Helping Dr. Hottie

by Mia Madison

  I asked him why. I questioned him. I debated him, but he wouldn’t budge. Somehow, I kept my composure, but inside, I was near tears. This was my last chance. Not to be a doctor, but to keep my dad in my life. If I had to, I’d find a way to go to medical school without his support. But I didn’t want that. He was a great doctor himself—I knew that if he wanted to, he could give me a lot of help with my career. Plus, he was the only family I had left.

  But he wouldn’t budge. I’d hoped that by this point in the evening, my dad would’ve agreed with—or at least accepted—my desire to go to medical school. That’s when I would’ve made my case for Part B: that I was an adult who could date whoever I wanted. And the man I wanted was Owen.

  By the time my father was done with his steak and my chicken breast lay untouched on my plate, I knew it was hopeless. I could have the career I wanted and the man I wanted—but only if I severed my relationship with my father to get it.

  Dad put his napkin next to his plate and placed a wad of bills on the table. “I know this wasn’t the response you were hoping for tonight, Rebecca, but I’m your father. I have to do what’s in your best interest.”

  I sighed. “I agree that you want what’s best for me—but I disagree that you know what that is.” Even to myself, my voice sounded defeated. Broken.

  Though we’d drove separately, I stood up, too. Tonight had been an utter disaster, so there was no reason to stay.

  At least not until the impact.

  A horn blared. Brakes squealed. Glass shattered inward. People screamed.

  The storm intensified, rain spilling into the building.

  And when the dust cleared, I gasped in shock at the car that had skidded to a stop—with everything except its taillights completely inside the restaurant.

  For a moment, those of us who were uninjured stared with dropped jaws. For me, sound receded and time stopped as I gaped at the car. But then the shouts and cries hit my ear again. Dad snapped out of it, and sprang into action, shoving past people to car—with me in his wake

  “I’m a doctor, let me through.” His voice cut through the din. It was the sound of authority. “If you’re able to walk, move back and give me some space.”

  The crowd, those that were able, complied. Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. Spotting our shocked-looking waiter, he threw the whole keyring at him. “Go get my medical bag. It’s in the back of a dark blue Cadillac about a block north of here. Go!”

  “And run!” I added. The waiter nodded and dashed out the door.

  Dad pulled people out of the way, hurrying them on if they could move. Meanwhile, I spotted a man about my age, sitting on the floor bleeding from a deep gash in his forehead. I hurried over. “Can you move?”

  The man tried to nod his head and then groaned in pain. Hastily, I examined the wound. There didn’t appear to be any glass fragments in it. I looked around. It would take the waiter at least another minute or two to get my dad’s bag. I grabbed a napkin off a nearby table. It looked clean. I pressed it against his wound.

  “Are you his girlfriend?” I asked the woman next to him. Her eyes were dazed with shock. “Miss? Are you with him?”

  “Yes. He’s my brother. Is he going to be okay?”

  “I think so, but you have to help. Put your hand here and hold this cloth against his head. See if you can get the bleeding to stop. And you two—come here.”

  A couple in their early thirties who were standing near the wall looked at me questioningly. “We’re not with them.”

  “You are now,” I snapped. “See if you can lift him out of the way, or at least away from all this broken glass. Be as gentle as possible.” I wasn’t sure if it was wise to move him, but he had a half dozen smaller cuts, and he was basically sitting in a sea of glass shards.

  They moved forward hesitantly, but at least they were moving. Half the people around me seemed to be in shock though some were crying, and a few were moaning in pain.

  As I looked around for someone else to help, I spotted my dad crouched on the floor next to a heavyset middle-aged woman who appeared to be unconscious. He was trying to peer into her throat using the light from a cell phone. His medical bag was nowhere in sight.

  “You,” I said, pointing at a waitress. “Go help that other guy find my dad’s medical bag—we have to have it. The car’s a dark blue Caddy. I think the license plate starts with PK something. Go now.” She took off at a run.

  “And did someone call 911?”

