Page 2 of Alarm Fatigue

I sigh, and looking at the time on my phone, I come to the decision that this was just not meant to be.

I may not be entirely satisfied with my life, but I know I do not want to be the sad, upper-middle-aged lady that gets stood up by a date her people forced her to go on. I did try to tell them, I really do prefer to go on as I have been: binge-watching British crime dramas and romantic comedies with Sirius and Minerva, my cats, eating too much and wearing sweatpants. And that is truly what I would rather be doing right now. It is not as if I need a date for that matter. I am much happier enjoying my own lipstickless company at home.

I look around for the waitress, make eye contact, and nod my head for the check. She looks at me and my too-red lipstick with sympathy. I do not bother hiding my eye-roll at that. Save your sympathy for people with real problems, I think.

I close my eyes, and think of three things to be thankful for; one my tools from therapy. First, my family—including Amalie—even if they intimidate me a little. Second, that I spent more than half my life without my father actually in it. Third, that I have a wonderful job I actually enjoy.

As I fish for my credit card, the bell rings above the door, and a man walks in, looking for me. As soon as we make eye-contact my heart leaps into my throat, which I know is medically impossible but I feel it, subjectively, as it happens. I watch as several expressions pass over his face too quickly for me to read as my earlier anxiety transforms to pure anger at the universe and my perpetual bad luck.

Of all of the people in the world to be set up on a date with…

“You have got to be kidding me.” I mutter.

Chapter 2

Now that his eyes have met mine, my mood sinks further with the certainty that it is too late for either of us to pretend that we had not seen each other. I, for one, will be damned if I will show this man that he has any power over me whatsoever.

I feel something when his eyes lock on mine. Gorgeous eyes, to be sure, but that does not matter in this particular case.

As soon as Dr. Mark Levy opens his mouth he will become instantly unattractive. If he was not so damn arrogant, I suppose he could be considered kind of good-looking.

As I think this, however, I know I am not being entirely honest with myself. He is, as a matter of fact, annoyingly breath-taking, which is utterly unfair of the universe. Wavy dark hair, without the considerable sprinkle of silver that I have. He has nearly symmetrical features with a nose that looks to have been broken at least once, which tracks. I know I have been tempted to break it myself, on more than one occasion. His eyes are his crowning feature however, a sort of cognac brown that sometimes looks amber in the right light. Not that I enjoy looking at his eyes much. Unlike my late husband, who was a head taller than me, Mark is just at my height. Making his eyes unavoidable, unfortunately.

This situation I am finding myself in is just further proof that dating apps cannot be relied upon. Also, I am resolute that I am not letting Amalie pick any more matches without my screening them, ever again. I watch as he almost hesitates in the doorway before he begins to walk toward me with a purpose. For my part, I try to look as nonchalant as possible.

“Rachel. Please tell me you are here in a blue sweater for another reason.” He is not even attempting to conceal his apparent displeasure.

What an asshat. It’s not like I did this on purpose, and for all he knows I did intentionally select him for a date, and this is his reaction? Well, obviously I did not choose to be here, at all—this is a horrible accident. I would never have done this to myself, had I been given the choice. The least he could do, in either case, is acknowledge that I had made an effort with my appearance and let me have some dignity. I wish with all my heart in this moment that I had just worn chapstick after all. I look Dr. Levy in the eyes.

“My friend set this up, so I had no idea that the Mark I would be meeting would be you.” Because I would never have agreed. I try to quell my rising panic by adding humor. “I suppose if we agree on nothing else, at least we can agree that God has an amazing sense of humor?” I say with an attempt at a smile which I am quite certain looks more like a sneer. Which is fine.

“Except I don’t believe in any type of god, so I guess we do not even have that in common.” And with that, he actually smirks at me as he claims the other chair at my table.

“Your mother must be so proud,” I mutter.

I look down at my drink, literally biting my tongue to cease further engagement. Mark and I have had the distinct misfortune of working in the same hospital for better part of the last ten years. Working with him has been an unpleasant experience from the first day we met. Unfortunately for me, he is a physician in the same department that I work in, and that my husband had worked in, when he was still alive. In fact, Eli and Mark had actually known each other from their residency program, and had remained close friends which I had never really understood. Eli was kindness personified and he never had an unpleasant word for or about anyone. Mark, on the other hand, from our first encounter seemed openly to loathe me. He is mean, obstinate and, to top it all off, he is threatened by the very existence of nurse practitioners, which is ridiculous.

The first thing he ever said to me when Eli introduced me as his wife, mentioning that I was a nurse practitioner in the same department, was “Why would anyone do that?” This turned out to be a rhetorical question as he pushed on before I could even respond. “Be a doctor or be a nurse. Why would anyone try to be both?” Not only had he said that to me out loud, in front of other people, he has repeatedly demonstrated his disappointment in being assigned to work with me, in every way he could, since that first day.

As a matter of fact, he is actually the only thing I do not like about my job. Admittedly, the medical profession is kind of insane, particularly our department, which is Intensive Care. But my job has been where I feel most at home, especially in the last few years. This is likely because I am a child born to chaos. I thrive on the energy of critical care medicine.

Becoming a nurse practitioner was a natural evolution in a career path I worked hard to be worthy of. It was not a backup to something else, but rather a path I chose intentionally. I never wanted to be a doctor because I was dedicated to nursing, and when I decided I wanted to do more than I could as an RN, I went back to school and worked through an NP program to be as useful to patients as possible in a more autonomous way. At the same time, I actually relish that as a non-physician I work in collaboration with a doctor. This has the benefit to the patient of having a team approach to care, particularly when working through any complex cases.

I never minded this dynamic before Mark was there, in fact I enjoyed the role I have in patient care. The issue with Mark has been, in addition to his negative attitude with NP’s in general, that due to certain hospital policies, there are a few medical procedures that an NP, like myself, is excluded from ordering or performing without a physician either present or signing off. This policy was not a problem for anyone involved before Mark arrived. Whatever I needed from our team, I would just ask, and with all the other doctors, there would be no trouble at all. In the years that Mark has been with our team, he operates completely differently. I loathe the times I am assigned to work with him as my attending.

The fact I am required to enlist his face to face help at any given time is the worst. He is entirely self-righteous about the process, acting surprised that I have to ask for his help, every time, like it is something new that he has never heard of before. He then proceeds to grill me on my medical acumen like I just received a certificate out of a cereal box last week to practice as an NP. He loves to make a production about the fact that if I had “simply gone to medical school” I would be spared all of this trouble. He is, quite literally, the last person I want to call in the middle of a medical emergency, let alone be on a date with. To top it all off, and this should not matter, but of course deep down in me it does, he may be at least ten years younger than I am.

“Look, Mark, I promised my daughters I would go on a few dates and this is only the first...so if we can just sit here for a bit and pretend not to hate each other…I am quite sure they are having me watched.”

At this I glance to the barista friend of Hannah’s to our left. I turn back to him, “I only have to go on three dates.” I pause considering him for a moment. “So I need this one to count.” He has to know how humiliating this is for me.

From my vantage point, I can see that the barista is observing us while rinsing out some blenders, out of the corner of their eye.

“Rachel, I am not the one with the problem here, so I do not mind sitting here with you if that is what you are asking of me.”

Except you always have a problem with me.

“Are you going to apologize?” I say instead, poking the bear, because he deserves it.

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