Page 99 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
“To Eve—who spoke more truth about second chances in five minutes than I managed in 400 pages.Your medical mind understands emotional healing better than you know.—Lady Grey”
“Our medical consultant on whether Dante’s proportions would require hospitalization.Thank you for confirming what we suspected all along!—Sally”
“The way you make my son smile makes me happy.He’s always taken care of others, and you both seem to take care of each other.He’s been waiting seven years for you—we all have.—Margaret”
“You explained varicose veins to my grandmother using Christmas tree lights and now she finally elevates her legs.Medical brilliance with festive analogies!—Noelle”
“Thank you for showing me how to take care of our kid patients.And thank you for making work a place I look forward to go to every day.—Liz”
I close the book, warmth spreading through my chest.
For years I’ve measured my worth in productivity metrics and professional recognition.What I accomplished since my diagnosis to prove I deserve this place on Earth.Those holiday seasons others do not get.
I try so hard and hate falling short. Another reason why I’ve tried reshaping myself to fit into Chuck’s world, becoming less clinical, less precise, less...me.
But these near-strangers have taken those same qualities and found them worth celebrating.The book feels like a reminder that belonging isn’t about changing yourself to fit.Sometimes it’s about finding people who accept who you were, are, and will be.
Chapter thirty-one
EVE
Afewdayslater,my phone buzzes with another text from a LC Hospital Number as I'm preparing the exam room.
LC Hospital number
I still haven’t gotten the ornament.
I really think you need to be reasonable about this.
I'm thinking about doing a podcast episode about medical ethics.What do you think?
I slip my phone into my pocket, hands trembling slightly.He's escalating.Using yet another hospital number.This isn't the calculated, cold manipulation I'm used to.This feels...unhinged.
"Does it hurt when I press here?"I ask seven-year-old Jamie, who's perched on the exam table in his Spider-Man hoodie.He shakes his head, but his eyes remain fixed on the floor.
"Can you take a deep breath for me?"I demonstrate, expanding my chest dramatically.Jamie follows, but the breath catches halfway, turning into a small cough.
"Jamie's been coughing at night," Mike explains, his usual confident demeanor replaced with the universal worry of someone responsible for a small life."And he's not eating much."
I listen to Jamie's lungs, keeping my movements gentle and predictable."Good job, buddy.Just a few more deep breaths."
As I examine him, I notice Jamie clutching something in his pocket."What have you got there?"
He hesitates, then slowly pulls out a small toy dog."It's sick too," he whispers.
"The toy?"I ask, momentarily confused.
"No," Jamie says with the exasperation only children can master."Rocket from the rescue.I really really love him.He's at Dr.Adam's clinic getting fluids.He's really, really sick."
Mike nods, confirming."Acute pancreatitis.Adam's been treating him since late last night."
I watch Jamie's face fall at the mention of his dog, and something clicks into place."Is that why it's hard to eat?Because you're worried about Rocket?"
Jamie nods, clutching the toy dog tighter.
"You know what might help both you and Rocket feel better?"I say, having an idea."If you take care of yourself too.Can I show you something cool?"
Jamie tilts his head and I wait for him to murmur, "yes, please."