  Several people nodded.

  “Rebecca!”

  My father now had the woman propped up his arms and was doing the Heimlich Maneuver. She must have gotten something lodged in her throat when the car crashed into her table. “That older man, over there by the front wheel.” My father paused from the exertion.

  “I see him,” I said, stepping over broken glass to get to him.

  “His leg is twisted under him… his circulation…” Dad was panting now from the effort needed to lift the woman and try to unblock her airway. People sometimes ended up with broken ribs after the Heimlich Maneuver—my understanding was that it sometimes took a lot of force.

  But I didn’t need him at the moment; I saw what the older man’s problem was. His leg had been broken—though fortunately not pinned—by the tire. But the real problem was the angle at which his lower leg now rested. It was twisted beneath him which cut off his circulation. That could lead to his losing the limb.

  “You, come help me,” I said, pointing to a strong-looking young man. Then I thought of something. “Someone go check on the driver, would you?” Several people moved to obey, and a few moments later someone reported that he was bleeding from a wound on his forehead but seemed more or less okay. Evidently the airbag had deployed.

  The young man looked away from the car and back at me. “What do I do, Doctor?” For a moment, I felt the absurd urge to laugh. He’d mistaken me for an actual doctor? But perhaps that was a good thing, maybe that meant he’d listen to me.

  I motioned him down and he knelt beside me, taking care not to kneel on any of the larger pieces of glass.

  “We need to straighten his leg to improve his circulation. You lift his thigh, and I’ll reposition his leg, okay?” The man nodded. “He’s out right now, but if this wakes him, you’ll also need to hold him down and make sure he doesn’t thrash around, okay?”

  He nodded.

  “On three. One… two… three.” The lower leg was harder to move than I anticipated. There was a sickening popping sound, but once it was straight, it did look a little better.

  “Stay here and keep his leg straight, okay? The paramedics will be here shortly.”

  “Rebecca!”

  Crap, this was like triage. In a way, it was.

  There’d been urgency in my father’s voice, and when I found him, he was hovering over the same unconscious lady he’d tried to help before. A gleaming steak knife was in his hand. “You’re doing a tracheotomy? Here?”

  “No choice,” my father said. “Keep her husband out of the way.”

  Dad leaned forward, but the man across from him screamed ‘no’ and tried to block him.

  “Sir? Sir! I need you to move back.”

  “That man is trying to cut her,” the man said, slurring his words. Crap, did he have a head injury?

  “That man is the chief of surgery at Hawthorne Memorial Hospital. He’s the best—and only—chance your wife has. Please, move back. That goes for all of you. You’re blocking the light. But you and you, you two stay. Shine those lights at her throat.” They were only cell phone flashlights, but they were better than nothing.

  Dad placed his hand at the base of her throat and prepared to cut.

  “Stop!” the man behind me cried. And a moment later, I echoed the same thing.

  “Rebecca, I have to. She’s not getting any air.”

  “Your bag’s here.” I held up my hand and the waiter shoved it at me.

  “It’s too late,” Dad said, “
I need—“

  “A scalpel,” I said fishing it out of the bag and handing it to him.

  “And—“

  “Antiseptic.” I ripped the foil packet from a pre-moistened alcohol wipe and rubbed it quickly over the woman’s throat. A moment later, my dad’s blade descended, cutting through her flesh with a soft squelching noise. Blood pooled up instantly, but there was another sound, too. She’d inhaled a breath of air.

  “Now I need—“

  “Some kind of tube.” I tore the plastic wrap off a syringe and pulled out the plunger. Using another scalpel, I cut off the ends of the remaining plastic tube and rubbed it down with an alcohol wipe. “Here.”

  Gingerly, my father eased the tube through the incision in the woman’s neck. The sound of her taking in air through that small tube was awful, but at least she was getting air. My dad taped it into place as we all paused with what we were doing. There were sirens in the distance, and a couple of people cheered. Thank God.

