Chapter 213: Minimize the Painful Things
- RORY -
When Luci leaves the room, it gives me a sinking, uncomfortable feeling. Like my one source of safety and security has left.
I know that’s not true. But I have to swallow past the thickness in my throat that makes me want to think it’s true, and a slow wave of trembles starts crawling across my skin in his absence.
"Are you all right, Rory?" Burt asks, those wrinkles around his kind eyes creasing as he trains the light blue irises on me.
I wonder if he actually still practices medicine. He seems quite old, but that’s probably not a polite question to ask—even if I am having some kind of a physical or emotional breakdown.
"Yes, I’m alright," I say, offering the polite answer to his question instead of the messy one.
Polite is appropriate. But it’s given with a trembling voice, so it’s probably not very convincing. I clear my throat to try shaking free of it.
"I think the shaking is just... it’s the adrenaline wearing off. I was running."
"Yes. It sounds like you were given quite a fright," he says, taking a syringe out along with other tools. "The wound is deep, but luckily you won’t need surgery for it. I’m going to inject you with some lidocaine to numb the area before we put the stitches in to close it up. Is that okay?"
I force a smile. "Sure. Thank you."
The area he has cleaned gives a clear view of just how deep the cut is across the meaty part of my hand. It’s just below the thumb and curves up at a crude and jagged angle.
That peek into the flesh and tissue that lies beneath the surface causes a surge of nausea to rise so quickly that I grimace and duck my head, burying it in the crook of my other arm.
"If you need to get sick, let me know first," Burt says, unbothered. "I’m sure there’s a trash can around here."
"I will let you know. Sorry," I tell him with a muffled voice.
I swallow a few times, willing the sensation to pass. This is nothing. Compared to what I’ve been through and the danger that might still be lurking outside of this door, this is really nothing.
I would hate to suddenly puke my guts out now, when I’m safe, just from seeing something a little gross. What sense does that make?
Once I’m confident that my lunch is going to stay right where it is, I come up for air again.
"What kind of doctor are you?" I ask, watching Burt and avoiding looking at the wound itself—just in case.
He is silent while he adjusts the desk lamp and then pricks me with the needle around the area, his lips thinning in concentration. Then his eyes lift to mine again.
"I am a retired cardiologist."
"Oh."
I press my free hand against my cheeks, hoping to cool them. It feels really hot in this room, but I’m sure that’s partially from the nausea or the nerves or the everything finally catching up to me.
"I saw a cardiologist when I was a kid. I’m sure this cut is kind of silly compared to everything you’ve seen. Heart stuff is way more serious."
"Any injury can be serious. I don’t think this is silly," he says and then gives me a lopsided smile. "What did you see a cardiologist for?"
"I had a, um... VSD. It wasn’t a big deal. Eventually it went away," I tell him.
"Ah," he nods, freeing the curved needle and the stitches he’s going to work with. "Rory, I hope you don’t mind me saying this..."
He glances at me, waiting for an objection, but I don’t give him one.
"You seem like someone who might minimize the painful things she’s been through."
"Really?" I sputter a nervous laugh. "You see me shaking and trying not to get sick. What gives you that idea?"
"You think this injury wouldn’t concern me," he smiles kindly. "And you are trying to hide all of that. You certainly aren’t whining about it."
Something about Burt reminds me of Santa Claus. He doesn’t have the beard, and he isn’t round or jolly, but his voice is very wise and soothing. Maybe there’s something to what he’s saying.
"Well this isn’t a serious injury, is it?" I shrug, deflecting.
"It may not be as serious as a heart injury, but it wouldn’t do to leave it without stitches either. It would be terribly painful. It would get infected. And we certainly can’t have you bleeding all over the place."
"Right," I agree, nodding shyly.
The first stitch goes in, and Burt focuses closely on what he’s doing before glancing up at me again. "Does that hurt at all?"
"No."
"Excellent. You didn’t flinch, so I figured as much. You’re doing great."
He goes about doing the rest of the stitches while I avoid looking at the process entirely until he speaks again.
"So what makes you certain that the VSD from your childhood closed?"
"I didn’t have any other problems," I shrug. "The pediatric doctor told us to just wait and see instead of risking surgery. Apparently it wasn’t that large to begin with, and she was confident that it would close with time. And... I guess it did."
"So you’ve never had any imaging to make sure?" He asks, squinting at me. There’s the slightest hint of judgment that I catch in his tone, and it has me lying immediately.
"I think so. Yeah, I did. Of course."
Following up with a cardiologist has always been one of those tasks I just haven’t seen necessary to complete. Nana probably should have done it at some point in my teenage years, but I was healthy—never having any other obvious issues.
Physically, my heart is just fine. I haven’t had any problems running like I did when I was a kid. If anything, tonight is the prime example of that. In fact, I’ve had to run like my life literally depended on it at least three separate times now in my twenty some years, and not one of those times was it my heart that failed me.
"I can always double-check if you’d like," Burt says carefully.
He’s still stitching away, but I can feel the delicate way he’s handling me—and it’s not just because of my hand. He must know I’m lying. I’ve always been terrible at it when it’s something I actually feel guilty about.
"It seems like fate that we ended up here together, after all," he adds. "I happen to have a portable echo with me."
"So even retired, you carry all of that with you?" I laugh softly.
"Well you never really tire of helping people, do you?" He says. "Plus, if anyone ever yells the question about whether there is a doctor on the plane, I get to raise my hand."
He stops to give me the most genuine smile that I can’t help but return. I like Burt.
"That’s a great reason," I agree. "We’re not on a plane, but I’m glad you were that doctor tonight. Thank you."
"My pleasure, young lady."
