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Setting down his clipboard, he flipped it open and pulled out a fat envelope.
“Our angel left us a gift this evening,” he said, opening up the envelope to show me the stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills.
I reached for the money without even thinking about it, clutching the envelope to my chest, and going ahead and letting the tears that danced in my eyes fall.
Because I knew how much money was in that envelope. The same amount that came every month, and had been doing so for years.
Eight grand.
In the grand scheme of medical clinic expenses, it wasn’t a huge amount of money. But it was life-changing money for us.
It meant proper tongue depressors and gloves and casting material and some lollipops for the kids who had to sit in the waiting room for hours sometimes before they could be seen.
“You know what I wish?” Michael asked, brow raised.
“What?”
“That you would just snag a hundred of those dollars and go get yourself a massage or a facial or something.”
“This is clinic money.”
“Girl, it has your name on it,” he reminded me, pointing toward the envelope where, of course, he was right.
Dr. Stone.
That was always what it said.
Not the clinic name.
Mine.
In essence, it was not illegal for me to take some of the money. It probably wasn’t even immoral in most people’s eyes.
“This money can help dozens of people instead of just making me relax for an hour.”
“That might be true, but you getting to relax now and again also helps those people. You’re going to burn yourself out. I know you think that your passion for this place is enough to get you through, but you are absolutely going to burn out if you don’t get a break now and again.”
I’d actually studied burnout in college because I’d been so stressed out one semester that I was sure I was having some sort of mental breakdown from all the pressure.
The potential for burnout was why I forced myself to get enough sleep each night, why I got up and went for a run even though I absolutely hated it, why I ate healthy instead of binged on the junky stuff I craved. Because I knew those steps were helpful in preventing burnout.
And… so far so good.
Especially now that there was some money for basic supplies.
“Hey, do you still stay in touch with that guy you were dating who did, God, what was it? Like that freelance handyman work?”
“Task Trader,” Michael said. “I mean, we aren’t seeing each other anymore, but he’d answer if I texted. You want me to ask him if he will fix the leak in the exam room, don’t you?” he asked.
“If it’s completely inappropriate of me, you can tell me that,” I assured him, but he was already reaching for his phone.
“It’s not. We all have to work with the connections we got. You get Dr. Dreamy to work on your day off. I get hot guys with various skills to do free labor here.”
Dr. Dreamy was someone I’d done my residency with who went on to work in a successful practice where he didn’t ever have to cut coupons or duct tape his shoes. Even so, he was actually a good guy who cared, so he volunteered his services on Mondays when I actually took a whole day off after working fourteen to sixteen-hour shifts the other six days.
“You know, maybe if you got out there and dated once in a while, you would have some other connections too.”
“Right. Like I have time for dating,” I said, rolling my eyes at the idea.
