Page 51 of Fixation
My God.
She’s got me so distracted that I can’t focus on counting her heartbeats.
I’m a fool who stands in my basement, with a hand on my stethoscope and both eyes on her chest.
She was going to put her life in someone else’s hands when she was carried into the hospital.
In those of another doctor. A handful of nurses.
All of them are adequate.
But they aren’t me.
Never again.
My ribs crack. Wanting her is too much.
Having her here is a never-ending test.
A test I’m going to fly through.
Enough of my sanity slides back in place that I’m able to finish what I started. I listen to her heart.
Nothing’s out of order. No sign of distress.
Her breathing is just as important.
I remove the restraints and help her sit, then press the diaphragm to her back. I’m quiet, listening to the sounds coming from behind one of her lungs, then the other.
They’re good. Clear.
Lowering her to her back again, I listen to her chest.
Blissfully clear too.
If it were a virus or a bug, I would’ve heard something.
Which leaves us with the only diagnosis that makes sense—stress.
I’ve been there to witness Harper’s demanding lifestyle for the past two months.
Four or five a.m. alarms.
Thirty minutes to wash her face, brush her teeth, and have her coffee. Half an hour is all the time she gives herself to be completely disconnected from the world.
In those thirty minutes, she stares outside the window while I stare at her. When I’m not in the OR, obviously.
From there, her life revolves mainly around her business.
Emails. Calls. Designs.
She burns her fingers at least once a week with her blowtorch. It boils my blood to see her damage what’s mine.
Every time I catch sight of it, my hand is close to snapping my phone in half.
Three weeks ago, I even hurled it against the wall. The one that connects our houses.
As soon as I could check out what I’d been missing, I got it fixed and saw the old footage on my new phone.
