Page 106 of Broken Dream
She studies me with a soft yet probing gaze. “Coping and healing are two different things, Dr. Lansing,” she says gently. “You’re a well-respected surgeon, and I admire your resilience. But sometimes, even the strongest among us need assistance with mending the parts of ourselves that aren’t visible to the naked eye.”
I glance at the framed pictures on Peter’s desk, his family’s cheery faces mocking my internal turmoil. His wife. His children.
Those things I no longer have.
I swallow hard and nod.
“Let’s start from the beginning.” She leans back in Peter’s chair. “The accident with your daughter, Julia. Can you tell me about that day?”
I close my eyes for a moment, letting the memory wash over me. It’s like wounds being reopened. Here we go.
Again.
“Dr. Lansing…”
“I had a big surgery scheduled—a Whipple with a high-risk patient—and Lindsay had parent-teacher conferences. I was supposed to take Julia to her grandmother’s for the day instead of to daycare. It was raining. Raining really hard.”
She nods, keeping her expression impassive.
That’s what shrinks do. They force you to talk about things while they have no feelings themselves.
But if I want this surgery at this hospital, I have to jump through the fucking hoops.
“A car was coming through a red light and T-boned me.” My heart starts to accelerate. “I tried to stop. Tried to…”
The words get stuck in my throat.
“It’s okay. Go as slowly as you need to go.”
I close my eyes again and take a deep breath. “My airbag deployed, and I screamed for Julia. But she… She was forced out of her car seat and…”
Forced out because I had neglected to make sure she was secure.
No. I buckled her in. I remember.
The click. I heard the click.
Or did I?
Dr. Steel nods. “Go on.”
I open my eyes. “Why? Why do I have to relive this? Therapy didn’t work for me. It didn’t work for Lindsay. I’m sure you’ve seen Dr. Morgan’s records.”
“You know I can’t look at Dr. Morgan’s records without your consent.”
“But you’re consulting.”
“It’s not the same thing. I’m consulting at the request of the hospital board. Not at Dr. Morgan’s request. You’re no longer her patient.”
“Right,” I mutter. “So is this what it comes down to? Rehashing my grief as a form of penance? Some sort of toll I have to pay to fix my hand?”
Dr. Steel holds my gaze. “The process is not meant to be punitive, Dr. Lansing. You know that. It’s about understanding your emotional state and ensuring that you are in the best place for a positive outcome, whether the surgery is successful or not.”
“I’m not the same man who was in therapy three years ago,” I say. “I’ve learned to live with my grief. I’ve accepted that life is cruelly unpredictable.”
She nods. “Trauma has a way of changing us. How we come out on the other side can often speak more about us than the traumas themselves.”
I exhale slowly, absorbing her words. She has a point, but it still irks me. It feels like my worth, my competency, is being determined by how well I’ve healed, how well I’ve adapted to the unexpected blows life has dealt me.
