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I move closer, my stethoscope in hand, preparing to work. A part of me dreads what I'm going to find, but I have to push that aside. She's in pain, and I'm a doctor. I must help her.
As I look at her, I feel a lump forming in my throat. It's my job to make her feel comfortable, but this feels...personal. It's as if her comfort has suddenly become my mission.
"Is it okay if I touch you?" I ask, trying to swallow the butterflies fluttering in my stomach.
I'm astonished by my own nervousness. I've seen and handled far worse scenarios on the battlefield.
She just nods, her face turning even more pale, if possible. My hands shake slightly as I place the cold, hard disk of the stethoscope against her warm skin, causing her to flinch.
"Sorry, it's a bit cold," I say, slightly smiling as I attempt to lighten the mood, "but I'll be quick."
She grips the sides of the stretcher, knuckles turning white as her head falls back onto the pillow. I press down gently on her belly, asking her to tell me where it hurts the most. Her grimaces of pain twist something inside me, making it feel as if I'm the one hurting.
Her yells fill the room as I move my hands around, seeking the source of her discomfort. The sound sends jabs of guilt and helplessness through me. I'm supposed to alleviate pain, not cause it.
I withdraw my hands, the pressure subsiding.
"When did the pain start?" I ask, trying to focus on the task rather than her face's painful expression.
She takes a few ragged breaths before answering, "A few hours ago. It came out of nowhere."
I continue my questioning, "Did you knock against anything? Has this happened before?"
But her response to both is negative, and I find myself puzzled, unsure of what could be causing her this pain. For the first time, I see her façade crack as she looks at me, fear gleaming in her eyes.
"Could... could it be something serious?" She stutters, her voice barely a whisper.
Her vulnerability hits me like a punch to the gut. The fear in her eyes and the tremor in her voice echo my own fears and insecurities from when I was in the war, and it rattles me.
But right now, I can't afford to lose focus. Not when she's relying on me. I give her a reassuring smile, promising her and myself that I'll find out what's wrong and fix it, just like I've done countless times before. But this time, it feels like there's more at stake than just her health.
As I observe her, trying to maintain my professional demeanor, I realize this isn't just about helping a patient anymore. I'm feeling a pull towards her, and it scares me.
My heart is broken, damaged by the ravages of war. My body is scarred, a map of battles fought and won. My mind, a collection of memories that keep me up at night.
Forcing these thoughts aside, I ask, "What were you doing when the pain started?"
Kate raises an eyebrow as if trying to recall. After a moment, she says, "I was working at the coffee shop, lifting some boxes of drinks."
And just like that, it clicks. The puzzle pieces fit together, and I find myself inwardly shaking my head at my own foolishness. It's so obvious; why didn't I see it before? Is it the lack of sleep, or is it her?
She's a distraction, and it's disconcerting, especially now with her shirt slightly lifted. My mind, against my better judgment, wishes for more.
"Do you lift those boxes every day?" I ask her, trying to keep the conversation light.
"Not every day. Maybe three or four times a week," she responds.
I can't help myself from teasing her.
"Three to four times a week, that's almost a full work week, right?"
She doesn't laugh, just gives me a flat "no" and fixes me with a gaze full of questions. "So, do you know what's wrong?"
I take a deep breath and tell her, "It might be a muscular strain. It's probably due to fatigue and overexertion."
Her face drops at my diagnosis, clearly unhappy with the verdict.
"Are there any pills I can take to make it disappear?"
