My heart leaps in my chest at the possibility. Maybe they will offer me a clinic job somewhere near Copper Ridge, or even at the urgent care center in Willow Creek. It’d be incredible to get to know the community, to have the hospital recommend I move in that direction instead of feeling like I let them down.
Before I can verbalize my thoughts, Sarah speaks up, “I’d like to point out to Holly that this is just an opportunity if you’re interested. You are not obligated to say yes, nor does it affect your position with Westmont Hospital System if you decline.”
My brow furrows, and I look from her, to the medical director, then back to Regina. “What am I not getting?”
Regina smiles. “We’d like to ask you to be a keynote speaker at next month’s fundraiser. With everything that happened … with your incident…” I cringe at her calling it my incident. “We’d be able to put a positive spin on it and show our donors all the good that came from it.”
Ah. As she speaks, the more it makes sense. My “incident” that day wasn’t a public event, but there were enough patients in the triage area and waiting room that the commotion didn’t go unnoticed. That, coupled with some disgruntled, gossipy staff, meant that word got out. It didn’t make national news, and it wasn’t an event that people talked about for long. But there were whispers of a crisis at Westmont Hospital, of a trauma doctor who had a breakdown on the job. Some speculated that it was because of the poor working conditions or the pressure that the Westmont System puts on its employees.
“Is someone worried that what happened is going to reflect poorly on thehospital?””
“Oh gosh, no,” Keith answers. He looks at Regina, who chuckles a little forcefully, in my opinion. “We just think it’d be a good way for everyone to see that you’re back, and that you’re doing well. You’ve seen firsthand what impoverished communi—”
“I would never call them impoverished,” I bite out. “Rural? Yes. Rural with limited resources available because of their location? Absolutely. But they are wonderful communities.” Every employee I met working at these smaller clinics were incredibly kind. They welcomed me, no questions asked. They thanked me for filling in. They genuinely asked me to come back. The patients were hard-working individuals, much like Grayson and his family. “I won’t agree to be the poster child of”—I raise my fingers for air quotes—“‘impoverished communities’ just so this hospital can make a few bucks.”
“He didn’t mean to say impoverished,” Regina responds, fumbling slightly with her words. “But the financial aspect is something that research shows affects one’s ability to pursue the proper healthcare.”
My eyes flip to the watch on my wrist, and I stand abruptly. “Sorry to rush out, but it’s nearing the end of my lunch hour. Was there anything else that we needed to discuss today?” With my hands on my hips, I look aroundthe room, making direct eye contact with every person there.
Dr. Kellerman sighs heavily, leaning back in his chair with an arm slung over the side. “Don’t take this personally, Dr. Carrington. We aren’t singling you out, or trying to make you a puppet, if that’s your concern. We want this initiative to be successful. We’ve poured a lot of time and manpower into research, into drawing up plans and making this presentation. A speech from you about what you’ve seen firsthand would drive it home. It’d be the final push our donors need so we can get financial backing. If we have the backing, then the very clinics that you worked in would benefit. We don’t need to make this about your medical issues or leave of absence.” He looks pointedly around the room. “But you are one of the few people that has worked both the ER side, where we treat individuals that could’ve been managed outpatient, as well as the rural health side. Your expertise would be invaluable.”
Guilt seeps from every pore. This isn’t about me, necessarily. It’s a request of me so families like the Harts can have access to proper healthcare. It’s so people can actually seek out preventative care, or establish with a local physician instead of using the emergency room for all services. I’ve studied their rural health initiative myself,hell, it was even a topic in one of my med school classes. If I could suck it up and give one hell of a speech at this event, I might be able to do some good in this world.
“Can I think about it?” I ask softly, and when I’m met with a round of complacent nods, I politely excuse myself to return to my shift.
The hallway stretches out in front of me, too bright, too loud. Each step back toward the ER feels heavier than the last. I know this isn’t really about me—yet somehow, it feels selfish to even hesitate. Like saying no would mean turning my back on people who aren’t offered the same choices as everyone else, or the chance to own their health. It’s a chance to help people very much like Grayson and his family, and that alone should give me my answer.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Holly
“Dr. Carrington, your next patient is ready. Mr. Stratten, room four, drove himself to the ER. He said he passed out while working in the garden. He’s alert and oriented now; his only complaint is a significant headache that he says has been off and on for the last three weeks.” I nod along to the tech as I take a swig of water, begging the nervous energy from my lunchtime meeting to wear off.
“What time did he pass out?”
“Around eleven this morning.” I check my watch to note it’s almost two o’clock.
“I’m sorry, did you say a headache for the last three weeks?” Poor guy must be miserable.
The tech nods. “He lives out in the boonies. Doesn’t have a primary care doctor anymore. Stopped taking medsfor heart disease and hypertension a few years ago when his scripts ran out.”
I huff out a frustrated breath. Sadly, that seems to be the case with a lot of the older populations I’ve run into over the last few weeks. I raise a hand to knock on the wall outside room four just as she finishes. “Mr. Stratten?” I pull open the curtain, smiling at the elderly man sitting on the hospital gurney. His silver hair is sticking up on the sides, his thin legs dangling over the edge of the cot. His hands are clasped firmly in his lap, the sun-spotted skin and deep wrinkles showing a lifetime of hard work. I’m Dr. Carrington.” I reach my hand out, noticing he returns it with a firm squeeze.
“You can call me Harry.”
“Alright, Harry, nice to meet you. So, tell me what brings you in today?”
“Well, my wife says I passed out,” he says. “I was picking some tomatoes so she could can salsa, and I suddenly got the worst headache. Came on like a son of a bitch.”
Taking my stethoscope, I raise it to his chest, placing it over his heart. “Do you know how long you were passed out for?”
“Just a few minutes; she called an ambulance, but by the time they came, I was fine. I still have a headache, though. That hasn’t gone away.”
I pause for a moment to listen to his heartbeat, which sounds to be in a normal rhythm. “If the ambulance was there, how come you didn’t get checked out sooner?”
“Like I said, Doc, I was fine.” He shoots me a cute smile, and I shake my head at him, garnering a laugh.
“Has this happened to you before? You get a terrible headache and pass out?”
