#wrong blog

“You probably think I’m stupid for panicking like this,” you admitted.

With a mild shake of his head, he replied, “Not at all. You did the right thing. That’s why we’re here.” 

You exhaled slowly. “I’ll just be glad when we can go.”

“I understand.” He tapped on the screen, adding a few observations, and absently toyed with the stethoscope draped over the thick knots of muscle along his shoulders and traps. “We want to monitor his hydration and continue the meds through the evening,” he reminded gently. “Just to be safe.” He closed his eyes and pursed his lips as he unravelled the stethoscope and pressed it to your little guy’s chest. He listened quietly, counting the rhythm and looking for the faint murmurs that had drawn his attention earlier.

You liked Dr. Jack Abbot. He had a rugged resilience that spoke of years of experience, the kind that left quiet traces in the corners of his eyes. Earlier, you’d seen him tug at his dog tags as you wandered toward the bathroom. He didn’t wear mystery like armor; he offered clarity, steady and unpretentious. You had expected aggression and gruffness, but over the last few days, he had been so softly spoken at times that you even questioned your own hearing.

“Just to be safe,” you mumbled in agreement. 

“You sure I can’t get you anything?” he asked, moving toward the door again. He was smooth on his feet, but maybe you were distracted enough that everything seemed to move in perfect rhythm, except for your little one’s heart at that moment. When you didn’t reply, he left the room and continued his rounds.