by Jamie Knight
Most of the time I didn’t know if it even was morning, noon, or night. Now I can work eight to four, or ten to six, or even nine to five like normal people.
I glance down at the chart. Lincoln Drake, I read. Ex SEAL, current MMA fighter who has been advised to quit but doesn’t want to, knee problems, no cartilage, in constant pain, no meds but in dire need of physical therapy, which he was also initially resistant to.
Sounds like a piece of cake, I think. After all, who ruined the curve in her Anatomy and Physiology course in college? This girl.
Still, there’s a stereotype that pops into my head when I read a medical chart such as this. I’ve dealt with these kinds of guys before. Arrogant, sexist, coming on to you and thinking they are just the shit. Just because you’re a hot guy doesn’t mean every “chick” will fall for you.
Certainly not me, anyway. I’d rather be with my gymnast girls, training for the Olympics. Now there’s a group worth working for. Respectful, sweet, eager, and grateful, I’d rather have dozens of them over one MMA fighter any day.
I enter the examination room. Anne is there, and she smiles at me.
“Hi, Amanda,” he says. “This is Lincoln.”
I look over and see him. He’s cute. Very cute, in fact. Dark Italian good looks, scruffy beard, steely blue eyes and that slicked hair. I bet he’s hairy underneath his t-shirt and I’m one of those weird girls who likes a hairy guy.
But more than that, I’m a professional. I know to never mix business with pleasure.
“Hello,” I say. “How are you?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” he says.
We shake hands. I can feel his calloused palm and thick fingers. He could really use a manicure.
I look over my chart and call up his record on the computer.
“So, knee injury, tendon previously replaced, possible surgery.”
“No,” he says. “No surgery.”
“Let me start with your vitals.”
Or at least this is the way I remember our conversation going. It all got fuzzy for me as soon as he turned into pure rage and stormed out of my office.
“Why?” he asks. “You need to fix my knee.”
“I will,” I say. “But as a nurse I like to start from scratch. It’s all connected.”
He sighs.
“Take off your shirt,” I order him.
I definitely remember that part, even though I told myself to act as if I didn’t even notice, and I think I did a pretty convincing job.
His face brightens, and he takes off his shirt and throws it on the floor.
I glance at him then away.
He is a stud. His broad shoulders, bulging biceps, juicy pecs, and hairy chest just do it for me.
But he’s also cocky and arrogant. I can tell he’s just waiting for me to drool or to complement him or something. I’m not going to give him that satisfaction.
I remove the blood pressure cuff, wrap it around his biceps, and inflate it.
“Ow!” he says. “That’s too tight!”
“I’m sure you can handle it,” I say, without looking at him.
I place the stethoscope at the crook of his elbow where the cuff meets and listen.
“Do you think that I…”
“Shhh,” I say. “I’m trying to listen.”
He says nothing and scratches his chest hair, which I find incredibly erotic.
I release the cuff and place it back.
“So, doc,” he says. “Am I going to live?” he asks and folds his arms across his chest.
“Yes, I believe so,” I say.
I look back down at his chart.
“Good,” he says. “Because I got a road tour coming up.”
“About that,” I say. “I think you could benefit from an MRI.”
“No way,” he says. “I don’t want anything like that.”
“Well,” I begin to say when Anne comes over.
“Lincoln,” she says and places her hands on both of Lincoln’s shoulders.
Lincoln looks at her and listens. I smile to myself, thinking that if anyone can set Lincoln straight, Anne can.
“You know, Anne, how I feel about invasive treatment,” Lincoln says.
“Let Amanda explain your options and then you can decide from there.”
Lincoln looks over at me with a sour look on his face. His crossed arms over his chest just make me more attracted to his strong upper body. I just want to bite into the crook between his neck and shoulder with my teeth.
“Well, Mr. Drake,” I begin. “Given the state of your knee, you have several options.”
“What are they?” he asks and looks over to Anne.
Anne comes over to Lincoln and places her hand on his right shoulder.
“To begin with,” I say, “your joint tendon could be repaired.”
Lincoln scratches his right shoulder with his left hand.
“Done that already.”
“Or, much less invasive, there is the option of artificial cartilage being injected.”
“No,” he says. “That shit is just Teflon.”
“I see,” I say and think, what’s next?
I know he’s just going to reject any suggestion I throw at him, but I have to go through all the other options anyway. It’s just how some patients are.
“There is also the option of the doctor going in and drilling holes in your kneecap to discharge the scar tissue so that the knee heals from behind.”
Lincoln jumps off the table, picks up his t-shirt from the floor, and looks towards the door.
“No fucking way,” he says. He comes up to me with his hands on his hips. “I told you, no fuckin’ surgery!”
He’s in my face, veins bulging, and has a scary, distorted look on his face. Still, I need to be and am the professional.
“Well, perhaps the worst-case scenario that could enable the most optimal movement for you would be a complete knee replacement.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he rages.
I step back and clutch the chart to my chest and bump into the wall.
Anne approaches Lincoln.
