Chapter 1
When you're a doctor you're always moving. You've seen the hallways blur past you so many times the blur is more recognisable than the hallway itself. You can't stop moving, you can't ever stop, because when doctors stop moving people die. Cancer spreads and bacteria multiplies. Children can choke on hesitation. Mothers and fathers' lungs can collapse under the weight of delay.
That's why I press my stethoscope to my patient's heart and ignore the thick tightness in my own chest that's been squeezing out coughs for the past few days.
"It's a bit erratic," I admit after trying to convince this dedicated hypochondriac that shortness of breath was normal after a five mile run for the past half hour, "I'll get Carla to give you the works and we'll see…"
"Yeah, yeah, just some time today, huh BJ?"
'It's JD,' I corrected mentally, "Hehyum," I cough, nodding vigorously, "Carla, could you…?"
"No problem, Bambi," she says affectionately, before turning to Mr Helmsly with disdain, "I take it you have time to pee in this?" I heard her say sarcastically as I palmed the door open.
"Hey, J.D," Turk says, joining me mid-stride.
"Yo," I reply coolly, just missing a gurney bashing into my hip.
"Got some news," he volunteers, "I've got you a date Friday night."
"What?" I say sharply.
"I. Got. You. A. Date. Friday. Night."
I swipe at a cough that escapes my throat angrily, "You had no right to do that."
The reason I'm so angry at Turk is because I'm gay. But the thing is, he doesn't know that. And because I haven't got the stones to tell him I'm gay, he tries to be a good friend by setting me up on straight dates. And that's why I'm mad. Because I'm afraid.
He holds out his hands defensively, "Woah man, chill. She's a nice girl…" Problem number one, "I used to go out with." Problem number two.
"Turk," I snap irritably, coughing, "I'm not," cough, "gonna go out with," cough, cough, "some chick you…" cough!
He rubs my back affectionately, even though less than a second ago I was biting his head off. Sometimes I think I'm dumb not telling Turk, because if there was anyone who wouldn't judge me, it'd be him. He stuck by me during Babysitter's club phase, my George Michael phase and my Star Wars phase… Okay, so that phase was still pretty damn phasey, but the point is, Turk stood by me all this time, I should be able to tell him anything.
I look at him and he's smiling slightly as he delivers the final pat to my back, and fear grips my throat. I can't do it. Not if it's a possible possibility that it could end this. No way.
"I'm," I say hoarsely, "I'm not interested right now. Sorry."
"Don't sweat it, man," he says carefully, walking backwards and pointing a firm finger at me, "But we are going out tonight."
I swallow and nod, "Yeah."
These are the best days. When it's morning and you don't hate yourself quite yet. You can still smile without having to force it and coffee burning your tongue doesn't make you let out a string of curses that'd make my Aunt Muriel blush. And that lady was into leather.
I shudder as the faint strains of 'Beautiful Day' whisper at the back of my mind and I breathe in deeply and despite the medicinal alcohol that burns my nostrils, and the stabbing sensation in my sternum and the cough that makes my throat sing in pain, I smile. I may be a cowardly faggot, but I'm here. And I'm helping. And that's more than I can say for most.
--
When you're a doctor, you look at injury from a large observation tank. You see it, right there in front of you every day but you feel to utterly separate from it you don't think, you know for a fact that it can't touch you. You feel invincible because you know you are. Which, as Doctor Cox likes to say, is total bullshit.
"Listen Nancy," he says, interrupting my optimistic yet naïve spiel, "I know you enjoy putting me up on some kind of pedestal which, yes, I can understand entirely but to put the collective up on one is well, stupid. And since you're stupid the two of you mesh like that pink ensemble you want to get that will go SO well with your new shoes that you just can't stand it. Oh god, you can't stand it! Should you buy it, shouldn't you buy it, should you, shouldn't you and this goes on and on until you do get it and realise, gasp, that it doesn't fit quite right and here's the funny part." He pauses to take a deep breath, "We are not immune. We aren't special. We think we are and then what happens? It doesn't fit. We're humans, newbie, and the sooner you get that through that painfully thick head of yours the better."
Sometimes I forget that Dr Cox doesn't see life the way I do. That he hates the way I see life and pretty much everything I stand for, yet he wants me to succeed so much it kills him. He wants to push and push until I'm on the floor, face pressed against it and begging…
I adjust my scrubs and blush, but he doesn't notice. Or he chooses not to.
Either way, he wants me to become the prodigal, his son, something of a reflection of him so he can point at me and say 'See that? I made that.' Because he feels like he needs something to redeem the lack of anything solid he has in his own life. If he ever discovered the phrase 'you've got to be cruel to be kind' he would embrace it like a long-lost brother.
"I don't know," I reply, before coughing, "I think we need arrogance like that to help us not fear our patients. We need to know that at any second we won't drop down dead."
At that moment, an elderly Mr Kibbles speeds past me on his motorised wheel-chair, bumping me in the hip and sending me backwards into Doctor Cox's arms like some kind of bad romantic comedy starring Kate Hudson, except he hold me close for a mere five seconds before promptly dropping me at his feet.
He says something snide, but I'm not paying attention. My head is spinning, and coupled with the congestion in my chest I'm having trouble breathing. Being a doctor teaches you to be calm in moments like these. Relax your muscles, if they're tight they could cause spasm or shrink around your airway. Don't try talk, just devote all your energy to breathing. Just breathe.
He's over me now, tilting my head back and opening my mouth. Finally I can breathe properly, and the air wheezes out. I open my eyes.
Dr Cox looks guilty, and his hands rest reassuringly on the sides of my face, warm and leathery. I breathe and try not to revel in this too much.
"You all right there, newbie?" he whispers, and I feel his fingers curl around my jaw bone.
'Don't revel, don't revel, don't revel, don't revel, don't revel, don't revel, don't revel, don't revel…'
"I have a cough," I say quietly, because my voice won't work. Coughs do that to you.
He nods, eyes skimming over my face, "Go home."
I nod back, helpless, "Okay."
--
When you're a doctor, you know when something's wrong when it is. Like when Dr Cox and I both saw Ben's hand that wouldn't stop bleeding, or when I was giving head to a guy I used to go out with, Casey, and felt an abnormal swelling in his right ball. He had testicular cancer and wouldn't get surgery, no matter how much I begged him. He's dead now. So is Ben. Those two cases hold no significance to me, however, as I lay in my own sweat even though I'm shivering wildly with the sheets kicked off long ago. The ache in my chest has spread over my torso like a shield and sleep envelopes me as often as it escapes me. I know this isn't right. I know I should get up, or crawl up to the phone and call someone. Anyone. But that damn superiority complex I have stops me. Plus, I keep having mini-dreams of getting up and being attacked by David Cassidy with a huge plastic hammer. So I just lay here.
Ten more minutes and I'll phone someone.
Ten more minutes.
Turk finds me ten hours later, and I'm not breathing.
Sometimes, when you're a doctor, you don't know that's wrong with you and because you're a doctor, it's ten times more terrifying because if you don't know, it could be anything. It could be yet another cold or it could be lung cancer.
For me, it's AIDS.
Yeah, I was shocked too.
"You have Progressive multifocal leukoencephalopathy and wasting syndrome caused by HIV infection… you also have evidence of latent candidiasis of your lungs."
"AIDS," I said simply. Because yeah, I know it. I can feel it inside me now, despite all the drugs and the hiss of the respirator beside me. I can feel something eating at my insides.
And not because I'm a doctor. I just know.
--
TBC