Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Dr. Steel’s voice is gentle, soothing. It’s a stark contrast to the icy weather outside and, in a way, the turbulence inside me. She’s comforting‚ a quality that I suppose is essential to her profession. If I believed in her profession, that is. I still think it’s all BS.
I follow her into the office. I’ve been in Pete’s office many times, but still I gaze at the shelves lined with hardback books, his medical degrees and awards on the walls. The office is huge. He’s the chief of surgery, of course. A plush sofa sits in one corner while two armchairs flank a mahogany coffee table in the center of the room. Next to the window is Peter’s desk, neat as a pin.
“It’s Sunday, so the staff aren’t here,” Dr. Steel says. “I apologize that I can’t offer you any coffee.”
“I’m good,” I say.
“Okay.” She smiles. “Have a seat.” She gestures to the chairs facing the desk and takes Peter’s chair behind the desk. “As you know, we’re here for me to assess your mental health with regard to the experimental nerve graft to restore full function to your right hand.”
I simply nod.
“It’s important that you’re honest with me, Dr. Lansing.”
“Of course.”
“The reason the board is concerned is because of the trauma you’ve been through. The accident that took your daughter’s life and resulted in the injury to your hand, and your wife’s subsequent suicide.”
I try not to wince. “That all happened nearly three years ago,” I say.
“Yes, I understand that,” Dr. Steel replies, her voice steady and empathetic. “But as you know, the ripples of such traumatic events can linger for a long time. It is crucial to make sure you are emotionally stable before undergoing such an experimental procedure.”
I nod again, clenching my good hand into a fist. This woman in front of me isn’t wrong, but underlining each tragedy is like reliving them all over again. I try to force myself to relax.
I’m unsuccessful.
“Dr. Lansing,” she says. “I think it would be beneficial to further discuss these past traumatic experiences. To understand your coping mechanisms.”
“I’ve coped,” I insist. “It’s not like I had any choice in the matter.”
She studies me with a soft yet probing gaze. “Coping and healing are two different things, Dr. Lansing,” she says gently. “You’re a well-respected surgeon, and I admire your resilience. But sometimes, even the strongest among us need assistance with mending the parts of ourselves that aren’t visible to the naked eye.”
I glance at the framed pictures on Peter’s desk, his family’s cheery faces mocking my internal turmoil. His wife. His children.
Those things I no longer have.
I swallow hard and nod.
“Let’s start from the beginning.” She leans back in Peter’s chair. “The accident with your daughter, Julia. Can you tell me about that day?”
I close my eyes for a moment, letting the memory wash over me. It’s like wounds being reopened. Here we go.
Again.
“Dr. Lansing…”
“I had a big surgery scheduled—a Whipple with a high-risk patient—and Lindsay had parent-teacher conferences. I was supposed to take Julia to her grandmother’s for the day instead of to daycare. It was raining. Raining really hard.”
She nods, keeping her expression impassive.
That’s what shrinks do. They force you to talk about things while they have no feelings themselves.
But if I want this surgery at this hospital, I have to jump through the fucking hoops.
“A car was coming through a red light and T-boned me.” My heart starts to accelerate. “I tried to stop. Tried to…”
The words get stuck in my throat.
“It’s okay. Go as slowly as you need to go.”
I close my eyes again and take a deep breath. “My airbag deployed, and I screamed for Julia. But she… She was forced out of her car seat and…”
Forced out because I had neglected to make sure she was secure.
No. I buckled her in. I remember.
The click. I heard the click.
Or did I?
Dr. Steel nods. “Go on.”
I open my eyes. “Why? Why do I have to relive this? Therapy didn’t work for me. It didn’t work for Lindsay. I’m sure you’ve seen Dr. Morgan’s records.”
“You know I can’t look at Dr. Morgan’s records without your consent.”
“But you’re consulting.”
“It’s not the same thing. I’m consulting at the request of the hospital board. Not at Dr. Morgan’s request. You’re no longer her patient.”
“Right,” I mutter. “So is this what it comes down to? Rehashing my grief as a form of penance? Some sort of toll I have to pay to fix my hand?”
Dr. Steel holds my gaze. “The process is not meant to be punitive, Dr. Lansing. You know that. It’s about understanding your emotional state and ensuring that you are in the best place for a positive outcome, whether the surgery is successful or not.”
“I’m not the same man who was in therapy three years ago,” I say. “I’ve learned to live with my grief. I’ve accepted that life is cruelly unpredictable.”