Page 96 of Broken Dream
Not only is Dr. Steel one of the most preeminent psychiatrists in Colorado—hell, in the whole country—she’s also Angie Simpson’s aunt.
What the hell is she doing here?
Angie said yesterday she was in town…
Did Angie somehow put her aunt up to this?
No, she couldn’t have.
“Good morning,” I say. “It’s nice to see all of you.”
Did that sound sincere?
Probably not.
Peter clears his throat. “As you know, Dr. Lansing, we’re here to make a decision about whether to allow Dr. Patel to perform the experimental nerve graft on your right hand at this facility.”
I nod. “I’ve already consented to the procedure, and Drs. Matthews and Patel have been forthcoming about all the risks.”
“One of which is the possibility of you losing all function in your right hand,” Peter says.
I grit my teeth but manage a fake smile. “I read the informed consent, Peter.”
“We know you have,” Dr. Stanich interrupts, leaning back in his chair, “but the board feels it necessary to ensure, given your past medical history, that you fully understand the potential consequences.”
I meet his gaze, remaining steady. I will not let their words undermine me. They’re not concerned about my past medical history. They’re concerned about the losses I’ve endured. Why not just say it?
I draw in a breath. “I’m not asking for any guarantees. Just the chance to regain what was taken from me.”
Dr. Frohike leans forward, tapping her pen against the notepad in front of her. “That’s precisely why we’re here, Dr. Lansing,” she says calmly. “We need to ascertain whether you are prepared mentally and emotionally for this change, given your history.”
I can’t help scoffing. “I lost the use of my hand in an automobile accident that took the life of my daughter. Then my wife took her own life a few months later. And you”—I point to Dr. Morgan—“said you could help her. That you could help me. Why is this quack even here?”
“With all due respect, Dr. Lansing,” Dr. Morgan says, “you and your wife didn’t complete?—”
“Leave it, Vanessa,” Dr. Stanich says. “We’ve all seen the records.”
Of course they have. Because privacy doesn’t exist here. HIPAA means nothing. This is all a “consult.” Board business.
Psychiatry is quackery.
How I want to say the words.
But that won’t help my cause.
“It won’t change anything,” I say sharply. “And neither will all this. Can we just get to the point, please?”
Peter nods. “All right, Dr. Lansing. The board has thoroughly analyzed your medical and psychological records. We have concerns about the potential impact of the surgery on your mental health, particularly given the trauma you’ve experienced from the loss of your family.”
“My mental health is none of your concern anymore,” I retort. “The trauma I’ve experienced doesn’t invalidate my right to regain what I lost, Doctor. And I don’t see how it relates to this.”
Dr. Morgan opens her mouth but then closes it after a gesture from Dr. Steel.
“Dr. Lansing,” Dr. Steel says, “I don’t know you. I’d like to, if you’re open to it. The board has asked me to assess your mental health with regard to the trauma you’ve experienced and how it might relate to this experimental surgery should it fail.”
“I see no reason to talk to yet another therapist,” I say.
“I understand,” Dr. Steel replies, her voice even and nonconfrontational. “This isn’t about therapy, though. It’s about understanding your capacity to handle the potential outcomes of this operation.”
