wild woman

And being a doctor is more important than anything else you can do with your body. It's the only thing that matters right now because you've invested so much time into it. It was your dream, even when your friend quietly asked, all those years ago, if you'd be up for standing and being on your feet twelve to fourteen hours a day. Sometimes sixteen.

You were so unfairly angry at her for asking the question. For forcing you to stop and think about your body's limits, how present they were even then, when you were freshly drinking age and should've, by all accounts, been able to take advantage of how quickly a young body can bounce back.

But you've never been able to bounce back. You suffer regardless of what you're doing. But you wanted to be a doctor. You'll hurt no matter what.

But you can concede now, thirteen hours into your shift, that it's probably scary to see someone your age fall over nothing. You truly don't mean to fall—no one ever does. You have your compression socks on, and you'd tied your sneakers extra tight, and maybe that's what did it, you don't know. Usually, after three hours, the pain evens out and becomes a sharp, constant pinch in your legs and shoulders. The ER moves so fast and the pain doesn't go away, no, but you get distracted. And some days, the pain turns numb, and the numbness is worse, because you can't rely on what you can't feel.

That is what happened now, you realize, as you stare at the white and blue speckled floor. The ER floor always reminded you of an Easter egg. This close, you can see the crust of dirt that won't come off no matter how many times the custodians clean. You'd hate to find out what else sticks to the floor.

Your palms burn, your arms ache from the impact, and your knees are indignant about moving. Someone picks you up from the floor, hands under your arms.

"I'm fine," you say, even though the pain has wrung your personality out of your body. You're not yourself when you're in this much pain; you're just a body, a pile of limbs, desperately trying to figure out how to keep moving them in a way that won't tip anyone off to how much pain you live in.

"Hey, hey. You alright?" Dana asks as she hoists you up, stronger than she looks. You've seen her throw a punch; you'd hate to face her in a dark alley.

"I tripped," you say automatically. "I'm fine." You laugh because it really is stupid that you fell from nothing. But Dana won't find it funny, so you have to lie a little.

It's not working. You can see that in the way her brows pinch as she reads your face, finds things you didn't know you were revealing.

And then Robby appears next to her, and it all really goes to shit from there.

"What happened?" he asks, sharp brown eyes taking in your body language and Dana's.

"She fell," Dana says before you can lie again.

The problem with people caring about you is that it can be used against you. Robby knows exactly what it means that you fell. He'd wrestled it out of you one night months ago when you'd almost collapsed from dehydration. Robby had all the grace of a steamroller when he interrogated you about your pain. The truth had come out in a desperate attempt to stop the humiliation of someone witnessing how broken your body is.

"I didn't—"

"Staff room, now." Robby's shaking his head and waving his hands before you can speak. "You're done. Sit the rest of the shift out."

"That's not fair!" you say, even though your body rejoices at the prospect of sitting for an hour. You would've killed a man six hours ago to be able to sit for a minute.

Robby's face clouds over, just a little. He's been sharper lately, less gentle and more efficient. He doesn’t have it in him to temper his thorny kindness; he acts on instinct, gives orders he knows to be right, and moves on.

"I can finish my shift," you say, fear climbing your throat like acid at what the other staff will think. An hour is a long time for a doctor to be off during their shift. If anyone else close to your age had fallen—Whitaker, Mohan, Santos—Robby would give them ten minutes max, and only to check them for a head injury.

Robby closes his eyes, clearly already tired of this conversation, which makes you feel worse. "I am not having this argument with you. Sit out or I'll ask Ahmad to escort you."

The idea of having to be dragged to the staff room is mortifying, and you know Robby knows that. He links his hands behind his neck, stretching. And yet, you know that Robby's not nearly in as much pain as you. Isn't that a kick in the shins?

"Robby, please," you say, and you try to step closer to him to meet his eyes, but it hurts to do even that. Bruises are forming, and the pain has tripled from your fall. You fail to hide your wince. Robby notices. Of course he does.

"No," he says, cold and final. "You're done. You think I'm gonna risk you falling again?"

"I tripped," you say again, and Robby inhales, furious and tense, so Dana steps in.

"Alright, alright." She easily steps between you two, putting a hand on Robby's chest and another on your shoulder. "Take a breath. C'mon, honey, let's get you some heat for the muscles. I got her, chief."

Dana tries to take your arm so you can lean your weight on her, but you jerk away.

"Please let me walk by myself," you say lowly, your eyes burning hot. "Please, Dana."

"You're the boss," she says quietly, and it nearly cracks you open. You're not the boss. You haven't been the boss of your own body in a long time.

You just manage to push yourself enough to get to the staff room without additional incidents. You sit on the couch and prop your legs up so your blood circulates back up your body. Dana had grabbed a couple heat packs from the nurses' station and she activates them now and places them on your thighs, where the pain stretches your skin tight and throbs.