  The woman’s husband was crying. I touched his arm. “She’s breathing. And the ambulances are almost here. You did the right thing. You let us help her. And after they take care of your wife, we’re going to get you looked at, see if you got banged up in the accident, too.”

  I looked over, and my father nodded at me, apparently agreeing with my assessment. That was a first.

  Then the paramedics were there, and they took over. I was grateful to be able take a step back from the chaos. My clothes were damp from the rain, I had scratches and cuts from the debris everywhere, and the adrenaline, which had kept me steady during the crisis, was rapidly fading away.

  A waitress, the one who’d helped to find the medical kit, led me over to a booth away from the damage and wrapped a tablecloth around my shoulders. She brought me a glass of water and handed back Dad’s keys. He was still up front, giving information and the occasional order to the paramedics. And later, when the police came, he talked to them as well. I knew he must be exhausted, but I was too exhausted myself to worry about that at the moment.

  Ten minutes later, a tall figure appeared by my side. Surprised, I blinked up at him. I’d been watching the front door ever since I texted him, willing him to appear. Shakily, I stood and his arms went around me. “Where’d you come from?”

  “I had to come in through the kitchen, the police wouldn’t let me in up front. Are you okay Becca? Are you hurt?”

  “Oh Owen,” I said and I sobbed silently against his chest. His arms wrapped around me and made me feel safe.

  But after a minute or two of accepting his comfort, I pushed myself away. Right now I needed answers more than hugs.

  Owen sat across from me in the booth, and I told him every detail of everyone I’d tried to help tonight. I told him what their injuries had looked like and what steps I’d taken to try to ease their pain.

  Owen listened carefully and asked questions here or there. Occasionally, he nodded as I described my actions. And through it all, I stared anxiously at his face, terrified that he might, at any moment, inform me that I’d done the wrong thing. That I’d made someone worse. God, if that man had lost his leg because I’d been too rough when I straightened it, I didn’t know what I’d do.

  But he never said that. Instead, he reached across the table and took my hand, squeezing it tight. “You did everything you could, Becca. You helped each one of those people today. It sounds like they’d all be in far worse shape if you hadn’t intervened.”

  Fresh tears flowed at his words, but this time they were tears of relief.

  “I mean it, Becca. You did an amazing job. Far more than anyone could expect from a woman with no medical training.”

  Suddenly, in spite of the stress from tonight—and the night had been extremely stressful, both before and after the car crash—I smiled. “I wouldn’t say I didn’t have any medical training.”

  He frowned at me. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I did get a little training on one of the procedures I helped perform tonight. You helped me get that training.”

  “I did? On the outreach tour?”

  “No, afterwards. Remember last weekend when we were texting back and forth about nothing in particular?”

  “I do remember. At the time, I thought you were trying to see how long it would take until my thumbs fell off.”

  “It wasn’t that long of a conversation. But anyway, you mentioned liking M*A*S*H, and though my father used to watch that show from time to time, I hadn’t seen an episode in years. So this week after work, when I’d come home to an empty house, I’d put on an episode or two.”

  Or three. It’d been a horrible week. My dad had stayed at the hospital in an apparent effort to avoid me. And I wasn’t supposed to be in contact with Owen at all though we’d managed a few times. “Let’s just say I watched a lot of episodes last week. Including a very serendipitous one.”

  Owen jolted upright in his seat, looking stunned. “There’s one with an emergency tracheotomy in it, isn’t there?”

  “Yep! Radar and Father Mulcahy have to perform one on the side of the road in their jeep. I used the same exact tools they did.”

  “And it sounds like it worked. Congratulations, Future Doctor Miller. You just assisted in your first surgery.”

  “What?” I laughed. “No, I didn’t.” But then I thought about it. There’d been an unconscious woman. A scalpel. And incision. Blood. All of that equaled a surgery. “I guess I did,” I said, hearing the wonder in my own voice.

  “She performed triage, too.”

  My father’s voice made us both jump. Worriedly, I looked from one man to the other. Though I didn’t know all the details, everyone at the hospital knew that my dad and Owen had had a huge fight and that it had almost come to blows.

