Page 18 of Dr. Aster

“Speaking of painful,” she said, “how did things go with your friends today? The ones facing the hysterectomy?”

My humor faded at that moment. I never took work home with me, but this was a hard one, especially since they were friends of mine.

“I didn’t have the chance to introduce you to them, but Dr. Mitchell is the chief cardiovascular surgeon at Saint John’s. He referred his wife, Ashley, to me after she’d been dealing with quite a bit of abdominal pain. Long story short, she has stage one ovarian cancer.”

I studied Mickie’s expression and saw a look of surprise and sadness. Ovarian cancer was a silent killer, a disease that was one of the greatest enemies of our patients and us physicians. The patient could see a seventy to ninety percent survival rate for five years when caught in the early stages. However, I’d seen patients outlive even that survival rate when being aggressive with our treatment. It was devastating news to get, though, and one of the hardest to deliver. And it stung more having to pass it along to my friends whom I’d grown to care about since I joined the Saint John’s team.

“Oh, my God,” Mickie answered. “I’m so sorry to hear that news. How are they doing? How are you doing?”

I liked talking about my feelings as much as the next emotionally suppressed WASP from Martha’s Vineyard, but her empathy was comforting in a way that disarmed me.

“They’re doing as well as can be expected. Jake and Ash have this otherworldly love story, which will help them through this unfortunate prognosis together. They’ll go through with the surgery and chemo treatments, and then Ashley will be another cancer survivor we will all praise. I believe that.”

“I know you deal with this all the time since your subspecialty is gynecological oncology, and you pretty much deliver babies for fun,” she softened up a little, which I appreciated. “But how do you deal with it when it affects people you care about?”

“The same as I would any other patient, of course,” I advised her.

“You know I admire that in you,” she offered. “Continuing your education to specialize in oncology is a decision that will save many lives.”

I smiled as our plates were placed in front of us. “So now you know why it’s taken me so long to get where I am.”

“I considered going further myself,” she said, mirroring me as we cut into our steaks.

“Let me guess: Stanford Med’s best student was itching so badly to get the next chief position at Saint John’s that she bypassed the future of saving women’s lives by fighting the battle of reproductive cancers?”

“No.” After swallowing her first bite, she blotted the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Well, maybe?” she said cutely. “I thought about it, though, since there aren’t many OBGYN oncologists, and so many women end up being treated by a regular oncologist who doesn’t specialize in female reproduction.”

“Why didn’t you go for it, then? I’d say you ran out of money because of student loans, but you live in a house in Los Feliz, so I know money wasn’t the problem,” I said, mainly because I was being nosy and wanted to know how she could afford to move there as a resident. “I know it was something; you’re too driven not to chase another goal in this profession.”

“I guess I’m a big chicken,” she finally offered, making me laugh in return.

“A chicken? You? Nope, I’m not buying that. Cough it up, Mick,” I said, cutting off another hunk of steak to savor as the sexy vixen across from me tried to remain proper, serious, and not challenged in the slightest.

“Seriously?” she said thoughtfully. “I know as a physician my job is to save lives, and in our specialty, we get to help families to bring their children into the world.”

“But?” I said, digging for more and finding her highly attractive as she tried to piece together her thoughts carefully.

“But,” she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “I know there are sad moments, and I prefer to gravitate toward the more beautiful ones. I don’t know if I have what it takes to work with cancer daily. I couldn’t bear it.”

I noticed a shift in her demeanor when she mentioned the word cancer as if she were frightened of it.

“Cancer is a bastard,” I started. “That’s why I went on to pursue the specialty. I want to beat it, not just diagnose it.”

She shook her head. “That’s where you have me beat, Dr. Aster,” she smiled at me, but I didn’t fail to see her grieved expression.

“I don’t think that’s why you appear so upset now.” I decided to dig a little deeper, “Who did you lose to the disease?”

I was taking a risk by asking such a personal question, and for the first time, I felt nervous trying to get something out of someone.

“A good friend of mine,” she answered, her eyes glossy, and I instantly felt like shit for prying. “We were on the swim team together. She was diagnosed with a tumor after headaches. It turns out it was cancer. She passed away within the year. It was a late diagnosis, and no time to fight it.”

I sat back in my chair, seeing the look of defeat on the woman’s face. “From what I know about your personality, I’m surprised you didn’t pursue the field just to beat it because it took someone from you.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t feel any drive to do that. Instead, I hate hearing about it or being around it. It’s just not my thing,” she shrugged, and I could tell the subject needed to change.

I should’ve known that no good could come from asking such a question, and it would be rude of me to press for more information.

“I’m sorry for the loss of your friend,” I said, killing the conversation as quickly as I tried to drag it on.

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