Doctor Dom Series Sequence One (Triage | Observation | Diagnosis): A BDSM & Medical Play Series

by Tara Crescent

  “Let’s go find out,” he responded. I threw the coffee I hadn’t drunk in the trash, along with the donut I hadn’t eaten, and we went back to the nurses’ station.

  ***

  It was the same woman who had been there last night, but today she smiled a different smile at me. I’d entered the inner circle, I realized, enclosed in Patrick’s sphere of influence.

  “Lisa, right?” Her voice was warm. She looked tired; she’d probably been there all night. “You want to see your mother? The staff is just doing a shift change, you can see her in an hour.”

  I smiled at her, a genuine smile of gratitude. These were the people that were taking care of my mother. “Thank you,” I said. “Do you know if Patrick’s around somewhere as well?”

  “He’s probably scrubbing for surgery,” she said. “He was called in. Emergency.”

  Ah. The reason for the distraction. I smiled at her again, and turned to my dad.

  “Go home,” I urged. “Get a couple hours sleep at least.”

  “I can’t.” He sounded anguished.

  “Dad,” I started. “You look dead on your feet.”

  He shook his head and started to say something. A voice interrupted. Patrick. I hadn’t seen him come up to us.

  “Hello, Mr. Preston.” He smiled at my dad and shook his hand.

  “Please, call me Colin,” my dad urged automatically.

  “I just heard the surgery was scheduled early this afternoon,” Patrick said. His hand found mine; I gripped tight. “I can’t stay long; I need to scrub for surgery myself, but I just wanted to find you to tell you that Petra, who will be operating on your wife, is an excellent neurosurgeon. One of the best. Your wife will be in good hands.”

  “Thank you, Patrick,” my dad responded. I squeezed Patrick’s hand again, trying to express my gratitude that he’d taken the time to come reassure us.

  “Also, I wanted to give you guys this.” He handed my dad a key card. “It’s a key to the doctors’ break room. A lot more comfortable than the waiting room. You probably won’t want to leave the hospital this morning and I can understand that, but perhaps you can grab a couple of hours of sleep there?”

  I leaned forward and kissed him; I couldn’t help myself. Warmth was spreading through me as he took us under his wings and ensconced us in the comfort of his protection. “Thanks, Patrick,” I muttered.

  He just smiled at me.

  ***

  Once he left, I excused myself and called Natalie. I winced as I looked at my calendar. Another Charles Dobson walkthrough that I was going to toss into Natalie’s lap.

  “Sorry,” I apologised when I’d finished explaining.

  “That’s okay, I can handle it,” she said. She sounded subdued, very much unlike her usual cheerful, effervescent self.

  “I’ll call him and explain,” I offered. I wanted to ask her what was going on, but I didn’t want to pry.

  “Okay,” she said tonelessly. We hung up.

  Charles said the same thing when I explained the situation to him. “Okay.” He sounded subdued as well. I wondered what was going on with the two of them.

  ***

  We settled into the doctors’ break room. My dad took a nap, and I curled into a chair, waiting for the hour to pass before I could see my mother. It was hell. I couldn’t read; couldn’t focus on anything other than my worry about my mother.

  Finally, the same nurse walked into the waiting room. “She’s awake now, you can see her if you wish.” I contemplated waking my dad up, but she shook her head.

  “Let him sleep,” she said. “Only one visitor at a time.” I nodded and followed her. The hospital was a strange world with strange rules and I obeyed quietly. My mind was too numb to ask why or to protest.

  ***

  Panic clouded my mind again when I saw my mom. She looked so frail lying there in that hospital bed. Her skin white and paper-thin. The needles poking into her arm. The drip by her side. “Hey mom,” I greeted her, trying to keep the fear from my voice. I didn’t succeed, not even a little bit.

  “Stop worrying,” my mom’s voice was a raspy whisper. “It’s all going to be fine.”

  “How do you know?” I asked her, giving her a small smile. My mom, the eternal optimist. Everything was always going to be fine.

  She ignored my skepticism. “More importantly, tell me about your boyfriend,” she said.

