d made of my life. We walked companionably to the OR, the intern peppering Zeller with questions she answered with surprising patience. Just before I stepped into the stairwell to go up to the observation area, my phone let off a series of chimes. That sometimes happened, with reception in the hospital spotty in some corridors and strong in others—incoming emails and messages came in clusters.

  “Your pocket on fire?” Dr. Zeller joked.

  “I’ll be in in just a second, okay?” I said, turning my back to her and the intern to check the messages.

  Meet me for coffee, was the first begrudging text. Craig again. Then, This doesn’t mean I forgive you, followed by, Nor are we getting back together. But you’re right. I deserve an explanation. And finally, Don’t read anything into this.

  I couldn’t help but smile.

  Me: I’m going in to watch a surgery now, probably six hours before I’m out. You’re free to come by the hospital, or I can meet you when I’m done here around 10 or tomorrow when my shift is over at 4.

  His response was immediate, for which I was grateful, since Zeller was giving me impatient looks.

  Craig: We’re staying on my turf. Tomorrow is fine.

  He followed it up with the name of a coffee shop near his loft, but not the one we used to frequent on lazy Sundays after we’d dragged ourselves out of bed following marathon sex. Somewhere we’d gone a time or two, but the prices were higher and the coffee wasn’t as good.

  Me: See you tomorrow, then.

  I tucked the phone in my lab coat and lurched up the stairs to watch my former resident perform surgery on a high school kid so he could resume his hockey career and probably blow the same knee out again in another year. I sat in the gallery, transfixed and trying to tell myself I was doing what was best for myself and the patients in my care, even if it wasn’t what I’d originally planned.

  The coffee shop was no less busy at 5:00 p.m. than it would have been at 8:00 a.m., and I grimaced. I wasn’t a fan of crowded places, but I could hear my therapist in my head as I joined the line to order. Test yourself when it’s safe to. Don’t overdo it, but any time you can desensitize to one of your triggers, do it. In a way, it was funny. I’d come to New York to get lost in the crowds. But it was hard to know what lurked around corners if too many people blocked the view. Not that I needed to worry about it anymore.

  Stop, or you’ll end up hypervigilant again.

  Automatically scanning faces, I spied Craig in the corner, staring intently at his laptop, one dark curl forming a comma over his forehead and the glow of the screen changing the pigment of his skin. I frowned. Why would he invite me to have coffee if he was working? With Halloween around the corner, pumpkin spice lattes were back on the menu, and I vowed I would figure out how to make them at home as I took that first heavenly sip.

  “You’re late,” he grumbled as I approached, not looking up from his computer.

  “You’re working,” I returned. “And you know it takes me an hour to get home—” I stopped myself as his head snapped up, glaring at me with the intensity of storm clouds in the Midwest. “Home being my old apartment on 38th, which isn’t so far from here. Neil is still single and still lives there, so I was able to get back on the lease. You don’t get to claim Queens all to yourself.” I smiled to soften the words, but he still had a scowl line between his brows. “Are you under deadline or something? We can do this another time,” I offered.

  “No. Just let me do one… more… thing.” He squinted at the screen and I took the seat opposite him, quiet for a few minutes as he made what I assumed were last minute adjustments to a panel for his latest project. I sort of wished I could watch over his shoulder like I’d done many times before. His job as an animator fascinated me from the minute he’d been hired. I didn’t have a creative bone in my body, so to see him manipulate any artistic medium, be it pixels or paint, with such ease and talent was a sight to behold. But his back was to a corner, and there were no chairs beside him. Not to mention I’d be unwelcome sit
ting that close, as evidenced by him jerking his foot away when I accidentally bumped it while taking my seat. After a few minutes, he saved his work and shut down the computer, giving me his full attention.

  “Can I get you another coffee?” I asked, pointing at his cup.

  “Nah,” he said, waving me off. “I won’t sleep tonight if I have any more.”

  I nodded and sipped mine carefully. When he didn’t say anything else, I raised a brow at him.

  “You wanted to meet for coffee. So, what did you want to talk about?”

  He glared at me for putting him on the spot, but I wasn’t about to open a vein about my family or what had driven me to lie to him about cheating on him with Dr. Sabrina Ballard if he wasn’t going to tell me what he wanted. I needed him to confirm there was a point to this, that he was ready to hear it.

  “You said I deserved an explanation. I agree. So I’m here. I’m listening. I don’t have anywhere to be for the rest of the evening. You tell me what you came to say the other day and then we can leave each other’s company with closure. Both of us.”

  I closed my eyes, my resolve cracking as his words struck me with all the force of a sledgehammer. I knew I couldn’t hold back after promising to explain, but I wanted to stay here, suspended in this moment: him across the table, looking so good, his t-shirt stretching across his broad shoulders, the little bit of scruff on his chin, and his strong hands wrapped around the cup. Maybe if I didn’t speak, my chances of reconciling with him wouldn’t be so short-lived.

  But I’d promised, so I looked at my watch, eyed him, and took a breath. Now or never. “Would you like to go get some food?”

  He stiffened. “This isn’t a date. I told you not to read anything into it.”

  With a sigh, I looked at my cup, tracing the design on the side with my thumb. “No, I know it’s not. I promise I’m not reading anything into it.” My heart galloped along with my nerves, because even as I tried not to be defensive in the face of his hostility, I knew only raw honesty would work, and it was hard to be that open with someone so angry with me, even if I deserved it. I had no choice though. I kept from pleading, but barely. “I honestly don’t know if I’ll be able to tell the whole story at once, but if I can, it’ll be better if we’re distracted by food. Could you maybe have a little mercy on me so I can explain?”