The Doctor

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It was a lousy night at work. Even thought it was a slow night.
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It was a lousy night at work. Even thought it was a slow night I wasn't even batting 100. Actually I was a lot lower. My first three cases had died on the table. I wasn't very successful that night.

I'm a doctor; My name is Mark Traina III, well actually I am a trauma surgeon. My job is to save lives; I don't do any of the fancy surgeries that all the high dollar guys do. I don't do boob jobs, tummy tucks, or other fancy stuff. I do the grunt work, I save lives. I save the gunshot victims, the knifings, the motor vehicle crash victims, and all other types of mayhem.

I get them when it's still touch and go. I don't try to do anything fancy. I just try to save lives.

My losses that night were two gunshot victims and one knifing. I swear the one gunshot victim was dead before they put him on my table. But they would still count his death against my stats. And my stats were not looking that good for the month. There was a gang war going on in our city and we were losing a lot of young men to these actions and a few innocent bystanders as well.

I had just finished the knifing victim. He had lost a lot of blood and I only gave him a 20% chance of surviving. I had gotten into clean scrubs (knifings were very messy) and was writing up my report on the surgery when my pager went off. A quick glance told me, I had another customer for my table. It was going to be a long night.

I scrubbed up and entered the cold and sterile atmosphere of an operating room. The operating room staff had my patient all prepared and the "gas passer" (Anesthesiologist) had him under. My charge nurse read me the vitals and a description of what they discovered wrong in ER. The team had already set an order to repair the damage. There were no bullet holes or knife wounds to repair. Those types of injuries would have been too easy; this one was a motor vehicle accident, a really bad one.

The anesthesiologist started reading off the numbers and he noted that they were rapidly falling. I didn't want to lose another one tonight so I quickly started in trying to saving a life. Somewhere inside he was bleeding. It was my job to find out where and stop it.

I had been working for about 15 minutes when another doctor appeared across the table from me.

He asked, "Can I assist?"

"Damn right! I could use at least another 6 pair of hands, "I answered. " This guy is bleeding out and I haven't found from where yet.

Then I looked at him and remembered that he was an OB/GYN.

I must have given him a funny look because he commented, "I guess you haven't looked under the drape. Your patient is a female. A pregnant female. You have two lives to save."

I looked at him and said, "Well do your thing. 'She's' losing blood somewhere inside her lower abdomen. See if you can find it and stop it."

I started working faster. She had a ruptured spleen and it was leaking blood rapidly. If I lose her I'd lose the baby also. I was thinking about how bad that would look in my stats when I discovered the blood vessel that was producing this massive blood loss. My attention changed focus again. I was back to concentrating on the bleeder.

We had her on the table for almost 4 hours before we were able to stabilize her. The OB/GYN and I shipped her off to recovery. We had done everything we could do for her. Now it was up to her (or God if you choose to believe) to heal. There would be more surgeries on her broken legs, crushed foot, and various facial injuries if she lived these next 12 hours.

While I was cleaning up the OB/GYN informed me that she was the only survivor of the accident. Her husband had died on the way to the hospital. The driver and passengers in the other car all perished. He also informed me that the fetus didn't look good. It would probably abort within the next 24 hours.

"Poor kid," I thought, "She's going to need to deal with a lot of grief as well as her injuries. I'll make a referral to one of the shrinks"

I really don't know why, but I stayed past the end of my shift after I got cleaned up. I walked into recovery, pulled up a chair and sat by her bed side. I wanted her to pull through. I slept there in the chair most of the day.

There were no major changes in her condition for the next couple of days. One afternoon as I came into work the OB/GYN called me. She had lost the baby. It was a little girl.

So although our patient came through that procedure I was still only one for two.

It was another week before she started to recover from her coma. Her body was now breathing on its own so the ventilator was removed. Two days later she started to stir in her bed. The ICU staff paged me. I was there when she first opened her eyes.

She was disoriented and not fully conscious when her eyes locked on mine.