  “Mom,” I yelped. “Honestly, you are going to have brain surgery this afternoon and you want to know who I’m dating? That’s the most important thing you can think of?”

  She laughed, a weak, wheezing sound. I automatically moved closer in concern, took her hand in my hand. Her skin was clammy to the touch.

  “Lisa,” she said. “I’ve lived my life well. I’ve laughed and I’ve loved, I’ve cried and been comforted. If this is the end, then I can look at it without regret.”

  I looked at her. I wished I could say the same thing about my life. I had been locked in a shell of fear for most of my adult years; laughing and whole on the surface, but broken inside. If it were me, lying there on the hospital bed, I knew I wouldn’t be able to face the end of the journey without regret. I’d be plagued by what-if’s, and if-only’s.

  “Did dad tell you about Patrick?” I asked instead, burying those thoughts for later. For the moment, my mother wanted to gossip about my new guy.

  She smiled. “He did, but also, your boyfriend stopped by this morning and introduced himself. Easy on the eye, that boy.”

  “When?” Seriously. Patrick had all of maybe thirty minutes while I grabbed a cup of coffee and a donut. In that time he’d found out my mother was having surgery, introduced himself to her, found a key card for my dad and me to take shelter in the doctors’ break room, and also prep for his own surgery. It was disconcertingly efficient.

  “Only for a minute,” she laughed. I was jolted out of my musings about Patrick when I heard how frail that laugh sounded.

  “Mom,” I said, trying to hold the tears back. “You know I love you, right?”

  Her grip on my hand tightened by the smallest of amounts. “It’ll be okay, honey,” she soothed. That was my mom. If anything, I should have been comforting her, but instead, she was once again being my rock and my anchor.

  We were interrupted by a young male nurse who clattered in, read the chart hanging at the bottom of my mom’s bed, and nodded to me. “I need to change her drip,” he said, a polite smile on his face. “You’ll need to leave for a bit, miss.”

  I nodded. “Lisa,” my mom said. “Send your dad in, will you sweetie?” I nodded again. That was all I could do.

  ***

  My dad was gone for two hours. When he came back, he had tear tracks on his face that he didn’t attempt to hide. My dad was a guy’s guy; I’d never seen him cry. Again, I felt the same disquiet I had earlier, like something important was happening in my life. In confronting the reality that my parents were mortal, I felt like I was taking a final irrevocable step into adulthood.

  “They are prepping her for surgery,” he said, his voice hoarse. I glanced at my watch. Eleven-thirty. Whatever mysterious preparation that was done before my mother’s head was cut open, and a shunt inserted so that the fluid would drain, it was happening at this moment. I nodded again, not trusting my voice to speak. Right at that moment, I needed Patrick more than I’d ever needed anyone.

  Chapter 12

  Lisa:

  Twelve. Twelve ten. Twelve twenty. Twelve forty five. The minutes trickled by as we sat there, silently, my dad and me, lost in our own private hell. At twelve fifty, I got up, unable to sit any longer, and started pacing restlessly round the room. A young woman sitting in a corner looked up at me in slight irritation and I sat back down again, quelled. She could be one of my mother’s doctors. I couldn’t interrupt her rest.

  Finally, at ten after one, Patrick strode in. He looked exhausted, but he smiled when he saw me. “How are you holding up?” he asked, his voice gentle. I shook my head, una
ble to form words. I couldn’t talk; I would burst into tears. Instead, I just reached for him.

  In an instant, I was pulled into his body. My face found his chest, and I just stood there, buried for a few seconds, feeling his warmth next to me, the steady beat of his heart. His hands came around me, and he stroked my forearm gently.

  “Lisa,” he said quietly. “Is there any chance you’ve eaten lunch?”

  I laughed a little into his chest. “No,” I muttered.

  “Come on,” he urged me. “Let’s go to the food court.”

  “What if something happens?” I asked. I didn’t want to ask. He was a doctor. He knew that every surgery carried risk.

  “I have my phone with me,” he replied. “And you’ll feel better if you eat. Did you eat any breakfast?”

