“What have you decided that I don’t get to know?” Noah Spencer came into the room, frowning at me as he swiftly crossed the floor to kiss his wife. He stood next to her, taking her hand in his. “Hey, Deacon. What’s going on?”
“Angela had a conversation with Dr. Carson last night, and now she’s insisting that she wants a PICC line, not a port.” When I said it out loud, it sounded petty and inane. After all, this wasn’tthatbig a deal. It wasn’t unusual for a patient to receive either CVC. I didn’t know why I was acting so pissy about the whole thing.
“Yeah, I know. I was here, too.” Noah’s massive shoulders rolled as he shrugged. “When Angela expressed her concerns, Emma suggested the change, and it made sense. She talked us through the pros and cons of each option. I said my piece, but Ang is the one with the final say.” His expression dared me to countermand him.
“Hey.” I spread my hands. “I’m not going to argue with either of you. I just want to make sure you’re making the smart decision. I don’t want to have to deal with putting your body through the stress of a port installation when you’re in the middle of the transplant. You know this whole thing is a process, and we don’t want to mess anything up. We want you to be in the optimal position to make the most of what the stem cell transplant can do for you.”
“I appreciate that, Deacon. I think we both do.” Angela’s tone had softened now that her husband was in the room. I wondered if it was because she knew she didn’t have to fight battles on her own as long as Noah was around. “But unless you can tell me absolutely that Emma’s wrong, and that there’s a solid reason to have a port instead, I’m going with the PICC line.”
Both Noah and Angela regarded me expectantly, but there was nothing for me to add at this point. So I only shook my head.
“I’ll let you have your visit in peace. Noah, good to see you. Angela, I’ll check in with you in the morning.”
* * *
I tried to let it go. I intentionally avoided going past Emma’s office after I left Angela Spencer’s room; I made the rounds to see my other patients, focusing on the real issues and worries that they were facing. Shortly before the end of the day, I met with a man who had just been admitted for his initial treatment for pancreatic cancer. George Brewer was understandably nervous, worried about both his prognosis and his treatment. I was in the middle of reassuring him when Emma knocked on the door.
“Oh.” She looked momentarily nonplussed when she spotted me sitting in a chair near Mr. Brewer’s bed. “I’m sorry, Dea—Dr. Girard. I didn’t realize you were in here. I can come back.”
“No, that’s all right.” I could be magnanimous, I decided. I had to be professional, after all; I didn’t want anyone to get the sense that Angela had teased me about. I wasn’t in competition with Emma Carson for the affection or the respect of our patients. “Actually, this is great timing. Mr. Brewer and I were talking about some of his concerns regarding treatment.”
Emma smiled, extending her hand to the man in the bed as she strolled into the room. She was wearing a dark blue dress, loose and covered in huge flowers—it had a lot of material, but for all of its flowiness, the skirt ended north of her knees, leaving her long legs bare. I tried not to stare while she slipped her fingers around those of our patient.
“Hello, Mr. Brewer. I’m Emma Carson. I’m the naturopathic doctor in this department.”
George Brewer nodded, his face brightening. “I used to see a naturopath when I lived in California, but it’s been ten years or more since I was there. I’m glad to know you’re a part of my team of docs here.”
“I’m glad to be on your team,” Emma responded. “I know Dr. Girard is working on your treatment plan, and I’ll be happy to consult with him on that, if you’d like. Also, if you have any particular issues that need addressing right away, maybe we can talk about those now. Anything like diet or stress management . . . or how we can ease some emotional distress.” Holding his hand still, she sank onto the side of the mattress. “I know this has got to be devastating for you, but I’m here to help smooth things out, if I can.”
George had been almost stoic, if worried, while we had chatted, but in the face of Emma’s soft words, his face crumbled. “I . . . it’s just that . . .” He cleared his throat, even as tears filled his eyes. “My brother died of pancreatic cancer. We didn’t know it until it was too late to do anything for him. And I don’t want that to happen to me.” He coughed a little. “I know everyone has a reason to live, but I just . . . I got married last month. I’m almost fifty years old, and it took me this long to find the love of my life. She’s only thirty-six, and we . . .” His face turned red. “Well, the truth is, we’re having a baby. A baby, when I should be getting ready to be a grandpa! I never thought I’d have the chance to have a family of my own, and then Shelly came along, and I thought everything was coming up roses for me. Then . . . this.” He spread out his hands. “Can you even believe it?”
This was part of my job that I absolutely hated. I didn’t have words of wisdom. Cancer was an equal opportunity devastator, and it didn’t discriminate among those who were happy or sad, struggling to make ends meet or living the good life. Trying to express empathy and understanding in the face of a new diagnosis was painful for me.
But Emma didn’t miss a beat. Her head angled to the side, she gave a small sigh of distress. “Oh, Mr. Brewer . . . can I call you George? And I’m Emma. Don’t worry about the doctor stuff.” She shook her head. “That absolutely and positively sucks. I can see exactly why you’re just . . . reeling. But I do have some good news.” She gripped his hand. “First of all, I don’t know when your brother died—and I’m sorry for your loss, by the way—but we’ve made some incredible strides in the treatment of this disease even within the last couple of years. And second, having a wife you love and a baby to look forward to meeting is a terrific incentive to keep you motivated to kick the shit out of cancer. You’d be surprised how much of a difference that makes.”
George sniffed. “You think so?”
“I don’t just think it. I know it.” Emma patted his arm. “I’m going to let you get on with your conversation with Dr. Girard here, but maybe this week, I can come by and we can discuss your diet and what kind of herbal support you might be interested in.”
“I’d really appreciate that.” Mr. Brewer had taken on a new aura of peace, and I didn’t miss the way he watched Emma as she waved at him over her shoulder. On impulse, I stood up, too.
“Sorry, Mr. Brewer—can you give me a second? I need to talk to Dr. Carson for just a minute.”
I strode out into the hall, where Emma was lingering, typing into her tablet. She glanced up at me and offered an absent smile. “Hey. Sorry for the interruption. I hope I didn’t get you off track.”
“No.” I shook my head slowly. “No, uh, that was fine. I think you raised Mr. Brewer’s spirits.”
“Oh, that’s definitely nice to hear.” She turned off her tablet and closed the leather binder. “I’m glad I could help.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I paused, struggling to gather my thoughts and trying not to look at her legs. “Uh, I wanted to talk with you about Angela and the port.”
“Oh!” Emma beamed. “Yeah, that worked out well, didn’t it? She was like a different person once we figured out what had been weighing on her mind.”
My eyebrows drew together. “What was weighing on her mind?Since when was there something ‘weighing on her mind’?”
Emma’s smile faltered just a little. “I put it in the file notes a few days ago, that I’d noticed Angela seemed a little anxious. I had picked up on it myself, and then Noah mentioned it to me when we were talking—”
“Noah? You were talking with Noah about Angela’s care?” I narrowed my eyes.
