A Few Words Can Make All the Difference
This was really something I just felt like writing for a while but never had the motivation to finish until today. Thanks for the encouragement, Bells of Tomorrow, and Chalcedony Rivers! Scrubs is owned by Bill Lawrence.
Seymour Beardfacé sighed as he walked out the doors, his shift finally over. It had been a long day at Sacred Heart Hospital. He'd had to perform 3 appendectomies, two orthopedic surgeries, and had done a valve replacement on 's patient, Mr. Jacobs. He remembered when Perry had been an intern, not as shy and unsure as say, Dr. Murphy or Reid, but certainly not the cynical physician who walked the halls of the hospital these days. All these surgeries had shared one major factor in common: each time the medical attending in charge of the patients treatment had introduced them to him, they had addressed him as "." He had long ago given up the (In his own opinion at this point) futile gesture of shouting "It's Beardfacé damnit!" He was beginning to contemplate shaving his beloved beard and being called "."
He walked through the door to his two bedroom apartment. The other bedroom had belonged to his son, David, who'd left for College in England 2 years ago. He was staying with his grandparent's there but still managed to visit every winter and summer break. He sat down, ate a quick dinner and did his "busywork" as Dr. Turk would say. Afterwards he read some of the latest medical journals, caught and episode of , and went to bed. He groaned when he realized that tomorrow was "macaroni day" in the cafeteria. This meant that Dr. Dorian and would play their usual childish game of throwing pieces of pasta in his beard. He then fell into a dreamless sleep.
The next morning, after arriving at work, he met with Dr. Wen, and discussed the surgeries he was being given that day. There was an 18 year old young woman who needed a tonsillectomy, he was to assist with a particularly complex orthopedic surgery, and was prepping a patient for a blepharoplasty(A surgical modification of the eyelid) the following day. These were all surgeries he had done before and, while some may have thought it insensitive, were run of the mill occurences for someone who'd been a surgeon for as long as him. The fourth and last procedure, however, was the one which caught his eye: He was performing a very experimental neurosurgery on Dr. Sclar's patient, a young man around 21 years of age. After confirming with Dr. Wen, he went to meet with Dr. Sclar to discuss this procedure. Dr. Sclar was in many ways, a good deal like Seymour himself, a bit portly, not the most noticeable face in the hospital, but he was a nice enough guy, and a proficient neurologist.
Seymour made his way to room 142, and asked Dr. Sclar to discuss the patient with him outside the room. "Gary, what merits this young man receiving such an untested procedure?" He asked. "His name is Scott, and he recently developed Expressive Aphasia." Responded Dr. Sclar. "It resulted after the patient suffered a skull fracture, which in turn caused cerebral hemorrhaging. In short, he's lost the ability to properly speak. He can still understand us, but can't respond verbally. This surgery could potentially reverse the aphasia and give him back the ability to talk." Seymour steeled himself and looked into his patients' room. He was a young man, average frame, brown hair, and actually looked a bit like David.
"Hello Scott, I'm Doctor Seymour Beardfacé and I'll be the surgeon operating on you. Do you have any questions about the procedure?" The young man made a writing motion and Dr. Beardfacé asked a nurse to fetch some papers and a pen. Scott held up a paper saying "How likely is this to succeed?" Seymour ran a hand through his beard and said "We're not quite sure. It's a fairly new procedure, but it's your best shot of being cured of the condition. I'll give it my all however, that you can be sure." Scott smiled and wrote "Okay." Seymour then exited the room and got on with his day.
Three surgeries later, as well as a particularly annoying round of "macaroni bear" later, Dr. Beardfacé scrubbed up for his last surgery of the day, Scott. It was dicey, but like he had said earlier, he was going to give it his all. The surgery went better than he could've hoped. There were a few spots of trouble, but in the end he managed to complete it snafu free. He checked the radiology in post-op and was pleasantly surprised to see that it looked like the surgery had managed to go a long way towards curing Scott's aphasia, and while some therapies, it would indeed be cured. After that, he went home and continued with his usual routine, with the occasional phone call to David or interesting case breaking the monotony and the endless chorus of "hey Beardface!"
Finally, 4 weeks later, he felt a hand tap his shoulder when he was eating his lunch. He looked up and standing there was Scott, looking at him with a smile on his face. The brown haired young man opened his mouth, and actually spoke instead of wrote "I just got done with my Melodic therapy a few days ago. It would've taken months but thanks to you, it got cut down to a fraction of the time. I don't know how to thank you, but I did want you to be one of the first people I actually talk to since regaining my voice…I guess I'm trying to say thank you.." Seymour mentally cringed, thinking the seemingly inevatable line of "" was going to come, but instead, Scott said "Thank you Dr. Beardfacé." Seymour was floored. Somebody actually remembered his name. He broke out in a smile and replied "You're very welcome." Scott smiled and went on his merry way. Dr. Beardfacé finished his lunch and continued on with his day, but unlike most days, he had an unusual spring in his step. Truly, it was proof that, for some people, a few words can make all the difference in the world.