Page 52 of Dr. Intern

Fortunately, a few minutes after I sent the message, Cass confirmed that since Caroline is busy studying, Claire is tagging along with her to her parents’ house for several days. If anyone knows what it’s like to experience their first holiday without a loved one, it’s Cass, so I’m glad they’re going to be together.

Cassidy’s older brother died two years ago in an accident, so she’s an only child now. She struggled for a long time and even had to change hospitals because she couldn’t go back to the place where he died. It’s funny how life works sometimes. Had she not experienced that grief and come out the other side, she wouldn’t have met the love of her life. Cassidy wouldn’t have met Claire, or even me. And all of us are better for knowing her. Every decision we make in life, whether it’s one we make ourselves, or one that someone else makes for us, leads us to the exact place we are supposed to be.

We see it all of the time in orthopedics. People with broken bones often ask, if they had just made one tiny decision differently, like avoided a pothole or planted their foot at a slightly different angle, would they still be in this situation?

The truth is, we have no fucking clue. And I don’t say that lightly because as doctors it’s our job to act like we have a clue. The patient may have avoided injury just to suffer a worse one down the road. Or they could never suffer at all. We just don’t know.

As humans, it’s our nature to question the whys and the what-ifs. But they don’t really matter. Because we don’t have control over why things happen, or what happens to us. What we do have control over, however, is how we heal from those things. And as a surgeon, it’s my job to put people back together. To take something physically broken and return it to normal.

Which is why I’m having a hard time with Claire because she’s not physically broken, she’s emotionally broken. And the only way I know how to help her is by building her back up again. Building her confidence. Building her self-worth. I want her to know that she can be her truest self, and I’m never going to look down on her for it. If anything, I’m going to praise her for it.

On my way to the ortho lounge to grab a snack, I spot Walker lingering in the hallway, a spacey look on his face.

“You good, bro?” I ask, clapping my hand on his shoulder as I come up behind him.

Walker jumps at my touch and turns around, his expression snapping back to normal. “Oh hey, Buffington,” he says, trying to shake off whatever had him lost in thought. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking.”

“Well, don’t hurt yourself, bud. You looked physically ill there for a second.”

He gives a half-hearted chuckle, running a hand through his jet-black hair. “Definitely have had better days.”

“Anything I can help with? Or if you need more brains, I think Matt’s almost out of his case, and the others will be back tomorrow.”

Typically, we alternate weekends so Matt and I take the same days, and the other two ortho interns, Sam and Elis, take the others. It’s the same way for night call—we alternate two at a time, and all reconvene for the day shift during the week. I’ve been through the trenches with Matt at two in the morning, something that has just made us closer. I like the other two interns fine, but our relationship is more competitive in nature, whereas Matt has become the person I lean on the most.

“Extra brains won’t solve this problem,” Walker mutters, more to himself than me.

“Let’s grab some food,” I offer, flopping my arm around his neck as I steer him through the hospital hall with brute force. “I’m ravenous, and if more brains won’t solve the problem, you’ve got one brain that’s happy to listen.”

“I swear, you eat more often than anyone I know,” Walker says, ducking his head out of my grip.

Sometimes I forget that nobody here knows I have diabetes. Technically, I was supposed to disclose health information at the beginning of residency, but when I was in medical school, I heard a story that scared the shit out of me. Apparently, a surgical resident with Crohn’s disease got all of the worst cases, and barely finished his program because the attendings didn’t ever bring him in for their surgeries. Granted, this was a different residency program, and I doubt that kind of thing happens at Midtown Memorial, but you can never be too sure.

So I figured what they don’t know won’t hurt them, and I left it off my pre-employment physical. Our program is already competitive enough as it is, and I didn’t want to give them a reason to look down on me. And while the rational part of me knows I shouldn’t have done that, the prideful part of me still refuses to admit any weakness.

By the time we get to the cafeteria and pick up our lunches, my phone alerts me that my blood sugar is trending low. As I sit down at the table with Walker, I open a packet of Skittles and toss them into my mouth, thankful for the high sugar content that will be hitting my bloodstream shortly. I’m not in the mood to deal with the shakes today.

“You have the weirdest diet of anyone I’ve ever met,” Walker comments as he eyes his grilled chicken wrap.

“What do you mean?”

“Just that you eat super clean, but then you go and ruin it with shit like that,” he says, motioning to the empty packet of tropical Skittles on the table.

I open my energy drink and smirk. “Doesn’t seem to matter, still got a hot bod.”

Walker’s head drops into his hands. “I know, and it pisses me off.”

“Everything pisses you off,” I point out.

It’s true. Walker is even more serious than Parker, with zero tolerance when it comes to incompetence. He’s already made me a better surgeon than I ever expected, forcing me to think past the initial obvious injuries. I almost missed a second fracture last week but caught it because of the way he taught me to constantly assess and reassess.

Walker gives a half-smile, acknowledging the jab with a nod. “Maybe. But I’d rather be pissed off and excellent, than relaxed and mediocre. This job doesn’t leave much room for error.”

“It doesn’t leave much room for anything other than work, honestly,” I reply before taking a bite of my wrap.

I wouldn’t trade it for the world, but being a surgeon, especially an intern, requires an incredible level of sacrifice. You give yourself to this beast for five years of your life. A beast that takes you from your family. From your friends. From everything you love. All for the promise of becoming an exceptional doctor. And you don’t get anything in return, other than poor sleep habits and a crippling sense of inadequacy.

Which is why it’s not surprising that so many of us end up bitter and depressed. I’m depressed just thinking about the fact that I have four and a half more years of it. I can’t imagine how Walker feels.

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