AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She goes on. “So I wonder if you can run a blood panel to see what I need.” She tucks a stray curl behind her ear and looks at me. Her left hand rests on her right, and I know the drill. Before I begin sticking her with blood draw equipment, I get to ask questions. Clarify. It’s my turn.
“How’s the diet?”
She looks surprised. “I’m not on a diet. Dieting is dangerous.” Her eyebrows come together and she looks ready to take on my masculine assumptions, the advertising industry, and all of beauty culture singlehandedly.
I shake my head. “No, you’re absolutely right. I mean, how are you doing with eating balanced meals?” I want to get her in the right lane before she lets her mind run down a new road of possible medical disasters.
She nods. “I’m eating the rainbow. Lots of fruit and vegetables. Little bit of meat. Little bit of fish. But I might eat too much microwave popcorn. Do you think this is a reaction to that?” She points at the flawless skin under her eyes again.
Can I just ignore that part? Probably not. She looks worried.
“If you get lots of healthy food, especially a good variety of fruit and vegetables, your vitamin situation ought to take care of itself. For everything else, moderation.”
I know she’s going to ask me what’s a moderate amount of microwave popcorn, and I have no idea what to tell her. If I aim low, she might feel like she’s overdoing it and jeopardizing her health. If I tell her an amount that’s too high, she’ll probably force herself to eat more because it feels like doctor’s orders. So I hurry on.
I put my elbows on my knees and lean forward, just a little. “Has your worry about the shadows under your eyes kept you up at night?” I ask, making sure my voice is quiet and not at all judgmental. Managing this but not sounding patronizing is a key part of my job. In a place like Chamberlain, where most of my patients are young and smart, finding the perfect tone for communication is key to maintaining a healthy medical relationship.
She places her hands behind her on the exam chair, making the paper covering crackle under her fingers. With another glance at the ceiling, she blows out a breath. “No more than usual,” she says, then looks at me.
Something happens in the moment of that look. She quirks her lips into a grin that shoots through me like a laser beam. In an instant, I see her differently. Differently than before. Than every other time she’s sat on this exam table. Different than I’m totally comfortable with.
And the difference is a shock to all my systems.
Sage Whitney doesn’t look like a kid anymore. And for a second, she doesn’t look like a patient.
She looks like a woman.
I know. She is a woman. But she used to be a student, so I never, ever allowed myself to see her that way. And now, she’s a patient. A regular clinic visitor. There are borders I make sure to maintain. The borders have names, like depersonalization. They’re walls, constructed to protect patients and care providers. And they’re shaking around me.
That smile? That look of self-effacing humor? I want to reach out and wrap her in my arms. I want to whisper comforting words about how none of the things happening in and around her body are likely to kill her. About how beautiful she is when she worries.
Well, this can’t be good.
I’m the doctor. She’s the patient. There’s a very clear line here that I know better than to cross. I sit up straighter, backing away from her just slightly. Not so much that she’d notice, but enough to give me the distance I need to breathe.
She shakes her head and gives a small, breathy chuckle. “No more than usual for me, I mean. Do you think I need a sleep study? I read that sleep studies can answer all kinds of questions and help uncover a whole slew of possible diagnostic possibilities.”
I immediately push away any and all thoughts and visual images of studying Sage Whitney as she sleeps.
What is going on with me? This whole moment of seeing Sage as someone I want to get close to is definitely not okay. For starters, I’m her care provider. And then there’s the small matter of our ages. I’m more than ten years older than she is. And the whole emotional connection is not normal. It never happened in school or on rounds or in three years of residency.
But it’s happening now. I’m feeling. I’m wanting and wishing.
What changed? When I saw that orange sticky note on the exam room door, I expected to come in here and see the funny kid with the tendency to overinflate every standard reaction to being alive. Instead, I’m staring at a woman with complex thought processes and way too much internet medical advice.
I shake my head to clear it.Come on, Mercer,I tell myself.This is the job. Do your job.
“I think you might have worried yourself into a bad night’s rest,” I tell her. I wheel the stool over to the cabinet against the wall and open a drawer. I hand her a small mirror.
“Take a look,” I say. “Are you seeing dark circles now?”
She doesn’t take the mirror from my hand. “Are you suggesting I’m making this up?” she asks. A hint of the high school version of Sage rises up for a minute, a little defiant, a little defensive.
“I’m suggesting,” I say, all professionalism and absolutely no hint of what’s roiling inside me, “that a rough night’s sleep can show up on your face and then disappear when you’ve had a glass of water and a few hours of quality human interaction.”
She looks at me with a side-eye. Slowly, she turns her hand palm up and crooks her fingers for the mirror. I place it in her hand without touching her skin, even though I’ve made normal doctor’s office contact with her dozens of times. Even though I’m wearing gloves. Even though there would be nothing strange or inappropriate about touching my patient’s hand during a clinic visit.
I watch her look in the mirror, then turn her face toward the light, then move the mirror above her like she’s going to take a selfie with it.