The circulation is necessary, but the sudden shift in position is almost as bad as being on your feet. You dig your fingers into the back of the couch. You won't cry. Won't burden anybody more than you already have.

"And here's a Gatorade," Dana says, handing you a bottle. Light blue, your favorite. "Gotta get those electrolytes up."

"I could've finished the shift," you say.

Dana doesn't reply to that, which is probably for the best. If it were Robby, he'd argue, and that'd be miserable. But Dana's always been good at giving you dignity. She may not know pain in the same way you do, but she understands enough to realize that sometimes an argument is all the power you have.

"I'll check on you in a bit," she says, patting your neck. "Recline, so you don't strain your neck more."

And you know she'll stay until you do it, so you lean back, granting your shoulders relief. It's in this position that you finally feel the full strain of today's shift, and all the shifts before it. The pain isn't just in your legs, but your neck, your shoulders, your abs. All of your body's energy goes into keeping you upright. How did you make it through thirteen hours?

Dana leaves, turning off the lights as she goes. The door opens and the noise and chaos of the ER enters just for a moment, reminding you of what you're missing, before the door shuts. Your senses are dulled when you're in this much pain. Lights are aggravating, as is noise, but when it counts—like with a patient—you can miss stuff. You have missed stuff.

That's really why Robby got so angry. You know it. You're a liability. It's bad enough you can't function the way someone your age should. Now you're falling during shifts.

You were terrified of this happening. You haven't fallen during a shift until now, and although you don't know for sure, you have a sneaking suspicion that it'll keep happening. No amount of rest will allow you to heal and catch up. This job doesn't let you do that. You're in your fourth year of your residency, and your body is failing you.

You close your eyes and lean your head against your arm. As your adrenaline falls, and the pain intensifies and makes your muscles spasm, you start to cry. How are you going to do this?

The pain will never improve. Maybe it can be managed, but eventually, your body will break down. You can't even imagine doing this job when you're Robby or Dana's age.

The door opens. There's no clock, so you have no idea how much time has passed, but when you see Jack, you can guess that it's been at least forty-five minutes. He always comes in a little early for the night shift.

You rub your salt-tracked cheeks, hoping he won't notice. Maybe Jack won't see you at all.

He almost never comes into the staff room. Always brings coffee from home instead of drinking the sludge the hospital provides. He's here for you.

"He called you?" you ask, angry all over again. How fucking dare Robby.

"I actually work here, believe it or not," Jack says mildly. "You may have seen me putting bandaids on kids' knees. Real low-stakes stuff."

You aren't in the mood to joke, to let Jack's easy companionship engulf you. You haven't worked the night shift in a year, but that doesn't stop you from feeling pleased when you see him during the handoff and he takes a minute to talk to you, ask how you're doing. You like Jack a lot.

It's just now occurring to you that maybe he's noticed your pain too. Maybe that's why he takes time to talk to you.

You know either Dana or Robby told him you’re in here. You detest it. Jack is easily fifteen years older, if not more, and it's absolutely humiliating that the three most senior staff in the ER have to look out for you and your stupid broken body.

Jack comes to the couch. He pats your leg. "Scoot."

It startles you that he makes you move so he can sit on the couch with you. Anyone else would politely sit at the table and not make you move an inch.

But Jack sits and brings your legs down on his like you're in your living room. He props them so they're still higher than your heart. It's unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

He sips coffee from his thermos. He's warm. You watch him, waiting. Jack has never spoken to you about your pain. You assumed it was because you never worked enough night shifts for it to be a conversation. Even so, you would've hidden it for as long as you could.

Deep down, you know Jack would've spotted it faster than Robby had.

You let your head loll to one side. Jack seems content to let you hang in the silence. He's always struck you as the kind of guy who simply doesn't speak if he has nothing to say. It makes others uncomfortable, but you welcome it. When you're always in pain, being around someone who doesn't expect you to speak is a different kind of relief.

You suspect that's why he and Robby have been friends for so long.

"These are nice," Jack says, patting your exposed compression sock on your right leg. You wore the ones with koi fish.

"There was a sale online. Five for thirty-two."

He whistles. "A steal. These are the good kind."

You tilt your head. "You wear compression socks?"

He nods. "Just one. Not always, but it helps my other leg stay warm and keep the blood flowing when I'm wearing the prosthesis. It's not necessary but it makes me more comfortable."

He pulls his scrub leg up to show you a plain black compression sock.

"No prints?" you ask.

He laughs. "Wasn't really thinking about it when I bought them, no."

"The website I buy mine from has ones with German Shepherds on them. I think you'd like those."

"I do love a good Shepherd."

More silence. Then:

"Did you take anything? Tylenol?"

You shrug.

"That means no," he says.

"I'll be fine. I'll take some at home."

Jack looks at you like he can see down to your soul. You squirm.

