Page 10 of Dr. Fellow

Chapter 4

Walker

“How are you feeling about the holiday today?” the hospital therapist, Dr. Kinkaid, asks.

His thick head of gray hair is bent over his notepad as he reviews our notes from previous sessions. They all probably say something along the lines of:

He failed at the one thing the majority of people succeed at. How tragic.

“What holiday?”

I glance at the massive clock on the wall like it will tell me the date.

It doesn’t.

We’ve done this dog and pony show every week for months, and it always goes the same way. He asks how I’m doing before we dive deep into whatever he wants to discuss, and eventually, we end with small talk.

Apparently, today we’re changing things up and going straight for the small talk.

Dr. Kinkaid looks up from his notes with a serious expression. “Valentine’s Day.”

I groan audibly, not entirely sure why I came this afternoon other than the fact that the appointment was scheduled. This question has nothing to do with therapy, he’s just trying to fill the time in order to bill the hospital for services that are no longer necessary.

To be fair, they were necessary at first. When I walked into this office one morning after a night on call, I wasn’t really sure how I got here. All I knew was that I had reached the point where I was short-circuiting, and I needed someone to flip the switch to make me run properly again.

And it worked.

We’ve talked through pretty much everything from my childhood trauma, to my feelings about the divorce. I determined what my non-negotiables were in relationships, how to communicate more effectively, and a whole slew of other coping mechanisms that helped me get my shit together and feel normal again. But at this point, I’m not sure why I’m still here—I’m fine, and this feels like a waste of both of our time.

“I think it’s a day for card companies, chocolate makers, and sex shops to sell more of their products to couples who aren’t really in love.”

“I see,” he muses, jotting something down on his pad. “Have you ever enjoyed the holiday? Or do you just feel that way now?”

I wrack my brain, trying to think of a time when I celebrated anything at all.

“I don’t do holidays,” I state simply, not fully answering his question.

“Why is that?”

A dull throb starts to pulse behind my eye—for someone who provides counseling to healthcare workers, he really is very dense.

“My time isn’t my own.”

Surgical residency doesn’t allow for a life outside of the hospital, let alone time off to enjoy fabricated days that promote consumer spending. Almost every Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Fourth of July for the past four and a half years was spent at work. Then, you have the countless birthdays, baptisms, and date nights that were also missed because of my choice to become an orthopedic surgeon. It all adds up, and sometimes I genuinely question if the personal sacrifices were worth it.

Dr. Kinkaid puts his pen down and looks at me thoughtfully. “You’re almost done with your residency, are you not?”

“A few months to go.”

He nods and leans forward, staring me straight in the eyes. “And when do you intend to start living your life again, Dr. Chastain?”

The question hits me like an unprotected punch to the gut.

I don’t know how to live my life.

I’ve spent the past thirty-one years in pursuit of one thing—proving everyone wrong. I went to the best college in Georgia for free and graduated top of my class while swimming competitively. I didn’t party. I didn’t drink. I lost out on what most people consider the best years of their life all for the chance to become a doctor.

Then, when I got to medical school, I kept climbing. I studied nonstop. I networked. I grinded my ass to get accepted into one of the most competitive specialties in the country at my top choice hospital. And when I reached that goal, I did it all over again with residency. I took extra cases. I mentored. I did everything I could to get offered the fellowship of my dreams.

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