I’d been involved in medicine in one way or another for a decade, but I’d never actually seen a human face go purple with rage—until that moment.
“Ms. Carson—” she began, but I interrupted.
“Dr. Carson. Please.”
“Whatever you want to call yourself. You were not hired to undo all the effort that the rest of us have put into this hospital, especially the hard work done to make this new wing a reality.” She glared at me.
“No, I was hired to enhance it. I was asked to come on board so that my expertise—” I was subtle in my emphasis of that word, but she picked up on it. I could tell. “—could complement the work of the other professionals here. I took this job with the understanding that what I have to offer would be appreciated. I wanted to be part of a team that operates smoothly—together. I don’t know why that’s so difficult for you to understand.”
“You were not our first choice, you know.” The head nurse spit out the words. They stung, but they didn’t surprise. I’d only been at St. Agnes Memorial Hospital for a few hours, but already, I could tell that this oncology wing was their pride and joy. I’d met a few nurses and techs who had enthused about the committee who had raised the funds, made the plans, and put them into action. Above all, I’d heard one name over and over again: Dr. Deacon Girard.
It hadn’t taken a brain surgeon to realize that the team working here had been carefully assembled. Since the first call I’d had about the position had come only about four weeks ago, I’d had a hunch that either the idea of adding a naturopath had been a last-minute decision, possibly forced on Dr. Girard and his devoted crew by a board of directors, or that they’d had someone else in mind before me. Mira Hoskins had just confirmed my assumption.
“If that’s supposed to make me dissolve into tears of disappointment and hurt, you’ll be waiting a long time,” I snapped back. “I don’t care who your first choice was. I don’t care if I was your one-hundredth choice. The point is that I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. I was hired by this hospital’s board of directors. Now if you or your precious Dr. Girard have a problem with that, you can take it up with them. But until such a time as I’m informed that they’ve ended my employment, I’m doing my damn job—and that’s improving the lives of my patients. Whether or not you agree with my methods does not concern me at all.”
If Mrs. Hoskins was a cartoon character, steam would’ve been coming out of her ears. “Dr. Girard—” she began. Once again, I broke in. This woman was going to hate me anyway. I didn’t need to make nice.
“Where is old Dr. Girard, anyway?” I cocked my head. “Lots of people are talking about him, but all I get are some vague answers about him being out of the country. Why isn’t he here?”
She squared her shoulders. “Dr. Girardisout of the country. He was called away at the last minute to work with an organization that battles childhood hunger. He helps the group by offering medical treatment for conditions caused by or complicated by lack of proper nourishment. Nothing else but the most pressing emergency would’ve made him leave this hospital right now, I can assure you.”
I had to admit that as excuses went, that one wasn’t bad. It didn’t let Madam Sore Ass off the hook, though. “Fine. Well, when he comes back, he and I can have a conversation about how this wing will operate. But for the moment, I’m doing my own thing. You have two choices: you can apologize right now for the way you just spoke to me, and we’ll let bygones be bygones. One thing you’ll learn about me is that I have a quick temper, but it burns out fast, and I don’t hold grudges. We’ll work together, and life will be better for us both.”
Mrs. Hoskins said nothing, but one of her eyebrows rose.
“You might think that your second option is to keep this up, to fight me on everything I try to do, shoot daggers at me every time I try to get something done, and slow me down. But you’d be wrong. It isn’t. Your other choice is to get the hell out of my way so I can do my job.”
Her eyes flashed, and her mouth opened. I held up one hand. “You know what? Don’t answer me right away. Take some time and think about it. I’m going to introduce myself to the next patient on my list, go downstairs for my meeting . . . and then I’m going to take the rest of the afternoon off, because I still need to get settled in my new home. I’ll be in bright and early tomorrow morning. We’ll talk then.”
Pushing off the wall, I walked away with what I hoped looked like swagger, and I didn’t look back before I turned to go into the room on my right.
“Who the hell are you?” The man who sat in the chair alongside the bed was thin and bald. He wore a black T-shirt and hospital issue pajama pants. A hep-locked IV was in the back of his arm, and he stared at me with a mix of interest and distrust.
“Mr. Crew?” I took one step forward, careful not to invade his space. Patients had to feel an ownership of their hospital room; there was so much else that was out of their control that anything we could do to give them a modicum of independence and sense of self was integral to their survival.
“I’m Donnie Crew.” He inclined his head. “You here to poke at me, or ask me touchy-feely stuff?”
I laughed. “Neither. I’m here to talk, but I’m not from psych. Promise.” I held up my hand as though I was making a vow. “My name’s Emma Carson. I’m a naturopathic doctor, and I wanted to introduce myself and see if we could chat about your treatment plan, how you’re feeling now, and if there’s anything I can do to make your cancer journey a little easier.”
Mr. Crew frowned. “What’s a . . . what was that you said? Naturo . . .”
“Naturopath.” I ventured further into the room and leaned against the back of another chair. “I’m a doctor, but my medical school training was somewhat different than what traditional doctors receive. My focus is on using methods that are closer to nature. I try to find what might work with your body to make it stronger and to heal faster.”
For a long minute, Mr. Crew was silent, and then he nodded. “Okay, then. Have a seat. Let’s chat.”
* * *
An hour later, I left Mr. Crew’s room, feeling somewhat better than I had when I’d gone in. He wasn’t an easy man, that was for sure, but on the other hand, he’d been fighting multiple myeloma for almost four years. He’d been in remission for two years; now, the stem cell transplant that had given him a few years of relative health had to be repeated. He was in the hospital for a clinical drug therapy prior to the next stem cell harvest.
The man had been through excruciating pain, crippling illness and fatigue. I couldn’t blame him for being tired of more doctors, more questions and more options. Still, he’d opened up enough to listen to me for a while and had seemed amenable to further discussion, once I’d had the time to review his file more thoroughly.
Back in the hallway, I wasn’t unaware of the eyes that followed me with interest as I wandered toward the staff lounge. The head nurse and I hadn’t been exactly circumspect in our disagreement, and if this hospital was like the others in my experience, the gossip web had already spread the word about us. I was making quite a reputation for myself, and it was barely noon on my first day in town.
I’d made a big deal to Mrs. Hoskins about having a meeting with the dietician, but the fact was that I hadn’t actually set up anything there yet. I’d just needed to make it sound like I had a plan for integrating myself into their system. I definitely was going to meet with them soon, but right now, I was too rattled, too tired and too disgruntled to do anyone else any good. Pushing open the door, I sighed with relief when I saw the lounge seemed to be empty.
Sinking into a chair, I dropped my head into my hands, taking a deep breath and exhaling long.
“Hey. That was some run-in you had with Mira the Dragon.”
