I settle back against the pillow. “That was easily the most awkward thing I’ve done in a hospital bed, and I once had a prostate exam while maintaining full eye contact.”
She doesn’t respond with a smartass remark, which by this point in our snark-fest is enough to gain my attention.
I glance over to see her biting the inside of her cheek. Her eyes are fixed on the far wall, and her ears are turning pink as she tries to conceal her laughter.
“You okay over there, Doc?”
“I’m regretting my life choices,” she finally manages to say.
“Welcome to the club.”
There’s a knock at the door, and the porters enter. One older, one younger, both sets of eyes trained on me. Dr. Park immediately shifts back into business mode.
“Let’s go,” she says to them. “He’s ready.”
She steps closer to help adjust the bed and reaches for the side rail, but misjudges the angle. The rail clatters as she stumbles, catching herself with a sharp breath.
I react without thinking, my hand shooting out to steady her.
“Careful.”
Her eyes flash up to mine, a mix of irritation and embarrassment. “I’m fine.”
One porter unlocks the wheels of my bed while she regains her composure, and then I’m being guided toward the door.
Dr. Park walks beside us as they push me into the corridor, her clipboard tucked under one arm. All clean lines and calm instructions again, like the last five minutes didn’t happen.
I exhale and let my head fall back against the pillow.
She glances at me. “You okay?”
It’s unexpected. And I could lie—I’m good at it.
Instead, I shift against the sheets. “You’re sure the anesthesia guy got my correct weight?”
“Very sure.”
“I’m still not ruling out the possibility this is all a conspiracy to take me out.”
“We’re not that organized, and you’re not that important.”
I close my eyes, then hear her voice again. Gentler.
“But right now, Mr. Hutchison? I know the stakes, and I know how important this is for you. And we’ll do everything we can to get the outcome you want.”
The lights blur above us as we turn the corner.
“Okay,” I manage. “Thanks, Doc.”
She nods, and that’s it. No fake comfort or additional coddling. She’s acknowledging how shit this is without pushing, and I appreciate it more than any sort of sugar-coated bedside babble. Just a nod and a promise to do everything they can.
We pull into the pre-op area, filled with nurses and monitors and too much fucking light. I’m moved onto a new gurney, clutching the blanket a little tighter than I mean to.
“Ready?” a nurse asks.
I don’t answer right away, because my throat feels dry.
“Yeah,” I say eventually.
