“Are you having regular bowel movements, and are able to get up without the need for assistance?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any concerns about the incision site or how to take care of the area?”
“No.”
I forced a professional smile, my cheeks twinging from the movement. “Congratulations. You’ve been checked and are free to go. A follow up is scheduled for you to get your stitches removed in a week and to check to make sure everything is still healing properly. Dr. Jacee will be assisting you with that appointment. The details are in your paperwork.”
There was no jumping for joy like I thought there would be, no celebratory smile or throwing of a fist in the air. No excitement reflecting in his eyes while he stared at me, bewildered, with genuine confusion there instead.
How were theysogreen?
He ripped his gaze away from me for a split second to leaf through the paperwork—the final page, the date of his follow-up, along with a detailed checklist to walk through for daily care. Everything he needed would be right there for him to refer back to, as well as whatever care we’d administered to him during his stay.
“Did you need to call a rideshare to come get you?” I asked.
He shook his head slowly. “No, I… My sister will come pick me up.”
Sister.
Were there other siblings?
If so, how many?
Focus.
“One of the nurses will be coming around with a fresh pair of scrubs for you to leave in. You can toss the others you’re wearing in the bin in the bathroom. Any further questions?”
He shook his head again. “Thank you… for everything. For… saving my life.”
I hated the twist my stomach knotted itself into when the unadulterated sincerity of his words reflected in his eyes, too, as he turned to look at me again.
There were too many times to count that I’d found loved ones of patients, and even them themselves, thanking me for what I’d done, the lives I saved and the lives I changed. Being in this field of work garnered a lot of praise, sometimes an impressive amount that tended to cancel out the grief-stricken families that were sprinkled in between the good cases.
I’d gone into this profession for none of those reasons, finding the overt displays of emotion very overwhelming and sometimes uncomfortable to deal with. I enjoyed the challenge of a puzzle and the added danger of something serious being on the line—much like how Marlow operated.
We were two sides of the same coin, after all. A mirror to what could have been if circumstances were even slightly different.
All of that was to say that putting up a stone wall that separated myself from overly expressive people had saved me from plenty of awkward situations in the past.
Up until now, apparently.
“I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you.” He spoke quietly.
My throat was too tight to speak, causing my voice to sound gruff. “Don’t.”
He frowned.
Discomfort was kicking up inside of me, raising alarm bells that were supposed to no longer exist.
When was the last time I’d had a panic response?
Ten years?
Twelve?
Longer?
