“Yeah.” Glum thought. “I seriously doubt I need that much time. I feel great.” Other than the haziness of everything. Which I shouldn’t mention aloud. “Who do I talk to about getting that shortened?”
“Me, actually.” Cook puffed out his chest. “Staff psychologist and cranial specialist.”
Both? Oh, that was right. He’d specialized in psych but gone back for cranial and traumatic brain injury specialty a few years later. I’d forgotten that. I’d forgotten a lot. Oh, geez.
“You take bribes, right?”
Cook exploded in laughter. The joke wasn’t that funny. He patted his chest until he caught his breath. “You’re too much, Hotwell. Let’s just plan on seeing you weekly and evaluate how you’re healing up.”
Weekly. Geez, it sounded more like annually as the calendar stretched long and empty. “What am I supposed to do for six weeks?”
“What do you do for fun?”
“Heart surgery.”
“I mean, when you’re not performing heart surgery.”
“I see patients who need heart surgery.”
“Other than that.”
I researched heart surgery techniques.
“Come on there’s got to be something. Fishing? Tole painting?”
“Uh.” It’d been too long, too many years of only focusing on my job for there to be any other honest answer. “I’m not really sure.”
“Is that due to your concussion?” He tugged at a little notepad in his pocket.
I’d better nip that little note-taking in the bud.
“No! No, no, no. I just I love my work. I’m good at it. Sharp focus is one of the main things that makes me excellent at my work. In fact, I think I’ve got a good shot at cardiology MVS for the whole hospital network.” Hint, hint. He should let me get back to being the most valuable player on the regional heart team.
Dr. Cook just did one of those Dr. Sigmund Freud nods, like he was humoring me.
“What? You don’t think I can get the award?”
“It’s not that.”
“Then, what is it?” I couldn’t believe I was sitting here in a hospital gown having this conversation with Dr. Cook, of all people. He wasn’t even a cardiologist. What did he know? “I’m an excellent surgeon.”
“So I hear.” Cook leaned down and examined my eyes, looking a little too deeply for comfort. If he weren’t a cranial specialist, I would’ve felt invaded just then. “Let’s just focus on getting you well and back into the operating room as soon as possible. Until then, rest and relaxation.”
Relaxation. Pah. Might be a foreign word, for all I knew.
Dr. Cook scribbled something on a prescription pad and tore it off.
“What’s this?” I couldn’t read his writing. Of course. “R&R?”
“Yep. And if you don’t comply with the healing protocol, I doubt you’ll be cleared to return to work.”
Now I was the one who nearly exploded—but not with laughter like Kook. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” It took me a second of pressing on my chest to catch my breath. “I’m being babysat?” By you?
“Do you want to get back into the OR or not?”
The ire drained from me. If this was what it took to get my life back, I’d do it. Six weeks of delay was more than a speed bump on the way to my MVS status, but I had achieved the goal of becoming a doctor—I knew how to play the long game in life.
“Fine. Six weeks of rest.”
“And relaxation.” Dr. Cook paused by the door, looking hopeful. “Any plans? It’s Saturday night. Your family throwing a welcome-home party for you?”
“My sister is coming by.” It looked like Dr. Cook thought my answer was weak-sauce. Then it hit me. Saturday! “And … there might be an anniversary party to check out”—to see whether or not my brain had invented it. “Have a good rest of your weekend.”
Cook left.
I called Lola. “They’re discharging me.” I wasn’t cleared to drive yet, so she’d offered to come get me, and then to hang out for the afternoon and evening, just to make sure I was adjusting okay. “Do you have time to drive me past an address?”