CHAPTER TWO
Catch and Release
Dorothy
I push bodies and equipment around the hospital the rest of the afternoon. That’s all I do every weekend—push, deliver, wait, return. It doesn’t require in-depth conversation, which is good since conversation is not my best honed skill. Sometimes, I deliver mail and lab specimens, but most of that is done digitally. I feel certain the future will have robotic wheelchairs and gurneys to transport patients without the assistance of an actual human—like autonomous cars.
With one year left of nursing school, I want to work in plastics. But after talking with Dr. Hawkins, I’m reconsidering my goals. Dr. Elijah Hawkins, pediatric oncologist, complimented my shoes. And what was that promise of later? Later when?
Today?
Tomorrow?
The dilemma plays out as different scenarios in my mind. I consider finding him to see if he wants to set a specific time to discuss my being on a hook. After one brief encounter, I’m indebted to him for some unknown reason.
I push Gavin Hamlin’s wheelchair back to his room after his MRI. He’s twelve and doesn’t say much. He has a tumor in the upper right quadrant of his brain—probably not cancer. They’re unsure if surgery is an option. I transported him three times last week.
If they find out it is cancer, then he might have Dr. Hawkins as his oncologist. And for a full second I think this would be great because then I might get to see Dr. Hawkins more often if Gavin needs more tests. But right after that second passes, I think, “What the fuck just went through my mind?”
The upside to this young kid having cancer!
Not a finer moment for me.
See, my parents think I need to put myself out there and be more available, but after one interaction with the hottest doctor in the hospital, I’ve let my thoughts seep into the darkness, wishing death sentences upon young kids. What’s next? Running through the halls, telling all of the kids the Easter Bunny isn’t real and that most of them with rare cancers will not live another five years?
“Do you think I’m going to die? I mean … it’s a tumor. In my brain. It’s going to kill me, right?”
“I’m not your doctor.” It’s not my job to discuss medical information with patients. It’s not really my job to discuss anything with them. But kids don’t know one set of scrubs from another, so sometimes I field these life and death questions.
“Yeah, but you work here. I’m sure you see this a lot.”
“Sick kids? Yeah. I see a lot of sick kids. But not all of them die. Most live. That’s all you need to think about.”
I make conscious efforts to censor every word I say to kids at the hospital. My mind abandons all emotion when asked questions that have factual answers.
Neat and tidy.
Black and white.
Only, kids don’t do well with the truth. Scratch that. Parents don’t do well with the truth.
Lie to my child. I don’t want to scare them.
Code for: I’m not ready to face reality.
I can’t imagine having children. Keeping track of my own shit, my own issues, and my own anxiety gobbles up all twenty-four hours.
“Why do you think I have this tumor?”
“Because you have cells in your body that are dividing at an excessively rapid rate.”
“Duh … but why?”
Before I can entertain him with my theories—based on solid research by some of the world’s leading doctors and medical researchers—his parents greet him just outside of his room. I give them a smile and make sure he gets safely back into his bed.
Several hours later, I take a quick break to get a coffee from the cafeteria. And talk about timing … Dr. Hawkins is in front of me in line. He doesn’t see me because of that unfortunate evolutionary flaw in humans—no eyes in the back of our heads.
My mouth falls open to say something, but then I clamp my jaw shut and replay the dialogue in my head one more time to make sure it’s not stupid.
“Hey, Dr. Hawkins. I have ten minutes if you want to catch me now.”
Catch me now … hmm. I’m not sure that’s what I mean or he meant. But since I don’t really know what he meant—
Whoa! Dear lord he smells good.
Like herbaceous good. Not woodsy, vomit-worthy cologne stench. More like he rolled around in a patch of my dad’s herbs, that kind of herbaceous good. Maybe … rosemary?
I lean in and take a generous whiff. “Fuck!” I yell as his elbow lands in my nose when he turns to reach for a wood stirring stick.
“Shit!” He jumps forward, arching his back after I spill my hot coffee down his backside—but only because he elbowed me in the nose.
My eyes see stars and burn with those unavoidable tears that always spring out the instant someone rams you in the nose. I look at my hand.