I started my spiel, "Well good morning! Welcome back to the world. You were in a car accident and were in a coma for two weeks."

"Water," she interrupted. Her voice was a horrible sound coming from a human throat.

I picked up the glass and put the straw near her mount, "Just take little sips. Your stomach might revolt."

She managed to keep he water down so I went back to my lecture, "You have many injuries that will need to heal before you can leave us. Please plan on being here at least two months."

She tried to smile but the stitches around her mouth prevented it. She looked in pain.

As I nodded to the nurse by our patient's IV, the sedative went in her IV. Our patient closed her eyes and rested again.

I picked up her chart and spent some time learning about her. Her name was Ivette Taylor, she was married to (or should I say widow of) a Joe Taylor. He was an office manager for an out of State Corporation. The word was that he had been an up and comer. Ivette worked as a secretary for a local law firm. Everybody said they were a happy couple. All that wasn't on her chart, but nurses and EMT's gossip. I was tied into that pipeline.

Now Ivette was alone in this world now. My sources said that the police had been unable to find any relatives on either side.

I spent the next couple of months visiting with her at least once or twice a day. I would stop before starting my shift and chat. If it was a slow evening, I would sit at her bedside and just chat. We'd talk about our lives and our hopes and wishes.

Other nights I'd just sit there holding her hand while she cried sometimes from her loss but a lot of the time from her pain. The staff tried to help her with the pain, but there were rules about the types and amounts of pain killers any patient could receive. The hospital didn't want to discharge a bunch of addicts, so a little pain was good for the soul or builds character so the sayings go.

I had referred her to one of our in house counselors. He helped her come to grips with her grief over the loss of her husband and baby. They couldn't help with the pain. The pain was real.

I'm not exactly sure how it came about, but the counselor and I both decided that she should move into my spare bedroom after her discharge from the hospital. There was no where else for her to go and this would give her a stable place to begin her recovery.

He had some reservations. I was cautioned about her developing an attachment to me. I told my friend I could handle it.

She had no one to take care of her so I had volunteered. It would turn out to be one of the happiest and also one of the saddest times of my life.

On the day of her discharge I proposed that we stop and pick up some of her things from her old apartment.

"No! No! I can't ever go in there again. There are just too many memories."

I took her to my house. Over the next few days we bought her an all new wardrobe with all the accessories. Hell I could afford it. I was a doctor. But I did miss the little peeks at her butt I got thanks to her hospital gown.

I made arrangements with a church group for her possessions. They emptied the apartment and gave everything in it to the needy. I got receipts for everything so she could deduct the donations from her taxes.

It took another year before her surgeries were completed. During that year I fell in love with her. I couldn't help it. She was beautiful, charming and a person that looked as if she had lost her best friend. I took the place of her best friend. Later I became her lover.

It was a rough year. She was in pain almost all of the time from the various repair and reconstructive procedures she had undergone. There were nights when she woke up screaming from her pain induced dreams.

I went from sitting next to her bed side to climbing in her bed and holding her while she cried waiting for the pain killers to kick in.

I'm not exactly sure when it happened or even how but instead of going to our respective beds to sleep, we both ended up in mine. It took a while because of her injuries and the pain she felt when touched, but one night we completed our relationship. It wasn't wild and crazy sex like you read about in romance novels. She still was recovering from her various repairs, but it was damn nice.

Ivette's and my relationship developed over the next few years. We became one. Her nightmares faded and our loving making became greater and greater in direct proportion.

The years passed and we got married. It was nothing fancy, just a few friends before a Justice of the Peace. We honeymooned in Cancun, nothing but sun, sand, and hours of love making.

I was happier than I have ever been in my life.

Ivette blossomed, she was happy and the nightmares finally stopped. The only down side was her chronic pain. When the weather changed, she ached. We tried aspirin. When that didn't work, we tried Advil. That didn't work either.

