Page 95 of Broken Dream
I raise an eyebrow. “The process?”
She nods. “The process of understanding that you’re not just a witness to your patients’ lives but an active participant. You can effect change, but you can’t control everything. Some things are beyond our reach.”
“So how do you handle that? How do you deal with knowing that there are things you just can’t fix?”
Aunt Mel pauses, swirling the tiny bit of liquid left in her martini glass. “You learn to accept it,” she says finally. “Acceptance is a big part of being a psychiatrist. Accepting that not every story has a happy ending, accepting that some wounds run deeper than others and might take longer to heal, accepting that sometimes all you can do is be there for someone, even when it feels like you’re not doing enough.” She finishes her drink and gazes out the window a moment. “In a way, it’s like learning to dance in the rain. You can’t stop the storm, so you learn to move with it, to find your rhythm amid the chaos.”
Find your rhythm among the chaos.
The words settle inside me.
And for some reason, they remind me of Jason.
Chapter Thirty
Jason
This is so fucked up.
It’s Saturday, and the hospital has convened a special board meeting to deal with me. With my surgery. Because they don’t think I’m mentally fit to handle it.
What a fucking crock.
I dress in a pair of navy slacks and a crisp white shirt. No tie, because ties make me want to strangle someone. Kind of fitting for today’s proceeding.
The boardroom is on the sixth floor, as far removed from life-and-death situations as possible. It’s all pristine glass and sleek chrome adorned with uninteresting paintings that look like giant blurs of something no one wants to see. Abstracts. Modern art. It’s all crap. The hospital probably paid some pompous artist millions for them—money that could have gone toward saving lives.
I wish I were anywhere but here.
But if I want my surgery, I’m going to have to prove to these self-important asses that I’m mentally and emotionally capable of handling it.
Why wouldn’t I be?
Only my entire life was stolen from me three years ago.
And these people want to steal my only opportunity for getting part of it back.
I recognize the chief of surgery, Dr. Peter Bailey, and the CEO and president of the hospital, Dr. Roger Stanich. I recognize the faces of the two other board members present, but I can’t recall their names. I guess they didn’t need to convene the entire board for this.
It’s only my life, after all.
Also seated at the table are my doctors, Louisa Matthews and Gita Patel, alongside my former psychiatrist, Dr. Vanessa Morgan.
Why the hell is she here? She’s responsible for my wife’s death.
One more woman is seated next to Dr. Morgan, and she looks slightly familiar to me. She’s older, with graying blond hair, a slightly wrinkled but still beautiful face, and striking green eyes even brighter than my own.
“Welcome, Dr. Lansing.” Dr. Bailey stands and gestures. “Please have a seat.”
“We don’t need to stand on ceremony, Pete,” I say dryly, taking the seat at the foot of the table.
Peter sits opposite me at the head, with Dr. Stanich and the other board members to his right, and my doctors plus the familiar-looking woman to his left.
“Let me make introductions just as a formality,” Peter says. “Dr. Stanich, our CEO and president, and board members Dr. Lisa Frohike and Mr. James Pigg, president of Long Pharmaceuticals here in Boulder. On my left, of course, are Drs. Matthews and Patel, Dr. Vanessa Morgan, and our former board member who we’ve asked to join us, Dr. Melanie Steel.”
I catch myself before my jaw drops.
No wonder she looks familiar.
