Rational Decision

by robspace54

"What's it all mean?" Roger Fenn looked at me across my desk, his eyes slightly weepy.

I sighed.

"Oh, you've never asked yourself that?"

I rolled my eyes. "No." I bent my head back down to the patient notes. "Your scans look good." I rolled my chair to him and prodded his neck. "And the scar has healed well."

Roger sat there stoically as I poked at the region where the surgeon had removed the suspicious lump on his vocal chords.

"About done?"

"No." The tissue edges were closely matched. "Good stitching technique. My compliments to Dr. Foster."

Roger smiled. "No worries, then?"

I wheeled back behind the desk and jotted my observations, merely bobbing my head.

Roger tapped his fingers o the desk in some sort of rhythm. "The boys are doing fine."

I nodded. "Alright."

"Maureen says you took particular care with them last week."

I grunted. "Tonsillitis. Common in small children."

"Yeah, well, Portwenn does keep coming up with diseases for you to treat. They'd had really nasty colds…"

"Anything else?" I interrupted grumpily, which was my usual state, of late.

Roger's tapping fingers stopped. "Martin, have you?" he hesitated, his mouth open.

I stared at him for I knew what he was to say.

"What?" I asked in more than my normal irritation.

"Have you heard from Louisa?" He smiled encouragingly. "You could call her, you know."

"That is NONE of your business," I bristled. "What is it with YOU PEOPLE? Bert Large was just in here yammering on about the same thing. Yes, I know Louisa is in London. That's that! End of story!"

Roger sat there deflated. "You people? Is that all you think of us, mate? You people?"

I exhaled through my nose, but kept my lips tight and face expressionless. "Look…"

"No, Martin," Roger leaned forward, "you look! We've known Louisa Glasson for a very long time and even though the woman ended up with my job…"

"A job you didn't care to fight for, after the fact."

He crossed his arms. "That's not the point, now is it? I'm happy enough, with Maureen and the twins and I do music tutoring, and play in the pub once in a while. And I've been writing songs once more. Seems I've found my muse."

I rolled my eyes for it was his private tutoring of Maureen Stacey that landed him as the father of twins. "Squalling babies and pablum seems a strange source of inspiration to me."

Roger ignored me and went on. "Martin, we… we… well, hell, we bloody well care about Louisa, and you too, no matter how much you try to act so damn remote and distant! Martin… you were right there - right, bloody there - this close," he held up pinched fingers, "to marrying the girl and she calls it off."

I felt blood rise to my face. "I… I've told you that we both decided - oh what is the damn use? None of your business!" I capped my pen and set it firmly on my desk. "If there's nothing else - of a medical nature - then go!"

Roger rocked backwards. "I… well, there might be."

I rolled my eyes as I glanced at the clock. I was running well behind this morning and the nattering did not help. "Get to the point."

"Maureen and I were talking, well, she was talking, and we wondered, if…"

"If?"

"Do you think that trying to have another baby would be wise?"

"Roger! Maureen is now fifty two years old. The odds of having a genetically damaged child drastically rises with age. This far over forty; would be especially risky, and you are also no spring chicken. Although males retain fertility longer than females, sperm can be defective, with the age of the father."

Roger nodded and bit his lip. "It was just talk. Pillow talk, you know." He stood. "Thanks mate. That's essentially what I told her."

"There is a specialist in Truro that I could send you to, but consider the risks Roger. I'd not advise it, but it's your choice." I looked hard at him. "Is that all?"

He stood and went to the door. "Thanks mate."

"Have Pauline send in the next patient."

He got to the door, stopped and came back. "Martin."

"Next patient!"

"Martin. This is not about being rational…

"Rational? Rational? Seems to me there is not much that is rational about two fifty-year olds wanting to add to the population of the planet AND run the risk of having…"

Roger held up his hands. "Martin," he leaned on my desk, "having babies - there's really not much rational about the decision. If you and Louisa had…"

"Stop." I sprang up. "Right there, Roger. If we had gotten married, and if Louisa wanted children, then I would have as well. But we did not get married, so that's that."

