Page 52 of The Choices I've Made
She opened her mouth to respond, but I could see the light fading from her eyes.
“You’re right. I’m not. I should have never brought you here.”
Her words cut me like a knife.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I offered. “Take a seat over here,” I said, pointing to a small lounge. “And I’ll come back for you when I track him down.”
She nodded, a single tear trailing down her cheek.
“Hey,” I said in a last-ditch effort to offer some semblance of solace. “We’ll figure this out, okay? And, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
She nodded once more before turning toward the tiny seating area. It was empty, only used by family members of patients for coffee refills and extra seating. Her gaze fell to the floor the moment she took a seat, and I knew what she was thinking.
Whom she was blaming.
If there was one thing that hadn’t changed about Molly McIntyre, it was her need to make everything right. Whether it was working on weekends with her parents or delivering food to the ill, she always had this constant desire to fix things.
It was why she was dead on her feet most of the time, not taking proper care of herself when there were so many other things to do. So many others who, in her mind, came before anything else.
So, rather than arguing with her, I made the most of our time and went in search of someone who could possibly help.
Dean’s doctor.
Or one of them at least. God knows, he’d probably seen a dozen by now.
But I had one person in mind.
The implant from Ohio, Dr. Fisher.
He was one of the surgeons who had attended on Dean’s surgery to save his arm. Although they hadn’t succeeded, I knew Dr. Fisher and his team had done everything they could, and I was hoping he could at least shed some light on his weary patient.
Heading into the doctors’ lounge I’d found him in before, I managed to luck out and catch him sitting down for a quick bite.
“Hey, Jameson. Didn’t expect you back so soon. Checking in on us?” he joked, rising quickly to shake my hand.
I took it, giving him a nod as we parted and took our seats. There were dark circles under his eyes, but he was taking it in stride, cozied up to a bowl of leftovers and the latest thriller in paperback.
“I’m here visiting a friend actually—Dean Sutherland. I think he’s a patient of yours.”
He nodded, setting the book aside. “Ah, yes, Dean,” he said, as if he already knew where I was headed.
“Can you give me any updates?”
He set down his fork and gave me his full attention. “Honestly, I only see him once a day on rounds, but I recognize that familiar look in his eyes. He’s giving up.”
I nodded in agreement. “Has he had a psych evaluation or met with a counselor?”
“Yeah, we’ve done all the typical things you do with an amputee, and this is normal, as you might know. A patient can go one of two ways—bound, and determined to fight or they retreat.”
“Dean’s retreating,” I let out a sigh. “He’s had a good life. An easy life, as far as I know. No major uphill climbs to test his strength.”
“Until now,” Dr. Fisher replied. “You can’t blame him. I’m not sure I’d respond much differently. The loss is a great one—knowing your life is forever altered.”
“But he has a life. That’s what I don’t understand. So, he’s missing an arm. It doesn’t mean he should just roll over and play dead. There is still plenty he can accomplish.”
“And maybe he’ll realize that in time, but for now, he needs to go at this on his own.”
“Even if it means breaking the heart of the woman who loves him?” I asked, clearly frustrated.
