Page 30 of Six Month Wife
“Oh, you’re not getting off that easy,” she says with a playful nudge.
“I’ll get it out of him,” Janie adds from the desk, grinning. “The whole ER’s dying to know who tamed our Hot Doc.”
I’m still chuckling when Nurse Janie, one of the younger nurses, chimes in from behind the counter, glancing up from her computer. “Parker, the untouchable, workaholic doctor, is settling down with the ‘ol ball and chain? You've only been here six months. You didn't give any of us a fair shake.”
“Hey!” I protest, but Janie’s grin tells me she’s enjoying this too much to care.
She shrugs, feigning innocence. “Just saying, I think the whole ER’s been curious why you were single in the first place.”
I shake my head, laughing as the teasing continues. This kind of banter is what keeps us sane. The ER’s chaos is constant, loud, unpredictable, and often emotional. We crack jokes to keep from cracking under pressure.
After finishing my residency and a surgical fellowshipin New Orleans, I wasn’t planning to stay in the ER long-term. But this Palm Beach job came up, and I needed a reset.
I did my fellowship in general surgery. I put in the hours. The dream hasn’t changed—it’s on pause. I don’t want to live shift-to-shift forever. I want to build something lasting. Earn my spot in the OR somewhere and get back to the part of medicine that made me fall in love with it in the first place.
Right now, though, the ER is where I am. And these people, this team, they’ve got my back. Even if they’re merciless with the ribbing.
My pager buzzes against my hip.
“Duty calls,” I say, checking the screen. “Looks like I’ve got a patient waiting.”
I make my way to the exam room where the patient is sitting. He's got one pant leg rolled up, revealing a nasty scrape on his knee. His arm’s already bandaged, but the bloodstains on his shirt suggest it was a pretty rough fall.
According to his chart, he lives in the local assisted living facility and has been having trouble with his balance lately.
“Mr. Harris,” I greet him warmly, holding out a hand. “Good to see you. Though I wish it were somewhere else, maybe a coffee shop instead of the ER?” I speak loudly and enunciate my words carefully.
He chuckles and his face lights up with a mixture of humor and resignation. “I'd much prefer that, too, Doctor.”
“Let's try to do that next time,” I tease as I settle onto a stool and roll toward him, taking a closer look at the scrape on his knee. “What happened today?”
“Well,” he begins, shaking his head, “I was out for a walk, around the park like usual, but I saw this squirreldart across the path. I swear it looked right at me, Doc. Next thing I knew, I was down on the ground, talking to the pavement.”
“Those squirrels are ruthless,” I say with mock seriousness. “They see a nice gentleman like you and think, ‘Here’s our chance.’”
Mr. Harris laughs, a real belly laugh, and the sound is warm and full. “Edie would’ve told me to keep my eyes on my feet. She never let me hear the end of it when I tripped over something.”
“Sounds like she kept you on your toes.”
“Oh, she did.” His laughter fades into a soft, sad smile. “Married fifty years, you know? Can’t shake habits that deep. Sometimes I still hear her voice, telling me to sit up straight or reminding me to take my blood pressure meds.”
I nod, giving him time to share whatever he wants. Sometimes, these talks are as much a part of the healing process as anything else I could do with bandages and stitches.
"I think our loved ones who go before us are our guardian angels," I say, thinking about my own mom. "I know my mom keeps me straight."
“Amen to that. Have you ever been married, Doc?”
I pause long enough to make it real. “Well, I just got married, as a matter of fact.”
His brows lift with interest. “Well, I’ll be damned. She must be something.”
“She is,” I say, and I’m not even lying, even if she isn’t my wife in the sense he’s thinking.
This isn’t love-at-first-sight or fifty years of Sunday morning coffee and inside jokes. It’s logistics. Legal documents. A six-month illusion with real consequences.
Mr. Harris chuckles again. “Well, I envy you that new love. Wives see the good in you, no matter how much youtry to convince them otherwise. I'm happy for you, young man.”
The conversation shifts into quieter memories of Edie, and I listen, feeling the weight of his loss in every word. It’s humbling watching someone still so connected to a love they’ve lost. Part of me wonders what that would be like, if love really could be so all-encompassing that it’d last even beyond death.