I was a doctor so I started prescribing something a little stronger. I know that I was a surgeon and shouldn't be prescribing to a relative. But I loved her and couldn't stand seeing her in all that pain.

I kept the dosage low and changed up on the drugs. I didn't want an addict for a wife. I got her to join a pain management counseling group. She started going to their meetings weekly.

One day when I came home she informed me that she had a job. Now we didn't need the money but she needed the fulfillment of accomplishing something. She got a job as an assistant to a very upscale photographer. He took pictures of all the top models in the area.

Ivette became a groupie of those beautiful people.

Soon Ivette and I were being invited to their parties. These people were shallow, self centered individuals. But Ivette idolized them. I soon realized what phonies they were. But I went for Ivette's sake. I talked with them, and I socialized with them but I had no use for them. Ivette could see none of their flaws.

I was a saver of lives. I gave of myself to society. They contributed nothing to the world of any consequence. They just took from it for their own gratification. Like I said, I had no use for them, but because I loved Ivette with all my heart and wanted only happiness for her. I tolerated her new friends.

We had been married about ten years when I felt that we should be starting a family. Hell we were in out mid thirty's and our biological clocks were ticking away. It took a lot of convincing but Ivette agreed to see her OB/GYN and get an all clear to start a baby.

She got the all clear and we made a little ceremony out of tossing our condoms away and starting a calendar with her morning wake up temperatures. We were trying to pin point when she was ovulating.

After almost eight months of trying, I got tested. My logic was that Ivette was pregnant when she had her auto accident. So it might be me. I might be shooting blanks.

My test results came back indicating that I was in good health. My sperm was plentiful and vigorous. I wasn't the problem. Now I had to figure out a way to have Ivette checked. If Ivette suspected that she might be the problem, I worried about the effect it might have on her mental stability.

I watched her for the next few months looking for the perfect time to ask her to check on her fertility. I'm not the most suspicious person, but I was a trained observer and a planner. As a trauma surgeon, I needed to watch for things that just weren't right with a patient on my table. I transferred these skills to my regular life.

I learned over the years to watch for the little hints that would make the difference between life and death. These habits just brought up things about Ivette's life that didn't quite fit. I began to notice that she wasn't as frisky in bed; she went out with either co-workers or girl friends a couple of times a month. All the classic signs were there.

I also noticed that she stopped bugging me for pain medication. I thought her "pain group" was helping her cope. One day I ran into one of her group members at a local mall. I had been killing time so that I didn't get back home in time to join Ivette at one of those beautiful people parties. I wanted to get home after Ivette left because it had been a long shift in the operating room. All I wanted to do was sleep for about the next week. It was that kind of a day.

The woman asked me how Ivette was doing. She said, "Ivette hasn't been to any of our meetings in months."

Warning bells went off in my mind. That night I didn't get the restful sleep I had planned on. I was beginning to suspect that my lovely wife was getting better drugs than I could or would supply. I knew I would need to watch her for those tell tale signs I knew as a doctor all too well.

I also knew that I needed to protect myself from her needs. If her supplier started squeezing her, our banks accounts would evaporate and things around the house would start disappearing. The next morning I spent some quality time at the bank, protecting myself.

That afternoon I had a meeting with my attorney and an investigator he recommended. It took the investigator only a week to confirm what I suspected. Ivette was a drug addict and paying for her habit with sex. She was her pusher's whore. She would do anything he demanded for her drugs.

That day while I was working and Ivette was plying her trade, the PI arranged to change the locks on my house, pack all her belongings, have the boxes placed in and around her car at the apartment her pusher supplied her to work out of. When everything was finished, Ivette was served with the Divorce paperwork while she was being double teamed by a couple of her clients.

She never even attempted to contact me. She just moved into her pusher's apartment.

The divorce moved swiftly through the court system. Ivette made none of the court appearances, did not hire an attorney, and asked for nothing. She did not even make the payments on her car and it was soon reprocessed. The only things she left our marriage with were the clothes on her back as she had left the boxes of her belonging in that cheap motel parking lot after she was served.

