Page 5 of Doctored Vows

He checks a document before correcting, “An uncaring, arrogant, chauvinistic pig.”

Since I have no defense, I remain quiet.

It is for the best. I may have missed his praise if I had tried to plead innocent.

“And you were right.” Shock zips through me when he grins. “He is a pig.” I haven’t gotten over my first lot of disbelief when I’m hit with another dose. “Your diagnosis was also correct. Tests proved Mrs. Ivanov has a severe B12 deficiency. She was given her first dose of serum hours ago, and her prognosis has already drastically improved. We removed the ventilator and lowered the sedatives keeping her under. She woke two hours ago.”

My mouth falls open, but other than that, it refuses to adhere to any other prompts my brain is giving. I knew her diagnosis could be unearthed without a scalpel. I’m just a novice at being told I was right by anyone, much less a supervisor.

Even when they’re proven wrong, they rarely admit it.

“Her surgery?”

That’s it. That is all I can get out—two measly words.

“Was canceled this morning. Her B12 levels were so low she will be rostered for bi-weekly serum injections…” His words trail off when an emotion I didn’t mean to show leaps onto my face. “Do you disagree with my medical plan?”

“Umm…” Please excuse my idiocy. The genuine interest in his tone has left me a little dumbfounded. “I don’t disagree with it. I just want to make sure the dosage level isn’t too excessive. An overdose of B12 can be as dangerous as a deficiency. What was the level identified in her MMA test?”

“We conducted the homocysteine test. It was…”—again, he checks a document in front of him—“thirty-eight.”

“Thirty-eight picomoles per liter?”

I sound shocked. Rightfully so. Those levels are dangerously low and are most likely the cause of Mrs. Ivanov’s numerous neurological episodes. It would have made it seem as if she were having a stroke, or worse, it could have caused a stroke.

When you’re deficient in B12, it causes an increase in homocysteine. Too much homocysteine causes inflammation of the blood vessels and oxidative stress—both significant contributors to strokes.

“Was an MRI conducted?”

When Dr. Sidorov nods, I hold my breath, waiting for him to elaborate. “It showed increased blood flow, but no dangerous clots were sighted.”

I exhale deeply, relieved. “That’s wonderful. I’m so grateful.”

“As was Mr. Ivanov.”

His words pique my attention as my heart rate soars. I don’t know if it is a good or bad surge. It may be a bit of both. The “Mister” part of his comment instantly conjured up murky brown eyes and a devastatingly cut jaw, but it also proves a relationship between the patient I assessed and the man who kept me awake half the night.

I can only hope it is a blood relation and not one founded by law, or my limbs will be weighed down with guilt instead of untapped sexual exhaustion.

My focus shifts back to Dr. Sidorov when he says, “You were mentioned multiple times while he endorsed a check to fund the new wing slated for completion by the end of the year. The praise was so inspiring that it felt right to offer you this now instead of waiting for your residency to end.”

When he nudges his head to the multipage document, I lift it from the desk. My eyes aren’t as misted now, so the font is legible.

“You’re offering me a promotion?” Before he can answer, my eyes bulge out of my head. The wages cited must be annually instead of monthly like my residency contract because the digits are excessive. “I think someone made an error. This amount can’t be right.”

Dr. Sidorov laughs when I twist the contract around to face him. “It is as stated and will be backdated to the day you began your third year.”

I do a quick calculation and almost squeal when the figure means I can pay off my grandfather’s latest medical insurance excess bill and some of my credit card debt. There isn’t enough to put toward my student loans, but it far exceeds the internship hourly wage I was earning only hours ago.

“Are you sure this is allowed?” I ask, confident I’m dreaming. “I’m not yet a qualified surgeon.”

Again, he nods. “Things are different in the private sector.” His eyes gleam with excitement. “And if you continue to encourage endorsements like the one you secured this morning, this is just the beginning of an illustrious medical career with Myasnikov Private.”

I almost fall over backward when the check Mr. Ivanov donated is exposed. Even with my new salary giving me indigestion, it would still take me working two jobs for over three decades to earn the figure cited on the handwritten check.

Doubt creeps in when Dr. Sidorov hands me his favorite pen out of the breast pocket of his jacket. He’s been behind the scenes at this hospital for so long that he no longer wears a doctor’s coat or scrubs.

“Would you mind if I take the contract home and read it before signing it? My mother always said you should never sign anything without reading it twice.” My wet eyes are back, but more from fond memories than fear of unemployment. I loved my mother dearly, and I miss her every day.

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