"No one will judge you for it," he says.

"I can't take just one for it to do anything," you mumble. "I have to take four or five."

You're careful not to take any medication at work, even Tylenol. You don't want people thinking you need it to function.

You don't even like taking it at home. You might tonight because the pain is worse than usual, and it's compounded with bruises from your fall. But normally, you don't. You fear that if you start, you'll never be able to go without.

"So take four or five," he says. "Do you need it every day? You probably shouldn't take Tylenol every day, but there's other stuff."

You hesitate. "The pain isn't that bad every day."

"But you're in pain daily?"

"It's manageable."

"People your age are not in daily pain."

You look away. Your eyes sting. "I know."

Jack rubs and squeezes your shin. "I'm not saying it to make you feel bad. I think sometimes you forget."

"I don't," you say, voice cracking. "I know my body shouldn't feel this way. But I can keep going. I will."

"I don't think you can keep going like this," Jack says gently, and it doesn't hurt less to hear, but you're grateful that he's not yelling it.

"Robby told me off," you say, stomach spasming at the memory.

"I heard."

You look at Jack, tears in your eyes. "It was humiliating, Jack. Doesn't he know I don't want to be this way? I would be in pain for an hour longer if it meant he didn't tell me off in front of the whole fucking hospital."

"I know," he says. "I'll talk to him. He handled it poorly."

You sob. It's an accident. You didn't feel it coming, but it came out because it had to. Jack's eyebrows dip. His frown deepens.

"I don't want to live like this," you say, and he nods. He knows. You know he does. "I don't want to be young and in pain. It's not fair."

"I know," he says, and he carefully moves your legs aside so he can pull you against his shoulder. You cry into his neck. He smells like Old Spice. Jack rubs your back. "I know, I know. It's not fair."

"D-do you know how embarrassing it is that someone almost twice my age has to tell me to sit and rest? Or help me up because I fell?"

You feel Jack's hum in his chest. "I do. Felt it many times after the amputation."

You scowl into his scrubs. "That's different. You needed help."

Jack pulls you away so he can look at you. "How is it different? You need help too."

"You lost your leg. People understand."

He shakes his head. "Not everybody. And it doesn't make people's pity any easier to swallow, even if they mean well. It was the hardest after I got discharged. I wanted to do so much more, and I had to find a way to slow down, 'cause my body was revolting against me."

He's got you tucked against him, arm around your back, hand on your opposite arm.

"I'm trying," you say, desperate for someone to see. "I'm trying so hard, Jack."

"You are," he says, so tender, so much like a good doctor. "But maybe you need to find a different way to try. 'Cause this isn't working. And it's not sustainable."

You know what that means. You saw a doctor only once, hoping maybe they'd find some reason for why you're like this. Why you just can't seem to be your age the way everyone else is. But the doctor had simply told you that you'd probably need some kind of mobility aid. That even if you could push through the pain now, it wouldn't always be that way.

You'd never gone back after that appointment.

"Has anybody talked to you about aids?"

"You mean how I need them? Yes. One doctor. The others told me I needed to lose weight or it was my period. Like somehow getting pregnant will cure me."

"The fuck? Who's the joker that told you that? Gimme their name, I'll report 'em to the board."

You smile. It's nice to be cared for in this way. To have your pain acknowledged but for it not to be the only thing that defines you.

"I'll look them up later." You sigh, cheek against Jack's scrub top. "Do you think Robby would notice if I went back out? I have an elderly woman waiting on a CT."

"I'd notice."

"So? I could outrun you."

"Oh, really?" Jack moves you away a little so he can meet your eye. His eyes glitter with amusement. "You haven't even touched your Gatorade. I'll take my chances."

You let yourself think too long about Jack Abbot tackling you. If you weren't already bruised, you'd seriously consider it.

"I want to be a doctor," you say, suddenly sad all over again.

"You are a doctor."

You look at him. He looks right back. He's not lying, but you still find his words ridiculous.

"You know what I mean," you say.

"Do I? People practice medicine in all sorts of ways. If there's anything you should've learned in all your years here, it's that there isn't one way to heal yourself or your patients."

You've never told anyone your deepest fear, but you think Jack can handle it.

"What if I stop being able to walk or stand?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, but I feel like I should remind you that you're talking to the one-legged guy. So I'm a little biased."

It's easier to confess in the dark, to let Jack hold you for a little longer. "I don't want to be useless."

Jack pulls you back into his chest, patting your koi fish socks. "You aren't. Now take a little nap, and then I'll call you an Uber. My treat."

"Jack, c'mon. The Ubers are always your treat."

He's already slid his glasses onto his face. They rest at the tip of his nose as he taps at his phone with his index finger, the screen an unreasonable distance away. You hate how endearing you find it.

"So buy me some socks in return. Want some Uber Eats too?"

"No."