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Back in New York, I had no control over the hospital space where I worked. Everything was determined by management. Any changes they made racked up patients’ bills.
It was disgusting.
But here, I could give proper care and not cut corners while doing so.
Not only did my patients have the best, but so did my staff.
I ensured the contractors paid attention to their workstations, outfitting them with good furniture and roomy space.
Judging by the warm greetings I received from the receptionist, the cashier, and the nurse, they loved it here.
We'd only started, but my gut said it was great so far.
The laboratory was through a door to the left, and I poked my head in. The lab scientist was by her post. I nodded a greeting and moved on.
The icing on the cake—the exam rooms—were spacious and bright. Just like the waiting room, I’d had the contractor make them warm and welcoming.
Even me, who wasn’t a patient, felt like staying in the room.
Well, I would, since the first patients would be coming in soon.
I went to my office to do some paperwork before the day started.
Everything was different and unusual, but in a good way.
My chest bubbled over the more I thought about it.
I had transformed one side of my generational home into a clinic. Thank goodness for three generations of ancestors who’d bought massive plots of land. Even with the clinic, I still had the luxury of gardens and lawns.
All this wouldn't have been possible if I'd sold the property when my parents passed. I'd been tempted. There was nothing in Hannibal for me then.
But instead of selling, I rented it out.
Now I was grateful for my hesitation. Apparently, everything important to me was in Hannibal now.
My new life.
I pushed aside my work and swiveled around to stare out the window. The green, manicured lawn sent peace through my veins. Very different from the view of the city I had barely looked at before.
“Doctor,” the nurse called from behind me. “The first patients are here. Should I send them in?”
And so it began.
The first person I saw was Mr. Harold. He came in with his daughter. Or rather, she dragged him in.
“He cut himself fixing the roof. He wanted to wash it out and call it a day.”
“First,” Mr. Harold protested, “I didn’t cut myself fixing the roof. Don’t say it like I broke my back. I was done fixing the roof, then on my way down the ladder, I cut myself.”
“Same difference.”
“It is different. You said I’d break my back. I didn’t. Bringing me to a doctor in a…what is this place? It won’t slow me down. I still have the patio to work on.”
“It’s a clinic, Daddy. And I’m only trying to take care of you.”
I cut off Mr. Harold’s grumble with a greeting. “You fix things a lot?”
"Yes. My home’s my pride and joy, and I will not stop just because I hit seventy." He threw a scathing look at his daughter.