It was a couple of years later that I again crossed paths with Ivette. She and her

"friends" were on the 6 O'clock news. The police had raided their little operation. With morbid curiosity I followed the trials. Ivette got eight years for drug trafficking, prostitution and a host of minor infractions. This was her first arrest so it appeared the judge took it easy on her.

The judge threw the book at her "man". He had quite a history with the legal system; It will be twenty years before he sees the light of day.

I was always nice to the cops when they were in the hospital to see victims or perps. Some doctors made their lives as tough as possible. I, on the other hand, liked most cops. They were just people with a job to do and I tried not to make it any harder than it already was.

Because of my helpful attitude, the boys in blue would keep me up to date on my ex-wife and her pusher. It took about five years before he pissed off some crazy cell mate and was stabbed. He died before they could save him.

The guys told me all about Ivette's many different cell mates. They were lesbians and made sure Ivette learned their perverse style of love. From the way it was described to me, Ivette jumped right into this life style. Even though she was locked up, she became a ladies lady.

Ivette was patrolled after six years. I never saw her but I was told that she was working in a factory on an assembly line. She was living with another woman as lovers. I guess she decided the life style fit.

Time passed and I met a female doctor. She was a pediatrician and loved children. It started with us bumping into each other across an operating room table. I was working on a kid that rode his bicycle in front of a car. It was touch and go for a while. So I didn't get to talk to her for a while. When I had the little guy all stabilized, I looked at her and said, "Hi."

I knew that she didn't have any surgical background so my next question was," Why are you standing in my operating theater?"

"He was a patient of mine. We had two years of cancer treatments. He's been in remission for the last year," was her answer.

"He looks as if he's going to make it. None of his injuries were that bad."

She looked at me through her face mask. Both her eyes started flowing. I could see the relief in them.

I looked at the surgical nurse next to me, "I think the doctor across from us needs a wipe."

My new found colleague was named Doris Stuart. The boy was her sister's only child. He had been through Hell with the chemo and now would have some more hospital time. We needed to make sure he healed correctly. His immune system was still weak from all the treatments, so he needed to be watched closely.

I followed his case through the recovery process. I would stop in every few days to check on his progress. Doris was there with him every time I stopped. Soon Doris and I graduated from coffee in the cafeteria to dinner in some of the better restaurants around town.

Young Danny made great strides in healing. His cancer never reappeared. Doris and I also made great strides in our relationship.

Danny was in our bridal party the next year.

I don't know what there is about pediatricians but we had two babies in three years. It seemed as if every time we made love she got pregnant again. After our third child, I had my tubes clipped. Doris and I were closing in on forty.

It must have been about ten years later when my pager went off. I had cut down my time in the operating theater. I was pushing 50 and I just wasn't as proficient any more. So if my pager was going off, there was trouble in ER.

When I got to the hospital I found out there was a multiple shooting in a gay bar. There were fifteen people in trouble and the surgical floor was going to be very full, very soon. They were going to be extremely busy and my help was needed.

It was twelve hours later and I was working on my last case. It was a woman with a couple of bullets in her chest. They bullets had missed her heart but were still lodged near a couple of major blood vessels. If I wasn't really steady, I could nick one of those vessels and she would bleed to death before I could stop to patch the artery.

I opened her up and began trying to find the bullets and remove them. Then repair any damage they caused. As I worked on her, I got a nagging suspicion that I knew her. It was just a feeling because of the drapes on her and the apparatus in her mouth and around her face, I couldn't see her face.

I continued working on her when one of the nurses commented, "Look at the track marks on this one's arms. She must be a real long time drug user."

I glanced at the arm nearest me, "It looked as if a sewing machine had run up this arm." Then I noticed the scaring from past surgeries on her arms. I moved the drape and exposed her right breast. She had the word "Ivette" tattooed across the upper slope of her breast.

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