Tag line: What would have happened if Abby Lockhart didn't report John
Carter about the drugs? His addictions continued. He never went to rehab.
But someone does find out. (Oh, and Doug came home to Carol, not the other
way around.) Read and see.
Chapter 1: July 12, 2000, 5AM, My apartment (John Carter's Point of View):
My name is Dr. John Truman Carter III, M.D. I am a trauma room doctor at Cook County General Hospital in Chicago. The Windy City. I always thought it was a city of opportunity. CCGH was where I was a med-student. I am thirty years old and have been a doctor here for several years. I remember being a young boy and dreaming of having this career, mainly because of my brother. He died of leukemia when I was only eight years old. But some days, most days now, I wish I had chosen a different career. On Valentines Day this year I was stabbed twice in the back by a patient of my med student, Lucy Knight. The patient's name was Paul Sobriki. It wasn't his fault. He is schizophrenic and in a mental institution now. But he killed Lucy, and destroyed my life. No, that's wrong. I destroyed my own life, and I am the reason Lucy is dead. I neglected to get a psych consult down for Sobriki. And because of that everything has gone to hell. Now I am a thirty-year-old doctor who has chronic back pains and a guilty conscience. I wake up every morning wishing that I were the one who died, not Lucy. Poor Lucy. She was such a bright girl.
I look into the mirror. My eyes are not only sleep-deprived this morning, but sunken as well. I don't look like myself anymore. My eyes are blank, my face is pale, and I look like a skeleton. I can't believe this is me. What's happened?
Pain strikes my back. Just another thing that has gone wrong. I am self- prescribing my medicine now, and that is never something a doctor should do. But I am in so much pain. I have to. People would understand after all that I have been through. I had to learn how to walk again. I still don't have a full range of motion. In the beginning I took the prescribed amounts from my doctor, but it wasn't helping. I needed more. So I got my prescription boosted. But that still wasn't enough. I wrote my own prescriptions. But I made one slip-up. I took the leftover fentynal from a trauma victim and once everyone was gone I injected it into my wrist. And then Nurse Abby Lockhart walked in. What was she doing in there? I think she saw me, but if she did, she never told anyone. So maybe she didn't see it. Please, God, make her not see me. I remember wishing that. It's been a few months since the incident and no one has confronted me of the drug use. Drug use? That makes me sound like a junkie. I am not a junkie. I use the medicine as medicine.not drugs. I use it for my pain, not pleasure. Sometimes I wish it was for pleasure, and that the whole Sobriki incident hadn't happened. But I can't change the past.
Mark Greene is worried about me. I can tell by the looks he gives me. His eyes are so sympathetic, yet at the same time it seems as if he is trying to look into my soul. He kept on pestering me to see someone about the attack. I finally caved. He thinks I have a shrink to talk to. Gamma wanted me to quit form the hospital, but I can't give up.not yet. The nurses are always telling me to smile more. I should probably practice that. I smile into the mirror. I try. Damn I look so fake. No wonder everyone is worried about me. I can't even convince myself that I am okay.
Okay. Now onto the scale. I lost a good amount of weight while I was recuperating from the attack and I have continued to steadily lose weight over the past few months. I guess it's a side effect from the medicine. Plus I haven't been nearly as hungry as I used to be. Before the stabbing I weighed around 185 pounds. And today.I step onto the scale.I weight 150 pounds. I can't lose much more, mainly because I don't have much to lose. But also I think people are noticing. I have been wearing extra layers of clothes to make me look larger than I am. I slip another sweater over my head. Good enough.
Inside the medicine cabinet are the three bottles I need. The first is my antidepressant. Okay, I admit it I am a little depressed. But who wouldn't be after all that I have gone through? I take one of those. Next is my Vicodine. There are only two tablets left. I should only take one, but my back is really hurting today. I take both. I don't think the two tablets will even dent into the pain. So I go onto the third bottle. I study the labels. It is prescription medicine from one of my patients: Ms. Eva Mcyntire. She passed away a couple of days ago and I took her medicine. I am a thief. What's happened to me? No, I am fine. I am the same man I always have been. It is a stronger dosage of Vicodine. I pop two of these into my mouth, and as I am about to leave, I grab the bottle in case I need more later today.
The worst I have ever been was when I used heroin. I know that was wrong. I knew I had a problem then, so I stopped that. I don't want to turn into my cousin, Chase. He is a true junkie. Or should I say he was a true junkie? Now he is a vegetable. He is so severely brain damaged that he needs to live in a nursing home, and it's all because of the heroin. After the heroin, I switched to morphine. It's not as bad. We give it to patients so I am okay with taking it. And I have almost stopped taking that. Only when the pain gets really bad will I take morphine. I can get the morphine in the supply room, but I have to be careful not to take it too often. I stick with the Vicodine and fentynal now.
