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)
She nods. “Trauma has a way of changing us. How we come out on the other side can often speak more about us than the traumas themselves.”
I exhale slowly, absorbing her words. She has a point, but it still irks me. It feels like my worth, my competency, is being determined by how well I’ve healed, how well I’ve adapted to the unexpected blows life has dealt me.
“All right,” I say finally. “What do you need to know?”
“I’d like to understand how you’ve coped. Particularly on the more difficult days.”
I contemplate her words, mulling over the ways grief has become a part of my everyday life. “Some days are harder than others,” I admit.
Though the last few days have been less difficult.
Because of Angie.
But I can’t say that.
But damn… That day after the meeting with Louisa and Gita, when I felt hope.
I was almost happy that day.
Until the powers that be decided I might not be mentally fit for the surgery.
Dr. Steel simply nods, patiently waiting for me to continue.
“I sleep less on those days,” I say. “I tend to throw myself into work or research. I find it easier to cope when my mind is occupied.”
“And when you’re not working?”
“It varies,” I respond honestly. “Sometimes it’s just…quiet reflection.”
Or more accurately lately…fucking her niece.
But nope. Can’t say that.
“And what about your support system, Dr. Lansing?” she asks. “Family, friends?”
Right.
No family to speak of.
And any friendships Lindsay and I had have dried up. My own fault. I just didn’t want to deal with the questions, the pitying looks.
“I have colleagues,” I reply.
She presses her lips together. “Colleagues can be a form of support too, but it’s not quite the same as having a close friendship. Do you have anyone you trust, someone you can confide in when things get tough?”
The question hangs heavily between us, an unwanted reminder of the isolation I’ve found myself in these past years.
Except…now I have Angie. Sort of. But a couple of good fucks isn’t a support system.
Shit. For a second I actually understand why the board is insisting on this.
Then it fades.
“Dr. Lansing?” Dr. Steel prompts.
“No,” I admit, a bitter taste in my mouth. “There isn’t anyone.”
She is silent a moment, her pen tapping lightly against the notepad in her lap. “What about hobbies? Anything that brings you joy or at least some form of distraction?”
“I run. Go to the gym.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah. I used to run with Lindsay.”
Dr. Steel lifts her gaze from the notepad and gives me an attentive nod.
“We’d go for runs in the park every Sunday,” I explain, staring past her at the bookshelves. My voice is distant, as if it belongs to someone else. “It helped us unwind. I’ve tried to keep up the habit. It’s one of the few things that still makes sense.”
“And do you think it has helped? This routine?”
I shrug. “To some degree, I suppose. There’s comfort in the physical exertion, in the constancy. It’s like, if I can keep going one more mile, then I can keep going through everything else.”
“You’ve built a routine around your resilience,” she says, scribbling something down on her notepad. “That speaks volumes to your strength, Dr. Lansing.”
Strength. I huff out a laugh. “Then I’m strong enough for this surgery, wouldn’t you say? Regardless of the outcome?”
She sighs. “If I said yes at this point, I’d be doing you a disservice, as well as a disservice to the hospital board who asked me to do this evaluation.”
I furrow my brow, unable to hold back the frustration that bubbles to the surface. “You think I’m not fit for the surgery,” I state, more as an accusation than a question.
Dr. Steel looks at me, her gaze unreadable. “I think,” she says slowly, “that there are still some unresolved issues you need to deal with. These are not disqualifications, Dr. Lansing, but they are obstacles.”
“Obstacles,” I repeat, my voice thick with sarcasm. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Call it whatever you like,” she says calmly. “But the fact remains that emotional well-being is just as crucial as physical capability when it comes to an experimental surgery that may give you back something crucial that you’ve lost. Or it may not. It may make things worse. And that, Dr. Lansing, is my concern. If the surgery works, I feel certain that you’ll be fine. If it doesn’t…”
Her words are left hanging in the air, echoing with unspoken implications.
I’m silent, unable to respond immediately. It’s a scenario that I’ve considered many times, but hearing it from her adds a new layer of weight to it.
“If it doesn’t,” I finally echo, forcing a neutral tone. “You’re worried about my reaction.”
Or more precisely, she’s worried I may do what Lindsay resorted to. I may take my own life.
She nods. “That’s right, Dr. Lansing. It’s my job to ensure the hospital that you can handle whatever outcome you’ll face. Especially since you don’t seem to have an adequate support system.”