Page 20 of Doc Showmance
God, she was spectacular. She was a bulldog fighting for her patients. I’d watched her from afar today as she handled several serious cases. Every time, she didn’t give up unless she had to, like the cat that had been hit by a car. It arrived half dead and in shock. She only gave up when she realized he’d fractured his spine. That was a no-win situation for any cat.
I realized in this moment, watching her fight with her whole heart for this old dog with a potentially terminal problem that I wanted to know who she’d become. I wanted this not for the stupid show. Before the Valentine’s Day incident, we’d clicked. Even if we hadn’t moved toward each other romantically yet back then—it’d been the inevitable next step—we’d recognized in each other a kindred soul in philosophy and work ethic. I’d always wanted to understand what drove her to fight this hard, but then things had spiraled into a constant hate battle between us. It became almost a game whenever we ended up on the same rotation to see who could get in the last word.
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” I said softly and gave her a smile.
Eyes tired but determined, she blinked up at me. She’d pulled her hair into a messy bun. There was orange animal hair all over her scrub top and lab coat that wasn’t from this dog.
“The owner uses me as her primary care vet even though I’ve encouraged her to get a day vet. It’d be less expensive, but apparently cost isn’t an issue for her. Any thoughts on why I can’t get this dog’s diabetes regulated? I’ve cultured his urine twice in the past three weeks. No urinary tract infection. We changed insulin last month and it didn’t help. He’s got the constant digital monitor on so we can see what his glucose is doing at home by monitoring the app.” She pointed to a small plastic round device attached to the dog’s shoulder.
“Blood work?” I asked.
“I’ve run a full blood panel three times in the past ten days. Nothing’s changed until today. Now he’s got ketones in his urine and his electrolytes are going to crap. No inflammation. Nothing other than hyperglycemia. Radiographs today are normal.”
“Ultrasound?”
“I haven’t looked recently, but I don’t have anything in particular I’m looking for that calls for me to do one.”
I shrugged. I hated not being sure of the right plan. Uncertainty often drove me to research, read, and call specialists. I could get obsessed with cases like this. This wasn’t mine to get involved in. “If he’s that bonded with his mom it might help if he sees her.”
“Noodles is close to her. I’ll see if she can come in tonight.” No sarcasm. Genuine appreciation for the suggestion. Or maybe it was exhaustion talking since her shift would be ending in a half hour.
I shrugged. “Fluids are the key. And time.”
Amber nodded agreement and turned away without another word.
I figured we were done.
She called out as I was turning away. “Hey, hold on.” As she handed me a business card out of her pocket, she leaned in to whisper while glancing out of the side of her eyes to locate the cameraman. “We need to get together away from here to talk about our plan. Because this is going to be hell.” Louder, she said, “Thanks, Dr. Todd.”
As I walked away, I rolled the card, which she must’ve prepared ahead of time. On the back, she’d written a phone number, likely hers.
By eight that night I’d debated between yes and no on calling her so many times my head hurt. I received phone numbers all the time from women. But this number was different. This was her reaching out. This was my chance to try to unravel some of the prickliness around her, the part that didn’t have to do with what happened in school. Maybe we could cultivate something more congenial?
The phone vibrated. My stomach jolted. Maybe her?
Probably not since she didn’t have my number.
My mother’s name on my cell phone always took me by surprise. She called so rarely that it startled me, and not in a good way. I assumed something catastrophic happened for her to reach out. She’d drawn a line in the sand when I chose veterinary school against both her and my father’s directives. My father all but disowned me—not in the cutting me out of his will drama but simply dropped interest in me—and my mother went on a campaign to prove my life sucked unless she could direct my path. Now I stood on my side of the line alone.
With a sigh, I covered my face.
I answered on the fourth ring. “Who died?”
“Darling, why do you always assume it has to be gloom or doom to talk to your mother?”
“Okay. Hi, what do you want?”
“I need you up here for Thanksgiving in three weeks.”
That was so soon? I’d do just about anything to avoid that family event. “No. You kicked me out of the family. I’m happy to stay out.”
“Don’t be dramatic. Your father’s having surgery. He wants to speak with you before the procedure.”
“What’s wrong with him?” A twinge of guilt pricked at our lack of communication.
“I’ll send the plane for you. Your father really wants to see you.” That was code forI have plans, the bad kind of plans, which probably involved my father coercing me into moving home where Mom could pull me back under her finger of control, and Dad could suck me into the family business.
The corporate jet. Ugh. I’d worked hard to make it on my own and leave behind my father’s Northern California real estate empire. My younger brother wasn’t so lucky. He got into the family business years ago. For Brock, finagling deals resonated in his soul and he thrived. The last thing I wanted was to make capitalizing on people’s mistakes or weaknesses my purpose in life.
