“Doctor Carrington, your next patient is ready in room two.”
Piper strolls around the curved desk where I had been diligently typing notes and plops into the seat next to me. Her wavy copper hair flies through the air with her movements, floating down to rest on her shoulders as she stills. “Sounds pretty basic. Elderly woman, painful urination, caregiver is with her and says it has a foul odor, too.” She waves a hand to the side. “Will the next contestant on ‘do you have a UTI, come on down?’” Her face is flat and her voice is monotone, which I’ve come to expect from Piper. She’s bored with the sometimes redundant cases we see working in urgent care, especially one as small as this, but I welcome it.
A slower pace and redundant cases are what I need for my first few weeks back in the field. A few short months ago, I was a well-respected ER doctor in the largest city in Iowa, hiding her anxiety from the world with forced smiles and prescription sedatives. I managed to keep it hidden for a while, but eventually the dam broke, and I suffered a mental breakdown that sparked a forced medical leave.
Not a mental breakdown, my therapist would remind me, but an intense emotional crisis. A panic attack that caused a big enough scene that time seemed to stand still, and I suddenly became the patient instead of the doctor.
My crisis led to twelve weeks of a forced sabbatical, where I spent my days resting and found that time off from my job was a blessing. I had time to scrub my floor on my hands and knees. I took a Pilates class at the cute gym down the street that I had only been able to admire when I drove past it early in the morning or after hours once it was closed.
I bought a plant, and I’m proud to say that after four weeks, it’s still somewhat alive even though we’ve had some close calls. If I can keep a plant alive, there might be hope for me afterall.
Once I felt like I had my head on straight, I was given the green light by my therapist and the hospital to returnto work. They recommended a slow return back into the medical field, starting in smaller locations. In the quiet, desolate clinics that surround the city—the ones that they can’t seem to keep staffed full-time. I started out at this urgent care in Willow Creek, and over the next five weeks, I get to split my time between here and some neighboring and equally small clinics before I make the transition back to my previous job.
A place this size is mostly smaller cases: urinary tract infections, sinus infections, sprains, strains, and broken fingers. Anything that is too critical to manage, however, we call an ambulance to take them to a trauma center. I’m finding myself more relaxed here, and so far, I’m happy to spend my days treating strep throat and urinary tract infections as opposed to gun shots and car accidents.
Locking my computer, I stand up, running a hand over the length of my pencil skirt to smooth out any wrinkles.
“You look dynamite, by the way,” Piper pipes up. I smile back at her. Piper is young. Still in her early twenties. She went to a community college right out of high school to get her LPN and completed clinicals at a family practice clinic in her hometown of Copper Ridge. That clinic eventually closed, which led her to this smaller urgent care clinic. She lives somewhere halfway between herhometown and the city, happy to make the commute every day.
I continue to straighten out my outfit: a silk button-up blush pink blouse tucked into a gray pencil skirt, complete with high but tasteful black heels. I have the opportunity to wear scrubs, and I did when I worked in the ER, but here, with the pace a little slower and the chance I’ll get splattered with some type of bodily fluid a little less, I took myself on a much needed shopping spree and now get to enjoy picking out a real outfit each morning.
Smoothing down the lapel of my white physician's coat, I nod in thanks to Piper. “It feels good to wear something besides scrubs or pajamas for once.”
“And that ring,” she says, nodding to the rock sitting on my left hand. “Still can’t get over it, Dr. Carrington. Does your wrist ache from carrying that thing around all day?”
I flex my left hand against my side, using my thumb to twirl the diamond around my finger. “A one and a half carat princess cut for his princess,” my ex used to say.
I internally roll my eyes at the memory. While it’s a beautiful ring, everything else that came along with it has my stomach twitching.
With my gaze locked on the band around my finger, I ask Piper, “Would you believe my fiancé and I are no longer together?”
Her feet, which had been propped up on the desk, hit the floor with a thud as she sits upright. “Shit, I’m sorry. I just … I thought…”
“You thought that me wearing a giant engagement ring meant that I was engaged.” I chuckle. “That’s pretty legit.”
We’re silent for a moment, both of us still staring at the sparkling gem.
“I finally moved out last week. After everything that happened at my last job, with, you know, the breakdown.”
“Intense emotional crisis," she reminds me.
“Yes,” I correct myself. “Intense emotional crisis.” My first day here, Piper cornered me in the break room during lunch. She pulled out the chair next to me, popped the top off of her Tupperware, and asked me who I had to piss off to get stuck working this far out in the boonies. Before she swallowed her first bite, my anxiety got the best of me, and I word vomited my answer, telling her everything from my nightmares, to the breakdown, to my forced rehab plan and the bottle of sedatives that keep me from spiraling out on a daily basis.
“Anyways, Geoffrey, my ex, thought I was being,” I raise my fingers for air quotes, “‘a typical dramatic blonde’ when I told him what had happened. He wasn’t there for me the day it all came crashing down, and his attitude hadn’t changed the entire time I was on leave. One thing led to another, and we broke up.” We had already been sleeping in separate bedrooms for the last few months. Our fights were escalating and the same issues never got resolved. But him ignoring my calls when I was standing in the middle of a sidewalk during a blizzard, after being freshly released from the hospital, was the final straw; the metaphorical slap I needed to finally end a relationship that should have ended long before an engagement ring was brought into the picture.
“He sounds lovely,” she deadpans, and I snap myself out of my thoughts.
“Oh, he’s as lovely as they come.” Geoff isn’t a good guy, I see that now. “Anyways, we’re done, which is for the best. He’s buying out my share of the condo. Soon, we won’t have anything that ties us together, besides this ring.”
“How does that work? Is it yours to keep, could you pawn it?” She leans back in her chair again, the backrest squeaking as it moves. “I’d pawn it and buy a new car.”
I chuckle at her suggestion, staring again at the ring on my hand. Why the hell am I still wearing it? Any emotional connection I felt toward it is long gone. I don’t want to be with Geoff, that’s for damn sure. To be honest, the connection wasn’t even there when he presented the ring to me over breakfast, flicking the box across the table while never taking his eyes off his phone screen. “Gotcha something,” he said with a mouthful of eggs. “My mom helped me pick it out.”
I accepted with a placating smile. We had been together for six years, since I was a lowly resident working her way toward independence. We had occasionally talked about our future, about what it might look like, and his mom pushed for us to get married so I could take the Rothschild last name and they could say they have a doctor in the family. My parents pushed from the other end, embarrassed that their daughter was past the age of thirty and didn’t have a husband to boast about.
“It’s the last thing I need to get rid of,” I tell her, finally breaking my gaze to look up at her. “Gosh, shouldn’t it be easy? To just take it off and give it back to him?” Once I got used to the feel of it on my hand, I never took it off. It became a second skin to me, something that was more comfortable to have on than to take off. Most of the time, I forget I’m wearing it, but then I’ll look down and stare atthe last tangible part of my previous life. The life where I was a successful trauma doctor with a fiancé who worked in finance. I had a gorgeous high-rise condo in the heart of the city. I attended fancy galas and drank overpriced champagne and spent a thousand dollars on a plate for dinner. I followed all the steps my parents set out for me, checked all the metaphorical boxes on my childhood list of goals, only to watch it all go up in flames. This ring is the last piece remaining of the person I was before my fall from grace, and maybe, just maybe, it feels good to still have a tie to my old life.
“It might be cathartic to take the ring off. Rid yourself of everything gross and frustrating and start anew. And if you decide not to return it to dick head, and the ring ends up in my hands…” Piper shrugs. “Let’s just say that secret stays between us.”
