Four days and counting—four days until my escape from Eden Harbor.
Sherri had been talking to the group about other healthy lifestyle choices that diabetics could make to improve their quality of life, and she was really enjoying the class. Not only was the group listening intently to her, but what she was teaching had a practical application in her own life. She could relate so much better to the others now that she was in the same boat as them. The class would be over in a couple of minutes and she was truly sorry.
“So, we’ve gone over the benefits of exercise, and the dietitian went over healthy food choices, so that brings us to skin care. Would anyone like to share what they’ve learned about taking care of their skin in relation to their diabetes?”
Mr. Summerville, one of the older men at the back of the room, spoke up. “I see a podiatrist every month to make sure my feet are in good shape, that I haven’t developed a sore spot that could lead to a skin ulcer.”
She nodded her head as she listened. Having people in the class who wanted to participate made it pleasant and rewarding. “And why do you need to do that?” She glanced around the room. “Why do all of us with diabetes need to take care of our skin to prevent pressure spots?”
The room went silent. After a few moments, a man named Larry asked, “Are you saying you’re one of us? Do you have diabetes?”
The words had slipped out so easily that she hadn’t realized what she’d said. At first she felt self-conscious, but looking around the room at so many familiar faces, she began to see that she could be a role model for them. “Yes, I was diagnosed a few days ago. And I’m just beginning to understand how many changes I will have to make in my daily routine.” The entire class was watching her, some with a look of concern, others with sympathy. “I have to tell you that I’ve developed a whole new appreciation for what each of you is going through...have gone through.”
“And it ain’t over yet,” Marty Butler piped up, making everyone in the room laugh. “Welcome aboard the train to Diabetesville. And let me tell you it’s a lot of learning, especially when you first start insulin. Take me, for instance. I can’t have a drink of wine without my sugar going through the ceiling.”
Her insulin therapy was going well, and her blood sugar was less erratic than the first few times she’d tested it.
“You’re so right, Marty. I’m just beginning to really take it all in. Thanks, and I mean it. You are an amazing group of people.”
After the class ended, the group converged on the front of the classroom, everyone wanting to add his or her own ideas on how to cope with her situation. Some were anxious to know if she had type one or type two diabetes. At first the questions felt a little invasive, but before long she began to feel part of the group in an entirely different way.
After the class, feeling especially satisfied with the evening’s success, she made her way to the nurses’ desk and began making notes for the nurse who would be replacing her about where she should begin the next evening class with this group. She was consulting the teaching syllabus when she sensed someone standing behind her.
“Dr. Brandon, hi. Can I do something for you?” she asked, congratulating herself on keeping a professional tone in her voice. They’d been studiously avoiding each other all evening, by mutual consent it would seem.
“I have something I need to discuss with you,” he said, his tone equally professional.
She put her pen down and crossed her arms over her chest. “If it’s about the other day—” she began.
“No. I just couldn’t remember when you said you were leaving for Portsmouth.”
“The end of the month.”
“That’s only a few days from now,” he said, visibly concerned.
“Is there a problem?”
He scowled and stuffed his hands into his lab coat pockets. “It’s just that we’ll have to find a replacement for you for this clinic.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve already spoken to the outpatient clinics manager and someone has been assigned to take over the nursing part of the program.”
“That’s great. I also need to talk to you about your own situation and how you’re managing.”
“That’s not necessary,” she said impatiently. She didn’t mean to be short with him, but she also didn’t want to spend any more time than she had to around Neill, and that included any discussion about her circumstances.
If you’re over this man, prove it. Prove you can accept his advice without making it personal.
She glanced at him and softened her tone. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s my turn to say I’m sorry. What did you need to talk to me about?”
“Do you need me to write any prescriptions for you before you leave for Portsmouth? What about insulin or test equipment?” he inquired as he led the way into the exam room, the same exam room where he’d first told her that she might have diabetes. Funny how long ago that seemed now. She listened quietly as he talked about her options, what he wanted to prescribe for her. She watched as he wrote out the prescription for insulin in his careful script.
Despite her resolve to keep this meeting all about her diabetes, she couldn’t stop the memories of how they’d once shared every thought, every emotion with each other. How sitting and talking to him had always made her so happy, regardless of the subject.
But most of all, she remembered how easily he had made her want him. And after that night on the beach, the night Patrick had been conceived, she’d never been able to forget how his body felt pressed against hers, how having him make love to her had haunted her through every stage of her marriage to Sam. And she was so ashamed of feeling that way. Sam deserved better than that, a whole lot better. But Sam was gone, and by leaving Eden Harbor and Neill she would soon leave behind her last connection to Patrick.
“There, that should do it. I want you to call me—day or night—if you have any problems at all.” He wrote his contact numbers down on another prescription sheet and handed it to her.
She took the pieces of paper from his hand, and for the first time since she’d seen him that day in the emergency room, she wished that their lives could have been different. But wishing wouldn’t make a difference. It was too late for that. “Have you forgotten I’m a nurse? That I’ve worked for years with people who have diabetes?”