Roger looked grim. "I'm only saying that when you love someone, erh, you do still love her right?"

I curled my lip and turned away before, I hoped, he saw my expression. "Please leave."

"Martin, I'm only trying to…"

I ignored him, went to the window and peered into the garden, such as it was. Louisa had spoken about planting flowers back there. Every muscle in my body felt rigid and a pounding headache began. I sensed Roger standing stock still at the corner of my desk. Flowers, I thought; lovely little flowers, the type that attracts butterflies. That would be… fine. The barren hillside and the cracked wall and pavers mocked that plan. Damn.

The floorboards creaked and Roger crept to my side. "Mate, I am sorry." His floppy hair fell over his face and he stroked it back. "I'm sure that…"

"Sure," I turned a quizzical eye at him. "How in the hell, Roger can you be sure about anything? Hmm? In Portwenn?" I took a calming breath. "This is not what I wanted, you know."

"I'm sure you'd rather be elsewhere." He patted my arm and turned to go.

I heard his feet retreat across the creaky floor. "You know what I really want?" I peered at him, where he'd stopped by the door.

"To be in surgery?" he asked.

Surgery. Yes back in the OR. Digging into arteries and veins, rerouting blocked vessels, repairing organs that would otherwise fail in a few weeks of months, if not days. Gloved and gowned, the doctors in training slapping surgical instruments into my hand as I needed them. The Midas Touch at work, not peering at pussy tonsils, athlete's feet fungus, and ear infections in this backwater.

I took a deep breath and just then my vaso-vagal response kicked in and I was fighting to keep vomit from flooding into my mouth, while my heart skipped a beat, perspiration gushed from my skin, and the room spun.

"Martin?" His hand steadied me as I sat down heavily in my desk chair.

I blew overheated air out and the world steadied down.

Roger handed me a cup of water and looked at me gravely. "Okay?"

I could only nod.

Roger wrinkled his nose. "Sorry about the - thing. I shouldn't have mentioned it. Better now?"

"Yeah."

"Hell of a handicap, for a doctor."

"Yeah… it is."

Roger Fenn licked his lips. "You need a drink."

I finished the water. "Just had one."

Roger bit his lips and grinned. "Well, carry on. I'll just go then."

The door opened and Pauline yelled at me. "Ready for the next one Doc?"

I shook my head and Roger went through pulling the door closed behind him. I heard him tell Pauline that I needed a minute.

I sat there, as the sweat dried on my clothing and skin. Roger mentioned a rational decision. Had Louisa and I been rational when we decided not to get married? I shook my head. It was - it had to be.

Roger's question needled me. Children at their age? Well, parenthood had been forced on them. Seems an easy enough thing to prevent, if you didn't want children.

That was one thing that Louis and I had not discussed. She was thirty-seven and I'd just turned forty, so the clock was ticking if we had… wanted to reproduce.

I sat at my desk, while visions of Louisa flooded my head. God. I tried to push them away, and only with effort could I recover my composure and focus. I stood, tugged at my suit coat and took a deep cleansing breath. "Rational decision, sure."

"Next patient," I bellowed and the next patient, Mrs. Dibble or Gibble, came in dragging her three snot-nosed children, all under eight. "God," I hissed under my breath.

The woman started nattering on about coughs and sneezes, punctuated by those every actions from her brood.

Rational decision, my eye! But while my patients showered me with airborne pathogens, I wondered if Louisa had wanted children?

Mrs. Gibble muttered on, while I glanced at my mobile, sitting on my desk. I could call Louisa. I could right now, I… should… My hand strayed in that direction.

"Doc? Doc Martin? Are you listening to me?" the woman screeched while her kids hacked and coughed.

I drew my attention away from my ex-fiancée and the hypothetical children which we would not have. "Yeah, go on."

The End

Doc Martin is the property of Buffalo Productions. I claim no ownership of the TV production and this story is strictly for personal enjoyment.