Page 14 of Doctor One Night

The tattoos are more than just art—they’re my civil disobedience, a big middle finger to the life that was curated for me. I run a hand over the ink on my chest, tracing the familiar patterns. It’s like armor, a shield I wear under my clothes, keeping the real me hidden from the world.

Outwardly, I play the game—I follow the rules, I do the work, and I deliver the results. But inside, there’s always that simmering anger, that need to push back, to break the rules when I can get away with it. Occasionally I have to remind myself that I’m in control of my life, not anyone else.

Turning away from the mirror, I grab my towel and head for the shower. Today’s another day for me to show up and do my thing. This new project has me excited, something new, something big. It’s going to be a great day.

UAB Hospital

10:47 am

The elevator doors slide open, and I step inside, already running through the list of patients I’ve seen this morning. It’s been a routine day so far, with no major surprises, but I could use a caffeine boost before the afternoon surgery.

I hit the button for the top floor, where the good coffee is, and lean back against the cool metal wall.

Just as the doors are about to close, a hand shoots out to stop them. The doors open again to reveal Shep Duncan, his familiar tall frame filling the space. He nods at me as he steps inside, his expression a mix of focus and mild irritation.

“Hunter,” he greets me, and I give him a nod in return.

“Shep, brother, what’s up?” Shep is a neurosurgeon here. We’ve been working side-by-side for years. I would consider him one of my good friends at the hospital.

“Got a second to talk about a patient?” he asks, his tone clipped, businesslike.

“If you can walk and talk. I’m heading up for a coffee,” I reply, already mentally preparing for whatever discussion is about to unfold. “I’ve got a clinic patient in a few minutes.”

“Sure,” Shep agrees without hesitation, and we settle into the elevator’s slow ascent.

“Who’s the patient you want to talk about?” I ask, glancing at him as the numbers tick upward.

“Mrs. Falworth,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know she’s your patient for the arrhythmia, but she’s been seeing me for some neuro issues—dizziness and a bit of memory loss. I’m thinking it might be related to her smoking, combined with her heart problems.”

I stifle a groan. “Shep, I’ve told her a hundred times she has to stop smoking. That arrhythmia isn’t going to get better if she keeps puffing away like a chimney.”

Shep nods, his face grim. “I know. I’ve had the same conversation with her. She’s not listening, though. I think it’s more habit than anything at this point. She’s in denial about what it’s doing to her body.”

“Denial or not, it’s going to kill her if she doesn’t quit,” I snap, the frustration seeping into my voice. “We can treat her arrhythmia, but if she doesn’t make some changes, we’re just putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound.”

The elevator dings, and we step out into the hallway, heading toward the coffee shop. The smell of freshly brewed coffee greets us, and I make a beeline for the counter, Shep keeping pace beside me.

We start walking again, and I admit it, I feel a little bad about what I just said, but not enough to take it back. Some patients you can’t reach. Either because they’ve developed destructive habits that they can’t or won’t break. Or because they’re just incredibly stubborn and don’t want to admit that someone else could be right.

“She’s stubborn. I’ll give her that,” Shep continues, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “But if she’s not going to quit, we need to figure out how to manage her symptoms before they get worse.”

We start walking again and only make it about ten steps before we hear, “Good morning, gentlemen doctors.” That accent could never be mistaken for anything other than Marijka, and it brings a smile to my face.

“Good morning, nurse,” we say in unison, turning to face the lined but still-beautiful older Eastern European as she gazes at us from across her desk. It’s not cluttered, it’s not orderly, but it’s somewhere in between. Marijka is our first-generation Mama Bear nurse who doesn’t pull any punches.

“I trust my two little boy toys are on their way to something important, yes?”

“Always, Mama Bear,” Shep chirps back. How is he always so fucking cheerful? I nod my head to her, holding equal affection, just not as syrupy in my delivery.

I order a black coffee and wait for Shep to finish ordering his before we find a spot to stand and talk. I have exactly three minutes. The hallway is relatively quiet, with just a few nurses and doctors passing by.

“She needs more aggressive treatment,” I say, taking a sip of the hot coffee. “I think, at this point, we need to consider an ablation. It’s not ideal, but it might be the only way to get that arrhythmia under control, which may help some of those neurological symptoms.”

Shep nods thoughtfully, staring into his cup. “And on my end, I can monitor the neuro symptoms more closely, see if there’s any direct correlation with her heart issues. Maybe if we can show her the connection between the smoking and the way she has zero energy, it’ll be the wake-up call she needs.”

I grunt, not entirely convinced. “Maybe. But I’m not holding my breath. We can only do so much, Shep. The rest is up to her.”

He sighs, and for a moment, we both just stand there, sipping our coffee in silence. It’s the same story with so many patients—doing everything we can to help them, only to watch them sabotage themselves. It’s frustrating, but it’s part of the job.

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