“Scared of what?”
“The fallout. Yes, I’m scared of seeing my cardiologist because what he tells me will fuck my life up right now, and you’re scared of telling Rose because of what she’ll say. Make an effort – go and see her and talk to her. I’m guessing this is something you’ve been putting off telling her for months. It’s why you ghosted her.” She swung round on the chair like a child. “Stop letting her suffer because you’re scared of the fallout.”
I looked up at the ceiling. “I have another patient to see, but you’re right. I know you like being right.” She wasn’t my favourite person right now. “Book an appointment. I’ll speak to Rose.”
“You sure you don’t want to tell me what’s going on? I’m a good listener.”
“You’d make an excellent judge, and no. I’ll speak to Rose as soon as she’ll listen to me.”
She stood up and gave me a little wave. “Toodles, Carter, try and be an adult.”
My next patient practically fell through the door after her. John Whyte was booked in for a laparoscopic cholecystectomy in two days’ time, in common language, a gallbladder removal. It was a straightforward surgery most of the time and this op shouldn’t be a problem.
“Mr Whyte, how are you feeling?”
He didn’t sit down, lingering at the door. “I’m feeling really good. No problems. In fact, I don’t think I want the operation, I think the problem’s solved itself, in fact. He repeated himself, rubbing at his balding head.
“I don’t advise that, Mr Whyte. Delaying the operation can lead to sepsis, more violent attacks, pancreatitis – none of it is pretty.” I’d been through this with him before.
“I know, doctor. I understand but it has been so much better this last week or two, and things are busy at work. Now’s just not the right time, so I’d like to cancel it. Maybe book another appointment with you for in six months and we can review it and see if the operation’s still necessary.” He still hadn’t sat down; his coat buttoned all the way up even though the room was too warm. He wasn’t planning on staying for the appointment, that was clear.
“You need to consider how much time you’d need off work if this becomes critical. Having it done now, as planned, should be straightforward. If we leave it longer, there’s a higher chance of more complications and a longer recovery time.” I made a note on my computer of Mr Whyte’s request to delay it. “You’d also need to be re-referred by your GP and go through the waiting list again, so it’s likely you’d need an emergency operation before you got to the top of the list again.”
He shrugged, looking away from me. “I know you’re an expert in this, doctor, but I really feel like I’m much better than I was, and I think it’s resolved itself, so I’ll postpone it. Indefinitely.”
I didn’t say anything, just waited, looking at him from time to time. He didn’t move, didn’t seek to leave.
I knew he was working out whether he was doing the right thing. I wouldn’t try to persuade him anymore, he had the facts, and he could search for more online, if he wanted to. He could also still go ahead with the pre-op now.
This was about me letting him decide for himself what he wanted to do, just like I needed to let Rose decide what she should do with the information about me and Laurie, when she let me close enough to talk to her.
Mr Whyte stepped away from the door and sat down on the chair where Fallon had been. He didn’t spin round on it like she did; if he had, I’d have been calling Rose’s department.
“You don’t think I should delay the op, do you?”
I shook my head. “My medical opinion is that the sooner you have this done, the sooner you can get on with the rest of your life.”
Words which I’d said to Laurie. The sooner she was married and had her trust fund, the sooner she could separate from her toxic family and move on. For me, it was one day of pretending to be someone I wasn’t, doing a favour.
A favour that might cost me something I wanted more than fucking anything.
“But it’s your choice.”
Mr Whyte looked paler, he tapped my desk with his fingers, a quick disjointed rhythm. “Truth be told, doctor, I’m shitting myself about this op. What if I don’t survive it?”
“It’s highly unlikely you won’t survive it.”
“But it’s possible?”
“It’s also possible that you’ll be hit by a car when you cross the carpark.” It wasn’t the first time I’d used that comparison. “What is likely is that the next attack you have will be worse and could lead to sepsis. Then the likelihood of dying is higher.”
“You’re a regular Job’s Comforter, aren’t you?”
The term was old-fashioned but I knew what he meant.
“I’m a surgeon. They remove our sense of humour in third year.” I kept my face deadpan.
That made him laugh. “Fair enough. Okay, let’s do the pre-op. I don’t like the sound of sepsis.”
