Page 10 of Broken Dreams

“I see.” His choice of staying at The Cozy Inn, located directly across from the hospital, wasn't accidental. “Does that mean you have practice privileges here?”

He looked thoughtful. “Technically, yes. I'm on medical leave as far as being a surgeon goes, but I still have a license to practice medicine.” He glanced around. “I hope the upper brass doesn’t hold my responding to the medical emergency against me.”

“Mr. Goetz didn't want to go to therapy this morning.” She blurted out her deepest concern. “I made him come down. When I heard the medical emergency being called. I knew it was him.”

He placed a comforting hand on her arm. “It's not your fault. If he had a seizure, there's a medical reason for it.”

“I know.” She thought back over Mr. Goetz's rehab stay. “His biggest complaint recently has been stubborn urinary tract infections. And I think there were a couple of days he complained of a headache.” A wave of doubt swelled, stealing the breath from her lungs. Had she missed something important?

“Did the rehab doc work up his infections and his headache?”

“We gave him Tylenol and double strength Bactrim.” She scowled. “Dr. Roland doesn’t make rounds very often.”

Nicks gaze sharpened. “What do you mean?”

She bit her lip, hesitated, then spread her hands. She'd started this, she may as well finish it. “Just what I said. Dr. Roland doesn't make rounds very often. In fact, if we didn't call him with issues, we wouldn't even know he was the physician of record.”

Chapter Four

After Amber returned to her nursing unit, Nick returned to his therapy. Sweat rolled off his forehead, burning his eyes as he worked his injured leg on the exercise equipment. He tried to wipe his brow on the short sleeve of his T-shirt without losing his grip. He grasped the dual hand rests, using every bit of strength he had to lever the weights upward. They were only set at a measly twenty pounds but each repetition felt like some masochist had moved the pin to the one hundred pound mark.

Blazing pain radiating through his body reminded him of the plane crash, when he'd spent countless hours wedged in the wrecked plane, struggling to crawl out despite his broken pelvis, multiple compound fractures of his left leg and left dislocated shoulder. He hadn’t even realized until later about his fractured fingers.

Working the painful muscles now, he knew he was lucky to be alive. A life he owed to Shane Reinhart. Most of the time he'd spent in the hospital was a dark blur. After his initial emergency surgery in China, he'd been transferred back to the United States, courtesy of the US government. There were times it was nice to be employed by Uncle Sam. That's when he'd received his box of personal belongings from Beijing, only to find his stuff commingled with Shane’s.

After finishing the thirty painful reps, he dropped the weights with a clatter then sat back with a sigh.

He was thankful to be alive. No question about that. For a moment, he stared at his left hand, specifically the three fingers numb from nerve damage from his dislocated shoulder and broken fingers. What was he going to do if the damaged muscles didn't heal well enough for him to return to the operating room? He was right-handed, but no surgeon operated with only one hand. His goal through medical school had been to become a trauma surgeon. Yes, there were plenty of other specialties out there, but he hadn't considered anything else. Now, that was all he could think about. He closed the injured fingers into a fist. His hand might be getting better, he'd managed to intubate Amber's patient, but the simple procedure didn't take as much finesse as performing intricate surgery did.

As usual, he didn't want to dwell on his bleak thoughts.

Amber’s blunt summation of the rehab doctor's practice flashed through his mind. His specialty wasn't physical medicine, but he knew very well that the standard of care for rehab wasn't much different from any other medical service. Physicians were expected to see their patients in the hospital on a regular basis.

If Amber was correct, Roland wasn't even meeting the minimum requirement dictated by their profession.

Nick stood and slowly, gingerly, used his cane to make his way across the physical therapy gym. Pretty sad when his toughest decision of the day was whether or not he should shower here or return to his motel room across the street. With a snort, he turned toward the main doors. He’d choose the privacy of his motel room.

“Are you all finished, Dr. Tanner?” The physical therapist, Paul, stopped him before he reached the doorway.

“Yes, for now. I'll probably be back tomorrow, though.”

“No problem. I'll be here,” Paul assured him.

Nick was about to leave, then he turned back. “There's a doctor here by the name of Roland who works on the rehab unit.”

Paul raised his eyebrows. “You mean the medical director of rehabilitation services?”

Medical director? How could a guy who didn't make routine rounds be the medical director of the unit? Nick swallowed his surprise. Had Amber exaggerated Roland's lax attitude? From what little he knew about her, she didn't seem the type to overstate the truth.

“Yeah, I guess that's the guy. What's his first name?”

“Douglas.” If Paul was curious about his line of questioning, the therapist didn't show it. Probably figured with his messed up body, Nick was asking for personal reasons, like seeking a new doctor.

If what Amber said was true, Roland would be the last on his list if he did need a referral.

“Douglas Roland,” he repeated. The name wasn't familiar, but he committed it to memory. There were dozens of VA hospitals across the nation. There was no reason for him to know this particular doc, although he had worked in several of them. “Thanks.” He'd use the hospital computer system, another government perk, to check Roland out and see what information he could find.

Anything was better than sitting around, feeling useless.

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