Page 84 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

All I knew was this: There was a time when I thought legacy was earned in operating rooms and journal publications.

Now? Now I wondered if legacy looked more like a garden with a crooked wooden sign. A woman who saw through all my walls. And a place where every heart—not just the ones I repaired—got a chance to bloom.

Maybe the future of medicine was in New York.

But the future of my heart?

It was still in Cedar Springs.

…

The clinic was quieter than usual that afternoon. Sunlight poured through the windows and cast warm patches across the floor, and out back, the garden Ruby and I planted bloomed in full, unruly color. I could smell lavender through the open door. The air felt slow. Peaceful.

Then came Hank.

He was sixty-three, wore flannel like it was armor, and had a voice like gravel in a coffee grinder. He stomped into the waiting room with a scowl deep enough to scare off most interns.

“I told your receptionist I didn’t need no fancy tests,” he grunted as I opened the exam room door.

“And I told her to schedule you anyway,” I replied, motioning him in. “You lost thirty pounds in six months and nearly passed out in the co-op last week. That’s not just hay fever, Hank.”

He grumbled but followed, planting himself on the exam table like it had personally offended him.

“I hate hospitals,” he muttered. “White coats. Cold rooms. Makes a man feel like he’s already halfway dead.”

“You’re not in a hospital,” I said, setting my stethoscope aside. “And I’m not wearing a white coat. I’m wearing a sweater. And jeans.”

He glanced at my clothes. “Still feels like trouble.”

I gave him a smile and reached for his chart. “Then let’s take this outside. I’ve got a better idea.”

Five minutes later, we were walking the path around the Hearts in Bloom Garden. Hank’s boots scuffed the gravel, and he kept tossing wary glances at the raised beds like the roses might bite him. I gave him space to settle, breathing in the peppermint from the herb patch and watching the wind tug gently at the marigolds.

“You ever seen a flower get high blood pressure?” Hank asked.

I chuckled. “Nope. But I’ve seen a lot of farmers who do.”

He didn’t answer at first, just stared at a nearby trellis covered in climbing morning glory. “Been eating bacon and biscuits since I had teeth. Now the doc wants me on rabbit food. You try working ten-hour days on lettuce?”

I didn’t interrupt. I just kept walking, letting the tension bleed out of him like air from a balloon.

“I ain’t afraid of hard work,” he said after a long beat. “But I’m scared of not waking up one morning. My wife—Lena—she’d lose the farm. We’ve had that land three generations. I can’t…” He trailed off, jaw tight.

I stopped by the bench under the arbor and sat. “Then let’s keep you waking up.”

He dropped down beside me, his body creaking like a barn door.

“I’m not giving you a stack of prescriptions,” I said. “We’re going to start small. Cut salt. Add one walk a day. Swap a few meals. And check in with me every two weeks. Deal?”

He eyed me. “You don’t rush folks out the door, do you?”

“Not my style.”

Hank’s mouth twisted, not quite a smile, but not far from one either. “You some kind of fancy miracle worker, Dr. Cole?”

“No,” I said. “I just finally remembered why I got into this in the first place.”

He looked down at his hands, thick and calloused. “I thought good doctors only lived in cities.”

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