Page 8 of The Fall

Floor is all yours now, idiot. Eight years of college, and you were a doctor for ten minutes.

I continued anyway, my insides churning. “They have been trying to cure this disease for far too many years, and I am telling you there is only one. The only cure for cancer is to fight and survive. There are more advanced treatments available every day. Dr. Pierce thinks you can’t survive the fight. I say you can. I say we can shrink it enough to operate, get it out, and keep you fighting. You will be very, very sick. This is very close to a lethal dose, but it may work. They want to keep you comfortable while you die. I want you to fight death.”

“Dr. Whitaker! Don’t you think if I thought that was an option, I would’ve suggested it?” I heard Pierce growl my name and turned to him.

“It is an option, sir. An option you didn’t suggest because of the risk of losing what time he has left. Mr. Carson wanted my honest opinion. Well, now you have it,” I said, addressing Mr. Carson while sweat gathered on my forehead.

“I am his doctor, and mine is the opinion that matters,” Pierce said, dismissing me, my whole spiel circling the drain.

“I asked her, Todd Pierce. Don’t pull that shit with her when I asked her,” Mr. Carson barked.

I looked between the two and quickly realized this was a debate I wanted no part of. They were obviously good friends, and I immediately saw the small amount of sadness in Pierce’s eyes that he let show. “False hope breaks hearts, Lance. You know that.”

“Hope is all you have when you’re dying,” Mr. Carson shot back.

“This could kill you the first day,” Dr. Pierce said in a low, rushed tone.

“And it could save me, couldn’t it, Dr. Whitaker?”

“It could,” I answered quickly. “I could give you the probability and—”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I just want to fight. It’s pretty much die or die anyway at this point. You told me to fight, and I’m listening.”

“You won’t survive,” Pierce said emphatically, his words coming out harsh.

“I wasn’t going to, anyway,” Mr. Carson shot back, meeting him with an equal measure of tenacity. “So, Dr. Whitaker, when do we start the fight?”

“Today,” I said, watching my tone carefully so there wasn’t a trace of victory in it. I was walking a very fine line.

“Good,” Lance said enthusiastically, looking at me as he nodded. “Give me the treatment, order it now. And, Pierce, not a word to her about this entire conversation. This was my decision.”

“I won’t say a word to her about it, Lance. You have mine. Go on, Whitaker.” Pierce sighed on an exhale, not meeting my eyes.

“Yes, sir.” I turned on my heels and gave the orders.

I did a small strut down the hall, quickly felt my nerves get to me, and returned to my new second home to empty my bladder. I knew I hadn’t suggested the treatment to Lance Carson just to one-up Pierce. I prayed then it would work. I brushed off the sickness with fresh new excitement and walked to my tiny closet-sized office. I picked up the phone immediately to dial Josh and tell him about my small victory but decided to text Rose instead. Josh never took a real interest in my career. He didn’t understand my passion for my field. While he was somewhat supportive, it was a lacking factor in our relationship. One that I was sure would only wear on our connection as time progressed. In one of our few fights, he’d gone so far as to mention that he was tired of my endless rants about work and that I needed to find a hobby or a new outlet.

I hadn’t looked at him the same since.

I was writing up charts when Dr. Pierce poked his head in.

“So, are you pregnant, Dr. Whitaker?”

“No.”

I looked up to see him leaning in the doorframe. I could tell in his formative years that he’d been one hell of a lady killer. He had salt and pepper hair, and his eyes were a beautiful rich brown. He was a handsome older man, though I couldn’t stand more than a few hours at a time with his brash personality. I saw a trace of a small smile grace his lips.

“Good for you.” He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving me stunned. In the last two days, he had shown concern for my well-being. And I was even more taken aback that he’d kept his word to Mr. Carson by not handing my ass to me. I knew then he’d probably taken to my idea to treat his friend. I’d spent the last thirteen months under his watch and was finally seeing a tiny hint of humanity in him.

It seemed to be the collective thought amongst most doctors to shed our human skins at the hospital. Those who thought we were simply cold-hearted, money-seeking machines were sadly mistaken. In the long run, it was easier to be a doctor if you thought of yourself as an uninvolved part of a well-oiled machine. Things would always get a little gray at times, but getting involved with patients led to nothing but an aching heart and the inevitable need to flee the career itself. Keeping your emotions in check was vital to a long career. Or so I was taught.

I willed myself to finish my charts as my fatigue set in early. I looked at the clock and realized I was ten minutes late for my OB appointment.

Your health first, Dallas.

“Okay, I’m going,” I said to my subconscious ranting in my head. I quickly made it to the right floor and saw the room was packed with pregnancy. I caught the eye of a woman who looked like she was having triplets and saw the devastation on her face. I said a silent prayer of thank you and walked to the receptionist.

“Dallas Whitaker checking in for my one-thirty.”

---