  I shook my head. I was having a conversation about food when my mother was in surgery. It felt wrong and disloyal to seek comfort while my mother balanced between life and death. Yes, I was being melodramatic, but it felt like everything safe in my life was being ripped away.

  Everything except Patrick. Who leaned forward and kissed me very gently and very fleetingly on the lips; the merest brush.

  “Come eat,” he said to me. “Colin, join us?”

  I flushed. I’d forgotten about my dad for a few seconds.

  My dad shook his head. He looked and sounded anguished. “You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll just wait here.”

  I eyed him. “I’ll bring something back for you,” I said.

  ***

  I couldn’t let go of Patrick’s hand; he didn’t pull it away either. We walked in silence to the food court. All around us, there were sick people and worried families. Illness and anxiety was pervasive in the air.

  “I’d offer to drive us somewhere else,” he said quietly. “But I don’t think you’ll leave the hospital. The food here’s pretty generic.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I said automatically. I was lying; I was starving. But it felt wrong to eat. My stomach betrayed me at that moment though by growling, and I flushed in sheer embarrassment.

  “Liar,” he said easily. “What strikes your fancy?”

  I looked around. He had been right; it was pretty generic. “Chinese,” I said, just picking the offering that had the smallest line. He nodded, we grabbed our fried rice, chicken in some kind of brown sauce and steamed broccoli, and headed to a table in the corner.

  “How was your morning?” I asked. He grimaced, and for an instant, I worried that his patient hadn’t made it.

  “Some guy who usually beats his wife decided this morning to use his child as a punch bag instead,” he said. “Kid is seven. Asshole.” His tone was tired.

  “Do you see a lot of this?” I asked him. It had to be hard, what he did. It had to take an emotional toll.

  He shrugged. “More than I want to,” he said. He made a face. “Still, the kid’s going to be okay, I think. At least physically. Working emergency is always hard. You never know what you are going to see. And sadly, what you see is often the worst of humanity, the endless ways in which people hurt each other.” He took a sip of his jasmine tea, and smiled at me. “Tell me about yourself,” he said.

  “What do you want to know?” I asked him, smiling back, glad for the distraction of his presence. “You already know the naughty bits, really.”

  He laughed. “Tell me the silly bits,” he said. “Do you sing in the shower? Do you secretly hate broccoli? Cake or frosting?”

  I grinned at him. “I’m eating broccoli right now,” I pointed out. “I sing in the shower. I also used to play guitar in a band, once upon a time. I love cake, and hate frosting. Unless it has cream cheese in it.” I felt silly telling him these things about me, and so I raised my eyebrow at him. “Your turn,” I said, pointing my chopstick at him.

  He smiled. “I like broccoli,” he confessed. “And spinach. I’m very boring like that.” I rolled my eyes. He was the furthest thing from boring. He was gorgeous and funny and he had the magic ability to make me wet just by looking at me a certain way, and talking to me in a certain voice.

  “What else?” I asked him, dragging my mind away from sex. “Do you sing in the shower?”

  He winked at me. “You’ll have to wait and see,” he said. “But I’ll eat your frosting anytime.” He winked again, and I blushed beet-red, but my eyes met his, and I laughed despite my flushed cheeks.

  “Anytime, really?” My voice was teasing.

  His gaze was steady as he met mine. “Anytime,” he said, a slight smile playing around his lips. I flushed.

  He finished up the last of his rice; I’d already scraped my plate clean. “You done?” he said, and I nodded. We headed back to the lounge. He kissed me as he left. “I have rounds to do, but I’ll swing by every so often to the lounge, okay? Ask the nurse at the waiting area to page me if you need me.”

  ***

  I handed my dad the food we’d ordered for him. He ate it, his gaze distant, but every time the door opened, he jumped a little. I did too. The surgery would only take an hour, the doctor had said. It was the longest hour of my life.

  Finally, the door swung open, and I saw a tall, blonde woman walk towards us. She looked to be in her early fifties. She was talking to Patrick and laughing at something he said.

  “Mr. Preston,” she greeted my dad. I got up with him, and snuck my hand in his. In my shoes, my toes were crossed. Please. Please let everything be okay. She had been laughing with Patrick; that had to mean things went fine, right?

