Angela gazed around the room. “You’re not wrong. It’s plenty spacious, too. I could have a party in here . . . except for the annoying issue of me being immunocompromised, of course. That pesky little fact.”
“But. . .” I pointed to the desk behind me. “That’s why this is important. Your loved ones can come and sit right there, in the chair outside your room, and you can see them through the glass and talk to them via the intercom.”
“Kind of like being in prison, don’t you think?” she quipped and then shook head. “I’m sorry, Deacon. I know I’m busting your chops about something that’s your passion project. I think I’m just getting antsy, now that the whole deal is actually about to happen. You know?”
“I totally get it. Your reaction is completely normal. Honestly, I’d be more worried about you if you were all sunshine, roses and unicorns. That wouldn’t be a healthy response, and I’d be forced to order a consult with psych.” I grinned at her. “So go ahead and bitch. I’m noting here in your chart that patient’s mental status is as expected.”
Angela rolled her eyes. “Thanks so much. Glad I can skip the extra shrink visit.”
“Any time.” I tapped my pen on the file in my other hand. “What else can I do for you? Anything you’d like to discuss before I go visit my other less-needy patients? You know, the ones who still treat me with respect and think I walk on water?”
“God complex much?” She pretended to gag. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t have any more complaints. No questions. Emma was in here last night, and we had a nice, long talk.” She quirked an eyebrow at me. “Good call, hiring her. She’s a fantastic addition to the staff here. She’s like the softer, more reasonable side of medicine, you know? You come in here and tell me how you’re going to poison my entire system in order to save my life, and Emma slips in after to let me know how she’s going to make it bearable for me.”
I knew Angela was giving me a compliment for having had the foresight to add a naturopathic doctor to the floor, but for some reason, what she said made me feel . . . uncomfortable. Like I was the bad cop in the situation. It made me bristle.
“Yeah, well, I’m glad Emma’s giving you the warm, fuzzy feelings, but all that nature stuff isn’t going to cure your cancer.”
Angela leaned back, skewering me with an expression of surprise. “Whoa, there, Nellie. I wasn’t saying that I’m going to throw out the tough medical part of the protocol. I’m not, like, checking out of the hospital to go lay in a field of daisies and hope for the best. I like the woo-woo, Deacon, but I’m not stupid. I’m just saying . . . it’s nice to have the complementary part of the medicine available.” She shrugged. “Plus, I just like Emma. She listens, and she has good ideas.”
“Glad to hear it.” I flipped open the folder and pretended to read something inside.
“What’s the matter, Deacon?” Angela tilted her head. “Don’t you like Emma?”
“Of course, I do.” I shook my head. “I mean . . . it’s not a matter of liking or not liking her. I hired her. I believe she’s competent and reliable. She knows what she’s doing. That’s the only relevant point here.”
“Uh huh.” Angela nodded slowly. “I see. Then the question I have is . . . are you getting your knickers all twisted because Emma’s challenged you professionally? Or is it because you’re afraid the patients are going to like her more than they like you? Or . . .” Her eyes narrowed, and a wicked smile spread over her lips. “Is it because you kind oflikeher?”
“Angela, just stop it.” I glared. “I think you must be getting bored in here and inventing fairy tales. I hope you know me better than to believe that I’d let pride get in the way of my work—I hope my patientsdolike and appreciate Emma. They should—she brings something important to the table. Treating people medically is not a popularity contest—or at least it shouldn’t be.”
“I know that, Deacon, and I do know that you wouldn’t act like that. So the process of elimination tells us that either you don’t care for how she doesn’t agree with you all the time, or . . . you have a thing for her.”
“Okay, that’s it.” I stood up. “I’m calling for that psych consult after all, because apparently you’re having delusions.”
Angela fell back onto her pillows, clutching her middle and howling with laughter. “Deacon, you’reblushing. Oh, my God, I cannot even stand this. It’s like being in the middle of a soap opera. One of the ones set in a hospital, of course. Or maybeGrey’s Anatomy.”
I cleared my throat and ignored her, pretending again to scan the chart. “So . . . tomorrow you’ll start off the day with having your new port put in. I expect the team should be here bright and early to do that, so no breakfast until after it’s done. Nothing by mouth.”
“You mean, my PICC line.” Angela reached to pull up her blanket. “We changed that.”
“What? No.” I frowned. “When did that happen?”
“Emma and I talked about it last night. She said she would change the order and set it all up. Didn’t she mention it?”
“No, she didn’t.” Scowling, I flipped through the pages and then reached for my tablet. When I clicked on Angela’s name, there it was, right at the top—the change in orders, with Emma’s initials in the right spot, along with a note to me, explaining that she’d requested the tweak after conferring with the patient. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” Angela stared out the window. “I told Emma that I was dreading having the port again, after what had happened with my last one.”
I understood that—to a point. We’d had a port installed for Angela early in her initial treatment, and right after her last chemo, she’d developed an infection that had precipitated its removal. I hadn’t worried at the time—this happened, and while it wasn’t exactly optimal, in my opinion, a port was the best option for patients who required a central venous catheter or CVC. A PICC line wasn’t necessarily a bad idea, but it wasn’t my preference.
“But a PICC requires more maintenance and more lifestyle adjustments,” I pointed out. “You’ll have to make concessions when bathing, swimming is not an option, and you may have to have it replaced in a few months.”
“Maybe,” Angela stressed. “If everything goes as we hope, by the time it would have to be replaced, I won’t need it anymore. Right? As for bathing, I’m in the hospital, and I think we can handle the restrictions there. Swimming? Hate to break this to you, Deacon, but I’m not sneaking off to do my daily laps. Not right now.” She took a deep breath and heaved it out. “Part of it is a mental thing. The PICC is done right here at my bedside, with no special docs or equipment. Emma said that Jenny can do it for me. It’s not a big deal, and right now, anything that keeps me from trauma or added stress makes a difference.”
My lip curled as I dealt with that same irrational mad that seemed to grip me any time Emma did something that wasn’t exactly in line with my recommendations. “I’m not thrilled with this, Angela.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not thrilled with having leukemia and giving up control of my body over to a bunch of doctors, so I guess that makes us even.” She didn’t sound the least bit bothered as she picked up her cell phone and glanced at the screen. “Also, my husband is on his way up, and I want to have as lovely a time with him as I can. And that doesn’t include a debate over which CVC is best for me, when I’ve already made up my mind.”
“You don’t want Noah to know what you’ve decided?” I persisted. “Shouldn’t he get to weigh in, too, since you’re taking advice from everyone else in the world?”
