Page 5 of No Greater Love
This finally got his attention. He looked up, biting his lip thoughtfully. "Let me think... Tylenol, ibuprofen, Aleve, Toradol, tramadol, Zofran, droperidol, Benadryl, and medical tape." He paused. "I think that's everything."
I documented the extensive list, then glanced at his medication history. "I see you're prescribed Vicodin and Dilaudid?"
"Yeah, but I'm out of those."
"And you take the Vicodin okay, even with your Tylenol allergy?"
"Yeah, my doctor said Tylenol was fine when it's mixed with other stuff, just not by itself."
"We'll probably need a urine sample and discuss getting a CT scan to check for stones."
"No way," he said, shaking his head. "I don't do radiation. It's bad for you."
I kept my expression neutral, though internally I noted the refusal. Considering kidney stones were consistently rated as being more painful than childbirth, someone genuinely suffering from them would typically want any test that might help diagnose and treat their condition. The reluctance to confirm the diagnosis he was claiming was... telling.
"I understand," I said diplomatically, meaning it in more ways than one.
After completing his assessment, I directed him to the waiting room. As he stood to leave, he finally looked directly at me.
"Hey, how long do you think the wait will be? I've got plans later, and my ride's coming in about forty-five minutes."
I felt my jaw tighten slightly. "We see patients based on medical priority, sir. I'll do my best to keep things moving efficiently."
"Can you just try to hurry it along?" he asked, already shuffling toward the waiting room, phone back in hand.
I watched him go, then turned back to my computer to complete his chart. As I typed, I found myself thinking about the morning's earlier incident with Tasha, about Mr. McAllister's manipulative behavior, about Mr. Shifflett's casual dismissiveness.
Just another beautiful day in emergency medicine.
But even as I thought it, I realized something had shifted since this morning. The tremor in my hands from the nightmare had completely disappeared. The familiar weight of the day's routine had settled around me like armor, steady and reliable.
The dreams might still come at night, might still drag me back. But here, in the controlled chaos of the ER, surrounded by colleagues I respected and problems I could actually solve?
Here, I was exactly where I belonged.
two
tasha
The problemwith Nathan Crawford wasn't that he was incompetent. The problem was that he was so aggressively competent, so relentlessly professional, that it made everyone else look stupid by comparison.
Take Tuesday morning's disaster: Mrs. Kellerman, sixty eight years old, diabetic, on dialysis three times a week, veins like spider webs under tissue paper. She'd been stuck four times already—twice by night shift, once by respiratory therapy trying to draw blood gases, and once by some overeager resident who'd insisted he could "definitely get this one."
Her arms looked like a war zone.
"I can't take much more of this, honey," Mrs. Kellerman said to me, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. "I know y’all are trying, but..."
I looked at her arms, mapping the viable targets in my head. There, on the back of her left hand, I saw it— a tiny, threadlike vein that everyone else had probably dismissed as too small.
But I'd gotten smaller.
"Mrs. Kellerman," I said, pulling up a chair beside her bed, "I'm going to get this on the first try. I promise."
"Oh, sweetheart, that's what they all say."
"Well," I said, prepping my supplies with practiced efficiency. "I'm not 'they all.' I'm very good at this."
Nathan appeared at my elbow with the ultrasound machine. "Need help? I can get this set up for?—"
