Page 53 of Rage

I have to do what’s in the best interest of my child and patients. IpromisedZaiden and myself that I’d do that.

Bowing my head, I admit I am compromised. I can’t do this in a detached, professional manner.

Not this, not like this.

That bastard didn’t just violate her body. He took her child along with him.

My thighs ache, pelvis throbbing with phantom pains from my own miscarriage.

It’s time. Time for me to take time off, to step away before I’m the one bleeding on the hospital floor.

For Sariel or Zade. For Zaiden.

Sarah

A nervous hand lifts to knock on the department manager’s door, pausing before making contact.

I need to do this, I remind myself. Would I be able to live with myself if I cause accidental harm because of my emotional state?

No.

I rap my knuckles on the wooden door, waiting for a muffled “come in,” to carry through the gaps. Turning the knob, I walk into the semi-illuminated office, shutting the door behind me.

Dr. Miranda Grant looks up from her monitors. Her brown eyes sweep over me, cataloging every weakness and imperfection with a blank expression. She sits back in the computer chair, stapling her fingers together on the cherry wood desk.

“You need time off, Dr. Bell,” she says before I can open my mouth. I nod. She recruited me when I’d felt burnt out in NICU at St. Elizabeth’s. Maybe my detachment hadn’t just been professionalism and a good work ethic. I’d begun to lose the very thing that made me a practitioner that patients looked forward to seeing.

My empathy.

An old mentor once told me, “When you stop thinking of your patients as people and start thinking of them as patients, then you need to quit or back away. They’re people, Ms. Bell. Always.”

NICU wasn’t for me, I’d discovered. Obstetrics was. And I need to stick to my principles before I’m in the same predicament as last time.

A doctor without a soul.

Dr. Grant releases a sigh, leaning forward to click around with her computer mouse.

“You have over two hundred hours saved up. Do you want to use all of them and let it bleed into your maternity leave or…” she trailed off, leaving options dangling within reach.

My eyes close for only a brief moment.

“Two weeks,” I tell her, silently hoping it’s enough. Her eyes slide to my protruding stomach, a dark brow rising.

“Many women continue working until they go into labor,” I point out. She’s head of the department and knows this, but the reminder felt necessary. Hadn’t I told Zaiden the same thing?

“Yes, and some studies suggest there’s a correlation between that and more severe symptoms of postpartum depression, something you’ve never experienced,” she says. Her tone isn’t callous. She’s simply stating facts.

“Take the two weeks off. When you come back, stick to intakes and follow-ups, nothing serious. After maybe another two weeks, which should put you close to your due date? Take another week off.” Her hand raises to cut me off when I open my mouth to object.

“Think about your baby, Sarah.” I blink, eyes misting at the use of “baby,” and my first name. “You’re a good doctor, an excellent nurse, and an amazing woman. Don’t let burn-out take those things away. You’ve stayed in this department because it’s a passion of yours and not just on a professional level. Don’t take risks with something that means this much to you.” Sniffing, I bring a hand from my stomach to wipe a tear away.

“Yes, Dr. Grant,” I whisper to the floor. I’m in my forties and feel as vulnerable as an adolescent right now.

“Good. I can’t wait to meet that baby of yours someday. Everyone’s excited,” she says, face finally breaking its placid expression in favor of a smile.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

I guess it’s time to go home, little one. After mumbling “thank you” and “goodbye,” I leave her office with a swirl of emotions flurrying through me.

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