“Dr. Hollis!” he says, breaking into a grin. “I told them you’d come. They’re very kind, but they rush.”
I wash my hands at the sink mounted on the wall, and glove up. “What happened?” I ask.
“Lightheaded earlier. A bit swimmy.” He rotates his wrist, dismissive. “Enough that everything went black and found myself on the floor. But it passed. Completely gone now.”
“When?”
“An hour ago? Maybe two.” He shrugs. “My wife panicked. But when I came to, I was fine, so we weren’t sure. She thinks I didn’t eat enough, but I…”
I don’t smile at that. “It doesn’t sit quite right with you, does it?” I step closer. “Any headache?”
“No.”
“Vision changes?”
“No.”
“Trouble speaking, weakness, numbness?”
He shakes his head after each one, obliging, patient. His speech is crisp without slur or hesitation. Vitals scroll on the monitor beside him—heart rate normal, blood pressure acceptable, oxygen saturation steady. I glance at the ER notes on the tablet. CT unremarkable. Labs within range. No acute findings. I shine my penlight, run him through a quick neuro exam—tracking my finger, grip strength. Everything answers the way it should.
“You’re neurologically intact,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Whatever caused the dizziness has resolved.”
He watches my face carefully. “So I’m not having another one of those… what did you call it?”
“Infarct,” I say. “There’s no evidence of a new event.”
He exhales, long, even if in small spurts.
I place my hand over his and give a light pat. “I think the missus might have been right this time.”
He nods, visibly relieved. “I just needed you to say it.”
The weight of his trust squeezes my chest, and I run through his chart and newest tests. Nothing that suggests further observation. “You did the right thing coming in. Ifanything changes—new dizziness, trouble walking, slurred speech—you come back immediately. No waiting.”
“You’re the boss,” he says, earnest.
I hold eye contact a beat longer than necessary. They’re not going to reveal anything a CT wouldn’t show. I have no clinical reason to override the workup. No red flag I can point to. Other than he trusts me, and I don’t want to fail his trust. I sign the discharge.
Mr. Matthews walks out of the ER on his own two legs, smiling as his wife fusses over his coat. I turn back to work, focusing on what my patients need from me rather than the could-have-beens of a relationship I signed a DNR for.
On my way home,I stop at the grocery store for staples because if my dinner’s ramen noodles and a chocolate bar one more time, I’m going to make myself sick. The dairy aisle smells faintly of sour spilled milk someone half cleaned hours ago. I’m picking up three different kinds of yogurt when I hear my name.
“Robyn?”
I don’t need to turn to know who it is. You can get the boy out of the rural Midwest, but you can’t take the rural Midwest out of the boy.
I turn. “Hey,” I say.
Nate stands a couple of feet away from me. He’s got an opened carton of eggs, twisting each of them around to ensure none of them are cracked. A trick from his mom, a woman trying to make every penny count. I used to love knowing how these traces of harder times had sunk into his bones, etched into his routine. I never knew one day they’d be the end of us.
Nate’s hair is down today, and it brushes his shoulders. Helooks… softer. The red tones in his hair are more prominent now that there’s more of it. I want to bury my fingers in it and feel its length. I shake the thought away, and my eyes land on his cart. He’s got two types of yogurt—my oat milk one, and then plain Greek we used for oatmeal. His eyes are on my cart, clocking that I also have his fancy one with jam at the bottom.
“Didn’t think I’d run into you,” he says.
“Well, it is the closest grocery store,” I state.
He smiles. “How are you?” he asks.