“Bud, stop this.”
She places her hands on Lincoln’s shoulders again. Usually this has a calming effect with patients, but not this one. Lincoln throws them off.
“Fuck all of you,” he says, and turns to me. “I told you, no more fucking surgery!”
He slams out the door, pounding in his wake. The rest of the floor is reduced to silence as his ranting fades into the distance.
I take a deep breath, look around the room, and shake my head angrily.
Anne comes over and pulls me to her chest as I ask her what the fuck is wrong with Lincoln?
I have had patients treat me badly before but this one really takes the case.
And the worst part – the part I can’t even confess to Anne – is that I still think Lincoln is so fucking hot.
Chapter 4
Lincoln
I feel like a piece of fucking shit.
Why did I treat that physical therapist like that? Amanda – the hot one. She’d done nothing wrong, but, no, I have to go and be my usual fucking asshole self. And during the holiday season, no less.
I stop at Walmart to get the dog some food, collar, leash and a big bed. He’s a big boy. Looks like a cross of pit bull, shepherd, and husky. Beautiful dog abandoned and alone left to die on its own.
How I identify with him.
It seems like that’s how my life has turned out, without my meaning for it to happen that way.
I leave him in the truck, but on the inside part of it, and I put a blanket on top of him in case he gets cold while I run in. Luckily, it’s winter, so these assholes in Walmart won’t film me and put me on YouTube and shame me for leaving a dog in a truck on a warm day.
Fucking pricks. Mind your own goddamned business, I would tell them, if I could.
It’s not that I’m in favor of animal abuse. It’s just that people get so nosy and over-react
and report people for things that aren’t even that big of a deal.
You’d never know it, but I was sent to Catholic school as a kid. My mom worked nights as a waitress after my father came home from working all day, so that we could be educated well.
And I remember how in fourth grade, we used to go to Sr. Francis Bernadette’s class for reading. Everyone feared her, but as we sat down, she gave us her first piece of wisdom.
“Remember!” she yelled out of fuckin’ nowhere. “The eleventh commandment. M-Y-O-B! Mind your own business.”
All the other kids shuddered, but in my own little wimpish way (believe me, I was a little thing who was lucky he didn’t get run over every time he crossed the street – that’s why I eventually started bulking up in the gym and then joined the military and became a fighter on the side), I thought to myself, that is good advice.
And the lesson of Sister Francis Bernadette has stuck with me since.
She would not recognize me now, I’m sure, but, then again, we all change. I just happened to go from dorky skinny kid to big tough guy, which is more of a drastic turn-around than most.
I stand in line at one of the registers at Walmart, and this little kid in front of me turns and points to his dinosaur toy.
“This is Rex,” he says. “You know, from the movie?”
I say nothing and shake my head.
“He means Tyrannosaurus Rex from Jurassic World,” his mother says.
She smiles at me but I’m in no mood to flirt. For some reason, single moms always think I’m their type. I guess it’s something about how my big arms could rock their kids to sleep and then throw the mom over my shoulder and carry her into our own bedroom for a different kind of rocking.
I’ve had my share of them who wanted me and I’ve taken advantage of some of the opportunities but I don’t want any of it today. I still can’t get that physical therapist, Amanda, off my mind, and I still feel bad for what I did when I was at her office.
Still, I don’t want to be rude.
“Cool,” I say to the little kid.
The cashier rings me up and bags my stuff, and as I leave the store, I can see the dog in the passenger window of the cab of my truck, wagging his tail and panting. He’s only half under the blanket, and he doesn’t seem cold. So any nosy busybodies can just keep walking right by, thank you very much.
“Oh, Rex,” I say.
And that’s it. My new buddy.
And his name is Rex.
I hear it through the grapevine that Anne talked to Damien about me, and I don’t appreciate it.
As Sr. Francis said, M-Y-O-B, mind your own business!
I know they mean well and are trying to figure out the best treatment for me. But I’m still pretty mad.
I go to the gym because I need a good, hard workout to try to clear my head. I start with the treadmill because, despite everything, I’m pissed off at Damien, and he’s on the other side of the gym. Being over here on my own gives me the chance to pound away my problems on the machine.
He looks up and over at me and I look down. I increase the speed of the treadmill until I’m running at a really fast clip.
He saunters over, acting like Mr. Tough Guy, and I ignore him.
“Hey,” he says.
I say nothing and just look at the wide-screen televisions that are playing a football game.
“Anne is worried about you, you know.”
I still say nothing. I’m running too fast; my knee aches. It’s killing me.
“Anne feels like you’re in a bad way,” Damien says, and wipes his face with his towel. “I’m just going to come out and say it so we can clear the air. I know you’re avoiding me.”
Fuck him, I think to myself. Suddenly I feel a pop in my knee. I fall on the belt of the treadmill and then I slam against the cinderblock wall behind me.
“Fuck!” I say and grab my knee.
I’m panting heavily. My knee is so fucked up. I can’t do this anymore. My face grimaces from the pain, sadness, and frustration.