Chapter 1: July 12, 2000, 5AM, My apartment (John Carter's Point of View):
My name is Dr. John Truman Carter III, M.D. I am a trauma room doctor at Cook County General Hospital in Chicago. The Windy City. I always thought it was a city of opportunity. CCGH was where I was a med-student. I am thirty years old and have been a doctor here for several years. I remember being a young boy and dreaming of having this career, mainly because of my brother. He died of leukemia when I was only eight years old. But some days, most days now, I wish I had chosen a different career. On Valentines Day this year I was stabbed twice in the back by a patient of my med student, Lucy Knight. The patient's name was Paul Sobriki. It wasn't his fault. He is schizophrenic and in a mental institution now. But he killed Lucy, and destroyed my life. No, that's wrong. I destroyed my own life, and I am the reason Lucy is dead. I neglected to get a psych consult down for Sobriki. And because of that everything has gone to hell. Now I am a thirty-year-old doctor who has chronic back pains and a guilty conscience. I wake up every morning wishing that I were the one who died, not Lucy. Poor Lucy. She was such a bright girl.
I look into the mirror. My eyes are not only sleep-deprived this morning, but sunken as well. I don't look like myself anymore. My eyes are blank, my face is pale, and I look like a skeleton. I can't believe this is me. What's happened?
Pain strikes my back. Just another thing that has gone wrong. I am self- prescribing my medicine now, and that is never something a doctor should do. But I am in so much pain. I have to. People would understand after all that I have been through. I had to learn how to walk again. I still don't have a full range of motion. In the beginning I took the prescribed amounts from my doctor, but it wasn't helping. I needed more. So I got my prescription boosted. But that still wasn't enough. I wrote my own prescriptions. But I made one slip-up. I took the leftover fentynal from a trauma victim and once everyone was gone I injected it into my wrist. And then Nurse Abby Lockhart walked in. What was she doing in there? I think she saw me, but if she did, she never told anyone. So maybe she didn't see it. Please, God, make her not see me. I remember wishing that. It's been a few months since the incident and no one has confronted me of the drug use. Drug use? That makes me sound like a junkie. I am not a junkie. I use the medicine as medicine.not drugs. I use it for my pain, not pleasure. Sometimes I wish it was for pleasure, and that the whole Sobriki incident hadn't happened. But I can't change the past.
Mark Greene is worried about me. I can tell by the looks he gives me. His eyes are so sympathetic, yet at the same time it seems as if he is trying to look into my soul. He kept on pestering me to see someone about the attack. I finally caved. He thinks I have a shrink to talk to. Gamma wanted me to quit form the hospital, but I can't give up.not yet. The nurses are always telling me to smile more. I should probably practice that. I smile into the mirror. I try. Damn I look so fake. No wonder everyone is worried about me. I can't even convince myself that I am okay.
Okay. Now onto the scale. I lost a good amount of weight while I was recuperating from the attack and I have continued to steadily lose weight over the past few months. I guess it's a side effect from the medicine. Plus I haven't been nearly as hungry as I used to be. Before the stabbing I weighed around 185 pounds. And today.I step onto the scale.I weight 150 pounds. I can't lose much more, mainly because I don't have much to lose. But also I think people are noticing. I have been wearing extra layers of clothes to make me look larger than I am. I slip another sweater over my head. Good enough.
Inside the medicine cabinet are the three bottles I need. The first is my antidepressant. Okay, I admit it I am a little depressed. But who wouldn't be after all that I have gone through? I take one of those. Next is my Vicodine. There are only two tablets left. I should only take one, but my back is really hurting today. I take both. I don't think the two tablets will even dent into the pain. So I go onto the third bottle. I study the labels. It is prescription medicine from one of my patients: Ms. Eva Mcyntire. She passed away a couple of days ago and I took her medicine. I am a thief. What's happened to me? No, I am fine. I am the same man I always have been. It is a stronger dosage of Vicodine. I pop two of these into my mouth, and as I am about to leave, I grab the bottle in case I need more later today.
The worst I have ever been was when I used heroin. I know that was wrong. I knew I had a problem then, so I stopped that. I don't want to turn into my cousin, Chase. He is a true junkie. Or should I say he was a true junkie? Now he is a vegetable. He is so severely brain damaged that he needs to live in a nursing home, and it's all because of the heroin. After the heroin, I switched to morphine. It's not as bad. We give it to patients so I am okay with taking it. And I have almost stopped taking that. Only when the pain gets really bad will I take morphine. I can get the morphine in the supply room, but I have to be careful not to take it too often. I stick with the Vicodine and fentynal now.