  But surely nothing like that would happen now, would it? My dad, for one, looked ready to collapse. Owen must’ve thought the same thing, because he stood up and let Dad slide into the booth. Then Owen pulled over a nearby chair and sat down next to me, taking my hand in his.

  My father stared at our joined hands for a moment but didn’t say anything. Instead, he accepted a glass of water the waitress brought by. Finally, he spoke. “Owen, would you mind giving us some privacy? My daughter and I need to talk.”

  Suddenly, despite everything that had happened in the last half hour, I was mad. “We had plenty of time to talk when we first got here and you refused to listen to anything I had to say.”

  “I listened—I just didn’t agree.”

  Owen swore under his breath. “She doesn’t need you to agree or approve. She needs you to respect her ability to make choices for herself.”

  “Fair enough,” my father said, and I looked over at him sharply. Had he really just conceded that point? “But you need to respect my request to speak with my daughter alone.”

  Owen glowered at my dad for a long moment and then nodded. He stood up and placed a hand on my shoulder. “If you need anything, I’ll be up front.” Then he surveyed the car in the dining room. The broken window panes and plates. The upturned tables and chairs. And the flashing blue and red lights outside. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  I watched him walk away. Then, reluctantly, I turned back toward my dad.

  “Are you okay?”

  Surprised, I nodded, then took a look at my hands and arms. “It’s just some cuts and scrapes.”

  “I’ll take a look at them when we get home.”

  For a moment, my anger from before flared up. “What makes you think I’m going home with you after the way you dismissed me earlier?”

  “What, would you go home with him?” My father jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Maybe,” I said, matching his anger. “I’m an adult now.”

  “So everyone tells me.” My father sighed and crossed his hands at the wrist on the table between us.

  “Seriously, Dad, you hurt me so much before. I know you don’t think I can be a good doctor, but I can be. Try to think objectively
. If tomorrow, a perfect stranger who had my skills, knowledge, and experience waltzed into the hospital and said: “I think I’d make a good doctor, please tell me how to get into medical school—what would you do?”

  “I’d talk to them about what to look for in a medical school and make some calls on their behalf.”

  “But you won’t do that for me.”

  “No.”

  “Because you don’t think I can be a good doctor.”

  “Because I don’t want you to be a doctor, Rebecca!”

  That revelation paused me in my tracks. He didn’t? “But why?”

  “Because I want a better life for you.”

  “How is being an accountant or an administrator stuck behind a desk a better life?”

  “Because it’s a life you live for yourself. Being a doctor’s not like that. Your life isn’t your own. It belongs to the hospital. And your friends, your family, all your relationships, suffer for it. I missed so much, Becca. When you were growing up. When your mom was ill. I worked eighty-hour weeks for years. If you hadn’t been born at the hospital and if your mom hadn’t died there, I probably would’ve missed both those things as well. I missed your first step. Your first word. Her last chemo session. Countless doctors’ appointments. I wouldn’t wish that kind of regret on anyone. Your future spouse and kids deserve better. You deserve better.”

  “But being a doctor is what I want.”

  He was quiet for almost a full minute. “I know. I saw that tonight.”

  “You only saw a little of it, Dad. I know I haven’t gone to med school, but I helped those people tonight. Owen agrees that I did.”

  “I know,” he said, a little more forcefully. “I saw. One of the paramedics asked me how long that man’s leg was twisted underneath him before you restored some of the circulation. And I didn’t know—I was focused on the woman who was choking. But then a woman came up to me, a fellow diner, and said that she had a way we might be able to find out. She’d made a video showing the destruction from the car crash. And it showed you. Moving from patient to patient. Assessing their needs. Treating their injuries. Assisting me. I may not want you to be a doctor, but it’s clear you already are one at heart. The way you stayed calm. The way you issued commands. That’s what a doctor does. And it’s obvious to me now that that’s what you’ll do someday, too.”