Damien comes over and helps me up. Some of the other gym attendants help me over to the chairs at the side.
They help me sit down. I grab onto my knee and look up at Damien. He puts his arm around my shoulders.
“I can’t go on like this,” I say.
“I know, bud,” Damien says. “Let me help you.”
I lean back in the chair while Damien pulls his Jeep up to the front door. Some of the other people at the gym help me in and Damien drives me back to my apartment. Then he helps me in by himself, which is no small feat.
“Thanks,” I manage to grunt.
I was silent the whole way here, because of the pain and also because of the embarrassment.
I fall onto the couch, breathing heavily.
Damien props my leg up onto the couch and takes my workout shoes off.
I feel heavy and tired.
When I awake, Damien is on the phone in the kitchen and he’s talking loudly. I can hear him pacing back and forth.
I don’t give a shit. I shut my eyes.
When I wake up again, Damien is sitting across from me in the big, white, plush Pottery Barn chair I just bought. He’s scrolling through his phone.
I’m kind of pissed because I don’t want that chair to get dirty.
“Hello, Sleeping Beauty,” he says and stands up.
“Fuck you,” I say. “Go away.”
“You know I can’t do that,” he says.
He comes over and places his hand on my forehead as if I have a fever.
“But when Rex comes over to live with you later today, will you be mad at him?”
I remembered Rex.
“No,” I say. “That’s different.”
“How so?”
“Because he loves me, and I love him.”
“Is that how it is?” Damien asks.
I say nothing. I just have so much resentment toward him.
“Dr. Mack,” he says.
That name pisses me off. I roll onto my right side toward the big pillows on the couch and the pain in my knee shoots through like someone just stabbed my knee with a sharp piece of glass.
Damien comes over and sits at the end of the couch.
“I know you hate me for bringing him up again.”
“I don’t hate you,” I whine.
“It’s OK, bud,” he says. He pats my butt. “Let’s talk it over.”
“The first thing you can do is not touch my butt,” I say.
“You know you like it,” he says and slaps my butt again.
“Fuck you,” I say and laugh.
I prop myself up while Damien comes over again and places the pillows behind my lower back.
“There you go, buddy,” he says and sits back down in the chair across from me.
I yawn and raise my arms and look over at him.
He smiles.
“I’m sorry,” I finally manage to spit out.
There. I said it.
“Don’t worry about it,” Damien says, as he looks out the window at my neighbor walking his dogs.
“So, what’s up?” I ask and yawn again.
I’m open to talking to him now.
Finally.
He sighs.
“You know how I said Dr. Mack could help us deal with PTSD?” he asks.
“Help you deal,” I quickly correct him. “I don’t have PTSD.”
“Yeah. Well. He really has helped me a lot. I haven’t given you an update lately, but I feel much better and am living my life pretty happily again,” he tells me.
“Good for you,” I snap.
Realizing how bad that sounds, I quickly correct myself.
“I mean, that’s great. I’m sincerely glad he’s helped you. I know you had heard good things about him and had high hopes, so I’m glad all your expectations have been met.”
He smiles contentedly, and he really does look better. I’m really happy for him. I just wish he’d stop pushing this quack therapist on me. I
don’t even believe in PTSD!
“Well, he takes a limited number of patients because he’s so in demand,” Damien continues. “But I’ve asked him if he’ll still see you, if you’ve changed your mind, and he said yes.”
He looks sincerely happy about this, but I’m not.
“Well, save your referral for someone else,” I tell him. “I’m still not interested.”
“But don’t you think it might be a better way to deal with all your pent-up emotions than…”
“Than flipping out at my physical therapist?” I finish the sentence I know he probably doesn’t want to finish.
“I was actually going to say instead of beating up other guys in the ring, even though it’s hurting you physically, but, the other reason is also good,” he says.
“Fuck, man,” I tell him. “You know I like fighting.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t like you anymore,” he reminds me. “It’s no good for you. You keep having knee problems, and…”
“Look, you don’t have to remind me,” I tell him. “I get it. Let me make up my own mind, okay?”
“Okay,” he says, his hands raised in submission.
“And I do appreciate the referral to Anne. I was upset when I got Amanda instead. But I know she’s good, too, and that she can help me,” I admit, eating humble pie. “If it’s not too late to go back and see her again, I’d like help with the physical therapy. I’ll pass on the psychologist. And any invasive treatment for now, as I’ve made clear.”
“Okay,” Damien repeats, nodding his head as if the matter’s settled. “I’m sure it’ll still be possible to go back, as long as you apologize. I’ll talk to Anne for you and see what she thinks.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, meaning it.
“I gotta go,” Damien says. “I have a meeting with some new client with a huge portfolio of stocks for me to manage.”
“OK,” I say. “Thanks for your help. And good luck with that new portfolio.”
Damien brightens.
“You know what?”
“What?” I ask, as I sit myself up.
Damien props the pillows up behind my back.
I’m beginning to think he is pretty OCD.