He grasped the end of my blonde braid and tugged me toward him again. “Linden.”
“Boxer.”
“I like the sass, Doc. I really do.” He released my hair, and then dipped his hand into my scrub pants pocket and pulled out my cell phone. “Unlock this so I can give you my number.”
I took my phone and unlocked it and then handed it back to him. His fingers flew across the screen and a few moments later I heard a buzz. Boxer reached into his pocket and extracted his cell.
“Now you’ve got my number,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at five.” He gently grasped my chin and slid his lips across mine. It was quick, a tease of what he could do with his mouth.
“See you tomorrow, Doc.” He winked and then pulled the curtain back and left.
I stared after him for a good long moment only to realize I’d never officially cleared him to drive.
* * *
“Labs for Alice Whitcomb,” Peyton said, handing me a tablet.
“Thanks.” I took it, and without leaving the nurses’ station, I scrolled through them to read the results.
After a few moments, I let out a long sigh.
“Bad news?” she asked, pitching her voice low.
“Biopsy came back positive. Stomach cancer,” I said quietly.
“Damn, really?” Peyton asked, her eyes concerned.
I nodded. “It’s spread too. Lymph nodes.”
“Damn,” Peyton repeated.
“I really hate this part of the job.” I took the tablet and headed to Alice’s room.
The sixty-three-year-old grandmother of four was lying in a hospital bed, crocheting scarves for family members. I hoped like hell she would be able to finish them.
I entered. The TV was on low, mostly for background noise. She was setting aside her crochet needles and the current project she was working on.
“Dr. Ward,” she said with a warm smile.
“Hi, Alice.”
Her smile trembled, and her brown eyes rested on me. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Stomach cancer,” I said, not beating around the bush. “It looks like it’s spread to your lymph nodes, so we need to talk about the next steps.”
She leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. “I was having stomach pain weeks ago. I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t think it was serious.” She opened her eyes and stared at me.
Alice fiddled with the wedding ring she wore on a chain around her neck. It had belonged to her husband who’d passed away at fifty-five.
I knew my patients. I got invested in their lives. I asked about their children, grandchildren, and vacations.
I had made up my mind a long time ago that if they were going to come into my life—whether it was for a day or a week or longer—I wanted to know about theirs. Treatment became personal. It was much harder, but the caring made it real for me. These weren’t just patients; they were people.
And right now, I was the person who’d just blown apart Alice’s entire world, all because of my diagnosis.
“I’m going to have my staff set up a meeting between you and Dr. Lowell, the hospital’s senior-most oncologist,” I said. “She can go over your options and treatment plans. She’s very good, Alice.”
Alice nodded and then grabbed the crochet needles like they were a lifeline. “I’d appreciate that. Thanks.”