“Being a nurse and being a patient are two different things. Humor me and place my numbers on your fridge...wherever you end up living.”
“If you say so,” she muttered, hearing the grumpiness in her tone, but she had every right to be grumpy. A few weeks ago Neill hadn’t been around. A few weeks ago, diabetes hadn’t been part of her life. A few weeks ago, she’d never imagined that she’d be feeling anything but resentment toward the man standing in front of her.
* * *
WHEN SHE GOT home, Sherri tested her blood sugar to discover that it was quite low, lower than it should be. She decided to have a sandwich and a glass of milk before going to bed. She would test her sugar level again in an hour, one last time before calling it a night.
As she settled in front of the TV, the thought occurred to her that she’d been having these funny sweats and headaches along with a feeling of malaise a lot longer than she’d admitted to Neill when he’d first examined her. She wasn’t certain when they’d started, except that when the flu had run its course in the community and her life had begun to return to normal, she’d felt even worse than before.
Mulling it over, she fell asleep in front of the television only to wake with a start a few hours later. She wasn’t sure what had awakened her, but deciding that it was too early to get up and get ready for work, she turned off the TV and climbed into bed.
The next morning when she awoke, she felt a little queasy and put it down to nerves. She was still getting used to giving herself an injection of insulin. She tested her bloo
d sugar and gave herself the required amount of insulin before starting breakfast.
Funny, how many times had she counseled patients on taking their insulin without having any idea how it felt? She had just finished her breakfast when she felt suddenly very ill. After barely making it to the bathroom in time, she remained there, wedged in between the toilet and the tub, waiting for the nausea to pass.
Still not feeling very well, she pulled herself up to a sitting position, the room swinging like a pendulum in front of her eyes as she did so. She felt suddenly very ill again and crouched over the toilet.
Was this the flu? A reaction to insulin? Where was her cell phone?
She couldn’t remember. Her vision was blurry, and her head throbbed. Realizing she needed help but unable to trust herself to stand up, she crawled out to the living room. Finding her purse and her cell phone inside, she eased her shaking body down onto the floor as she tried to focus on the keypad.
She had to let Gayle know that she’d be late, but she couldn’t seem to remember her work number. In fact, she was having trouble remembering where she needed to go this morning. Maybe her mother... Maybe she should call her mother. She focused her eyes on the screen of her cell phone, trying to find her mother’s number in her contact list.
Where was it? Why couldn’t she get her eyes to focus? Her chest hurt and she felt so weak all she wanted to do was sleep. Forcing her head off the floor, she tried to organize her thoughts. A sudden wave of nausea overtook her. Her stomach heaving, she forced her fingers to press 911... Everything grew darker with each touch of the keypad.
* * *
GAYLE WATCHED ANXIOUSLY as more patients streamed into the outpatient clinic but still no sign of Sherri. They usually had coffee together before the clinic started, but she figured Sherri may have felt she had to eat breakfast at home until she got accustomed to taking her insulin.
Gayle had called her friend’s home phone twice already, and each time it rang until it went to voice mail. If Sherri was in the apartment, she would have answered the phone. She dialed her cell phone. She’d never known Sherri not to answer her cell phone. The phone wasn’t turned off because it rang at least a half dozen times before it went to voice mail. She left a message.
Concerned, she tried to contain her impatience while she waited. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer and called Sherri’s mother, who answered on the first ring. “Have you talked to Sherri this morning?” Gayle asked, hoping she wouldn’t frighten her.
“No, I haven’t. I assumed she was at work.”
“She’s not here,” Gayle said, trying to keep the worry out of her voice. “And she’s never late for work.”
“I’ll go over there right now. She seemed fine when I saw her the other day, but she’s been under so much stress lately.”
And more stress was the last thing Sherri needed; of that much Gayle was certain. “Call me when you’ve talked to her, will you? In the meantime, I’ll keep trying her cell phone.”
“I will.” With that, Colleen hung up, and Gayle was left to wonder what was going on. Meanwhile, she had patients to register and people looking for information. Some were asking when the doctor would be there. She had just completed the last registration, an older woman standing in front of her with a fearful look on her face. “Mrs. Brewster, please have a seat in the waiting room. One of the nurses will call your name when it’s your turn to see the doctor.”
Mrs. Brewster frowned as if making up her mind whether or not to ask any further questions, when Dr. Brandon burst through the swinging doors, his expression all business as it usually was these days.
She’d been hoping that Sherri and he might work out their differences, but that didn’t seem to be happening. Gayle knew better than anyone just how hard it was to love someone again once they’d hurt you as badly as Sherri had been hurt. Some pain was simply impossible to get over.
