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Instead of answering my question, she informs me, “You’re blocking out memories, Laura.”
I open my mouth and shut it. What?
I don’t realize I’ve spoken aloud until she responds, “I’m certain it’s no surprise I’ve been speaking with others. They tell a very different account of your actions.”
“I ...” What can I say? What else am I missing? “Did I get someone else killed?”
“Laura, do you really think we wouldn’t have worked through that by now if that were the case?” Alice reprimands me.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore.” My head falls forward into my hands.
“Do you really think you’re ready to return to the ER?” Alice probes.
“I think I ... could be.”
“Would you give one hundred percent if you did? Could you be certain you wouldn’t make a mistake you’d regret if you went downstairs and back to work right this very second?”
My lips begin to tremble. As much as I want to say “Yes,” the “No” my lips breathe is my truth and my shame.
She turns and reaches for a file on her desk before handing it to me. “I’d like to ease you back into the medical environment.”
Accepting it, I hesitate to open it and ask, “What do you have in mind?
Alice nods. “I have a patient who could use some one-on-one assistance.”
“Go on.”
“Her name is Bailey Payne.”
I tap the file on my thigh. “What does this have to do with me?”
“Read it and tell me what you think about her medical situation.”
“Aren’t we violating HIPAA by you showing me this?”
Alice flips around her monitor and I find a non-disclosure statement. I use the electronic pad attached to Alice’s computer to sign the statement. Once I do, I immediately flip the file open and am met by the face of a little girl with haphazard pigtails and an urchin’s grin. I can’t help but be reminded of the plethora of family photos my aunt has taken over the years. My finger taps the edge. “She’s adorable.”
“Yes, she is.”
I scan Bailey’s medical history to find she was in an automobile accident two years ago, resulting in her mother’s death. Clinically, I note, “Her mother took the brunt of the impact, where Bailey walked away without a scratch. Why does she ...” My voice breaks off. “She was at the ER the night of the shooting.”
“For an ear infection,” Alice confirms.
I keep reading. “She was your patient before that.”
“Something her loved ones are grateful for daily, let me assure you.”
I flip through her file and find out her injuries involved both legs being damaged by shrapnel on top of which the ceiling—shot out by the blast of Tiberi’s weapon—crushed them before her father had a chance to drag her off her chair.
I read aloud, “In each leg, a stainless-steel plate had to be inserted across fracture sites—including the growth plates. Through small incisions in the skin, screws were placed through the plate and bone, above and below the fracture to hold it in place.”
I note my former mentor—Dr. Rosenthal—performed the surgery. “She had a guardian angel that night. A difference of millimeters in either direction and her arteries would have been severed as well as her bones being damaged quite so extensively.” I keep reading before I note Rosenthal did a second arthroscopy procedure to clean up bone fragments a few weeks ago. Now, I note as I scan Rosenthal’s notes, she’s in casts while her legs heal. She’s also—I wince—subject to his intense physical therapy protocols throughout the summer. I feel for the little girl, even as I agree with Rosenthal. The cure is almost worse than the injury itself—especially to a young child. Overwhelming sessions of pain are emotionally exhausting but are essential to her long-term success in healing.
I should know. Haven’t I been doing the exact same thing?
“That’s exactly what Dr. Rosenthal told her father.”
I wince, knowing my former mentor is an exceptional surgeon but often lacked the people skills at times like those. We talk about the intricacies of Bailey’s injuries for a few minutes before I ask, “Why did you want me to read her case file?”