Page 20 of Reformation

I turn my tablet on, letting their conversation about what his doctors said and what his latest prognosis is fade into the background. It’s been years since I’ve read a book for pleasure. If I really thought about it, the last book I read was likelyLord of the Ringswhen I was twelve.

I used to love to read. More times than not, my head was buried in a book as a kid, which Mark would tease me about ruthlessly. I didn’t care. Science fiction, mystery, fantasy, it didn’t matter. I loved them all. Yes, I was a bit of a nerd.

That was until I turned thirteen. And no, it wasn’t because I started noticing girls or the other things that happen to boys around that time. Even though I absolutely did. I broke my arm in an unfortunate accident that involved me, Mark, a tree, and a wayward remote control airplane. I was in a cast for almost three months.

To me, that was about two months too long. It was then that I ditched the science fiction for every health and medical book I could find. I was determined to invent a way to heal bones faster, feeling that it was my duty to prevent any other child from having to suffer the torture I was going through. A cast in the middle of summer will do that to a kid.

That summer was when I decided I wanted to become an orthopedic surgeon. Every medical book I read fascinated me more than the last one. Eventually, I didn’t just want to heal bones faster; I was going to find new ways for athletes to recover after ACL surgeries. Shoulder surgeries were going to be walks in the park. I was going to rewrite the medical journals.

When I arrived at Harvard, I thought I had made it. That was until I didn’t get picked for a project I desperately wanted. Despite my 4.0, apparently I didn’t know the right people or have the right last name. The student who was picked had money, status, and his father was an alumnus. He also barely came to class, and I know for a fact he slept with every female medical student so they would do his homework.

I was livid. I worked my ass off, and for what? For some guy who had the right last name to get picked over me? I decided that if I couldn’t beat them, I would join them.

And that’s what I did. I pledged the right fraternities. I started hanging out with the crowd that would put me on the lists. It was a small price to pay when it came to my career.

Or so I thought. That was how I met Michelle. That decision is what put me on the road to where I am now: in a hospital bed at forty-two years old after a blood clot almost killed me, about to go through a second divorce, and realizing that I haven’t done anything I wanted to do with my life.

I didn’t care about money or prestige when I first got to college. I wanted my name in medical journals because of inventive surgeries, not on a “who’s who” list of doctors under fifty because I flirted with the editor. Even the clinic wasn’t opened for the right reasons. It was a tax write-off. Plain and simple.

I sit straight up in my bed as if I was struck by a bolt of lightning. And like I couldn’t stop it, the questions about everything come rolling through my head all at once.

Who am I?

What have I become?

If I had died, what would my obituary have said? How many lies would have been written to make me sound not horrible?

Who would have come to my funeral?

Holy fuck. I don’t want this life.

I frantically flip on my light, not caring that at some point it became the middle of the night. I have no clue when Kelly left, or when I dozed off. All I know is that if I don’t get all of these thoughts out of my head right now, I’m going to explode.

I reach for a notebook and pen on my tray and begin jotting down every random thought that comes through my head. Everything from notes about new techniques for knee surgeries to a reminder to brush up one more time on divorce laws in Virginia.

“What the fuck?” Boomer says, sleep thick in his voice. “Dude. It’s four a.m. Even the nurses know to leave us alone at this time of the night.”

“Sorry, man. I couldn’t sleep.”

Boomer pulls the curtain back to find me furiously scribbling on a notepad. If he could have looked over my shoulder at that point he would have seen me writing the words, “Try to not be an asshole human.”

“Are you writing your will? Oh shit, are you dying? If so, I think you should give me something. I am your brofriend, after all. Didn’t you say you had a BMW? I could take that for you. I’ll take real good care of her.”

I ignore his comment, because at that moment I get an idea about ligament replacements. I scribble it down, not wanting to forget it. I’m on a fucking roll.

“Garrett. Seriously. You’re freaking me out. What in the hell are you writing?”

I stop at his words, looking back at the scribble on the pages. All ten sheets of them. Front and back.

“All the ways I’m going to change medicine. And how I’m going to get a divorce,” I say matter-of-factly.

He nods, pulling the curtain back. “Great. Can you do it without the light on? Oh, and if you’re changing medicine and all, can you get me a new heart? Thanks, brofriend.”

Chapter Twelve

Paige

There is something different in the air on a race day, especially a charity run on a crisp January day. I can’t tell you exactly what it is, but there is a sense of excitement. Even as a volunteer, I can feel it. A feeling that accomplishments and goals are going to happen today.

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