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London paused for a moment before saying, “What if I decide to go somewhere that doesn’t make me choose?”
Renault’s brow arched again. “Is that something you’ve been thinking about?”
If he only knew how frequently other hospitals tried to poach her away from this place.
London had gained a reputation as a first-year resident when the doctor who was performing a gallbladder surgery had a breakdown and quit in the middle of the procedure. She immediately took over in a way that would later be described by members of the surgical team as something you see on TV. It had made news around the medical community, both for the doctor’s bizarre mid-surgery departure and her swift action. Doug Renault had lured her to County soon after.
Now that she was nearing the end of her residency here, she received offers on a fairly regular basis from hospitals around the country. She’d glanced at their emails and accepted a few virtual meetings but had never entertained the idea of actually leaving Austin.
Until the most recent inquiry.
One of Chicago’s most distinguished hospital systems had been hounding her—that was the only word she could use to describe their constant emails—for the past two months. They’d floated an offer for a surgical fellowship that was so lucrative London had questioned whether the email had a typo. But it wasn’t just the money. The prestige that would come with this position would give her the chance to dabble in the speaker circuit. If shewasinterested in filling her bank account, that’s where the real money resided.
But the biggest thing the hospital in Chicago had going for it, by far, was Dr. Eveline Mayberry. The legendary surgeon was one of London’s biggest idols. She was an idol for every young Black female doctor London knew. She could not just dismiss the opportunity to work withTHEEveline Mayberry out of hand, especially with Coleman becoming more hostile by the minute. If not for her patients, and how invested she’d become in their lives, she would give Chicago some serious consideration.
“Look,” Renault said. “This hospital is lucky to have you. I know this. Everyone here knows this.”
And some resented her for it.
Some, like Frederick Coleman, thought she was too cocky. As a woman, she was expected to be demure and modest, and to allow her male counterparts to take the lead whenever possible. The bastard had actually said that in a staff meeting. As if they were still living in the mid-twentieth century instead of moving at lightning speed toward the middle of the twenty-first.
“I’m at County because I want to be here,” London said. “I remain here because I care about my patients, because I know that they’re often given the table scraps when it comes to health care. I want to continue fighting for them, but some of the people here aren’t making it easy, Dr. Renault.”
“Just give them time,” he said. “Let’s see what this consulting firm will do.” He folded his hands on his desk and asked, “Now, what about that other thing?”
London averted her eyes.
“I’m fine,” she mumbled.
“Dr. Kelley?”
“I am fine.” She enunciated each word carefully. He had a right to meet her statement with skepticism, but she resented it all the same. “I’ve found all kinds of ways to de-stress lately,” London told him, ticking items off on her fingers. “Yoga. Crochet. S—” She almost saidsex. “Sewing,” she lied. “And I have a ton of essential oils a friend recommended I diffuse. My stress level is way down these days.”
“That’s good to hear. But what about your blood pressure?”
She twisted in her chair and stared at the faded picture of Texas bluebonnets on the wall behind his desk.
“It could be better,” London said. “But I’m handling it. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Okay,” he said. “Stay out of trouble.”
“I’ll take that under consideration,” she said as she pushed herself up from the chair and left the office.
If her mentor wanted to help keep her stress level down, he really should stop bringing up the fact that her blood pressure had moved from “elevated” to “get your ass on a beta-blocker—pronto” in the last month.
It began with what she thought was just a regular tension headache, but when she felt a slight dizziness, she’d taken her BP, just to be on the safe side. She’d stared at the sphygmomanometer in disbelief for a solid three minutes, convinced there must be something wrong with the blood pressure cuff.
The hypertension diagnosis shouldn’t have surprised her, yet she hadn’t been ready when her general practitioner confirmed the news. It was the ultimate gag gift from her dear father, who hadn’t given her so much as an “atta girl, London” in twenty years, yet had passed along his shitty genes and hereditary coronary disease.
Even though her privacy was protected under HIPAA, London had felt obligated to tell Dr. Renault about her diagnosis. Now she wasn’t so sure she should have told him anything. He nagged her like a mother hen—emailing her literature on the latest ACE-inhibitors as if she weren’t a doctor who could find this information for herself.
London made a mental note to skim the most recent one he’d sent. She’d bookmarked the website but hadn’t had time to look it over.
Hmm…maybe if she told Renault that having Drew’s consulting firm here at the hospital only added to her stress, he would make sure London didn’t have to deal with him?
Yeah, and then she would have to explain to RenaultwhyDrew added to her stress. No, thank you.
By the time she arrived back on her floor, her bowel obstruction patient’s parents had arrived. She directed them to the minuscule consulting room, just off the nurses’ station. She was able to get the surgeon who had performed their daughter’s previous two surgeries in Brownsville on a Zoom call, and together they discussed possible prevention tactics so that they wouldn’t find themselves in this same place a year from now.