  “Ms. Preston,” she nodded in my direction, stuck out her hand to shake mine. “I’m Dr. Janokovic, I’m your mother’s neurosurgeon.” She turned back to my dad. “Everything went fine with your wife’s surgery.” I exhaled shakily. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my dad close his eyes in visible relief. “She’s resting now. No visitors for the first twenty-four hours; we need to keep her under observation. My advice? Go home, get some rest. I’m sure the last few hours couldn’t have been easy. We’ll let you visit tomorrow afternoon.”

  I looked at my dad. “Come on, dad,” I said firmly. “Let’s go get some sleep.”

  My dad finally nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll catch a cab home.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I offered. I didn’t want him to be alone. But he shook his head.

  “I’m fine,” he insisted. My dad was stubborn. “I’m going to shower and fall asleep. I’ll be back in the hospital at one in the afternoon tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I said. I needed to go into work for a bit. Talk to Natalie, check messages, return phone calls. Necessary things. “I’ll call you in the morning,” I told him.

  I watched the doctor smile and nod at the two of us and retreat, then I looked at Patrick. “I should go into the office,” I told him. I was suddenly shy. I wanted to see him, but didn’t want to crowd him. We’d only spent one weekend together, almost two weeks ago. I’d ignored him for a week, lost in my own crisis, which all seemed very far away now. And last night, he’d spanked me with a leather belt, sent me crashing into orgasm, and then told me off for ignoring him. I had no idea what to do next.

  Thankfully he took the lead. “I’ll swing by your office when I’m done at work,” he said. “Have dinner with me.” The tone in his voice was subtle, a concession to the presence of my dad in the room. But he wasn’t asking me. I nodded compliance. I couldn’t pretend, really - I wanted him.

  ***

  When I got to work, Natalie was eating some soup at her desk. She looked a little downcast. “How was the walkthrough?” I asked her carefully, once I’d given her news of my mother.

  “It was okay,” she said. “Charles asked me to tell you he’s really happy with the progress.”

  I raised my eyebrow quizzically. It wasn’t that Charles Dobson was an asshole; he wasn’t, but compliments were definitely not his style. Or so I had thought.

  “Are you okay?” I asked her.

  She shrugged. “Who the fuck knows, really?” she asked me. There w
as sadness in her voice. But she wouldn’t say anything else.

  ***

  At five, I heard the sound of someone walk up the stairs; then a knock at the door, before it opened. Patrick. I smiled at him, a wide happy smile, unable to help myself, and introduced Natalie.

  “Thanks for the coffee machine,” she laughed. I was relieved to see her smile.

  “No problem,” he smiled back. “Lisa, you ready?”

  I nodded. “See you Monday,” I told Natalie. “I’ll text you if something comes up with my mom and I can’t come into the office.”

  “Have a good weekend,” Patrick said politely to Natalie, before placing his hand in the small of my back, and ushering me to his car.

  Chapter 13

  Patrick:

  I wanted to take her in a myriad of ways. I wanted to learn every inch of her body, and I wanted her to learn every inch of mine.

  But not now.

  Though we both enjoyed it tremendously, this was not the time for kinky sex. This was the time for us to hold each other and discover each other. This woman was filled with fascinating contrasts, and truth be told, I wanted to get to know her.

  ***

  “Any place you want to go to for dinner?” I asked her in the car. I didn’t realize it, but I was holding my breath. Please pick a restaurant. Show me something of yourself. Don’t just leave it up to me. Don’t be Andrea.

  “Do you like Ethiopian food?” she asked me. “I know a great place on the Danforth.”

  I smiled at her, far more relieved than I should have been about something so simple and trivial. But, like I’d told her before, we both carried baggage. And I had no desire to control her outside of the bedroom.

  “Lead on,” I said cheerfully.

  ***

  Had I thought a little bit about what Ethiopian food entailed, I would have suggested we go somewhere else. We were seated in a tiny booth, both of us sitting on a bench, cross-legged in front of a low table. A big platter of food was placed in front of us, and the waitress left us.