Yet she really liked Dr. Brandon, and Sherri was her best friend. She wanted them to be happy. And she would miss her friend when she left for Portsmouth. Sherri had been so helpful with her son, Adam, and had made her problems around Adam seem so much more manageable. If she hadn’t had to worry about where Adam had disappeared to last night, she would’ve called Sherri and had a late-evening chat with her as they often had over the past months. She pulled her thoughts back to the present and to Dr. Brandon standing over her with a smile that tipped up one corner of his mouth more than the other. A handsome man with a wonderful smile was the perfect antidote for her worried thoughts. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, and how busy will we be today?” he asked, leaning on the counter.
“Really busy. And we’re short a nurse at the moment. Have you seen Sherri, by any chance?”
“No.” He leaned back and frowned as he glanced around the waiting area. “You called her house?”
“Sherri has never been late for work.”
“Well, she’s probably on her way here now.”
His cell phone rang. He pulled it from his belt and checked the screen, his expression going from one of calm to a look of overwhelming concern as he answered. “Colleen, slow down.” His gaze met Gayle’s and in that moment, she saw the frantic look of a man afraid for someone he loved. It had to be Sherri’s mother he was talking to.
“The ambulance picked her up a few minutes ago? Please don’t cry. Do you have someone who can drive you to the hospital?” he asked just as an overhead page advised him to call switchboard. “Can you get Matthew to drive you here? I’ve got to go, but I’ll meet you in Emergency.”
“Did something happen to Sherri?”
“Yeah. They’re bringing her in by ambulance.” He reached over the counter to answer his page.
Wordlessly, Gayle passed him the handset and dialed switchboard for him and then watched in dismay as his expression changed. “They need me in Emergency. You’ll have to let the patients know that there will be a delay. I’ll call you when I can,” he responded.
“Is it Sherri?” Gayle asked, painfully aware of how much she wanted it not to be her best friend. She’d never had anyone in her life like Sherri, someone who was so deeply and quietly available as a friend.
“I assume so. Both ambulances are out, and that was Dr. Fennell.”
“Call me, please,” she urged.
Through unshed tears, she watched Dr. Brandon race out of the clinic through the doors leading toward the emergency department.
CHAPTER TEN
“SORRY FOR CALLING you away from the clinic, but we’re a little backed up here. The first ambulance just arrived and another is on the way. Should be here in a couple of minutes,” Dr. Fennell called over his shoulder as he assisted an orderly and a nurse lift an unconscious patient off the ambulance stretcher and onto a trauma gurney.
“The second ambulance just called in to say they have a woman found on the floor unconscious. No sign of head trauma, but they’ve been unable to revive her. Her blood pressure’s dropping and they’re dealing with a frantic mother who can’t seem to tell them what the cause might be. They started a saline drip,” he said over the sudden whoop of a siren.
“Do you have a name?”
“Sherri Lawson. One of the nurses—you know her, right?” Dr. Fennell stopped midway through his examination of his patient, pulling his stethoscope out of his ears. “If you’d rather not be the intake doctor on this, I’ll do it. You can take over here for me.”
“No, I think I might know what’s wrong with Sherri,” he said, his heart crushed up against his windpipe, making words almost impossible.
Mike’s gaze went from questioning to contemplative. “Anything serious?”
“She’s just been diagnosed with type one diabetes, and she only started on insulin a couple of days ago.”
Mike looked as if he was about to say something when the
doors to the ambulance bay parted and Sherri was wheeled in on a stretcher. Without thinking, Neill strode across the room as the stretcher came to a halt inside the cubicle adjoining the one where Mike was working on his trauma patient.
“White female found unconscious on the floor of her condo. Blood pressure one hundred and five over sixty, pulse ninety-eight, respirations twenty. Oxygen started,” the EMT said, swinging the stretcher into the space.
His movements automatic, Neill did a blood glucose test to discover that her blood sugar was alarmingly low. He quickly hung a glucose drip on with the intravenous already running while he listened intently to the EMT’s description of the patient’s condition, a description that trailed away as the tech watched his movements. In what seemed like hours but was just a few minutes, Sherri’s eyes fluttered open. She yanked the temporary airway out of her mouth as she tried to sit up, her eyes wild with fear that quickly turned to relief when she saw Neill’s face.
For a few precious seconds, their eyes locked and her hand reached for his. He grasped it, gently rubbing his fingers over the back of her hand. She was here and she was safe, and the urge to never let her out of his sight again nearly overwhelmed him. But he realized that people were watching him, waiting for him to finish his evaluation of his patient. Forcing his thoughts back to his job, his mind clicked over the possibilities and what else needed to be done for Sherri.
Yet the urge to take her in his arms and bury his face in her hair was so powerful it obliterated all other reactions. His relief knew no bounds; the feeling of being open to every nuance of life engulfed him. To ward off the tears gathering just behind his eyelids, he took a long, deep breath, letting the tension locking his shoulders ease away.
“You’re in Emergency, Sherri, and you’re going to be fine. I’m here, and I’m going to take care of you.” He heard himself saying the words. They were the least professional words he could have uttered, but he didn’t give a damn. The woman he loved—had loved all his life—was safe. And that was all that mattered—now and in the future.
The Doctor Returns Page 13
