I swore to myself sometime long ago that I would never become my father. I promised that I would never find myself in a loveless relationship with a woman that was becoming more of a stranger every day. I thought I would become 'well adjusted.' I made all these promises sometime before stabbings, Africa, still born babies, and kidney transplants. That was nearly another lifetime. It pains me to think that I've done the exact opposite and become the exact opposite of everything I wanted.
The amount I am able to work is strictly dictated by my kidney function and the amount of immunosuppression my body is requiring to keep my kidney. It's made my hands idle as of late. I spend far more time in the offices of doctors than I ever anticipated. They treat me as if I'm no longer a doctor myself. In many ways, I haven't been a doctor in so long that I forget the last time I introduced myself as Dr. Carter. I normally introduce myself as John Carter, head of a family business that I never wanted to be associated with.
My wife . . . oh, my wife. I haven't heard from her in months. I'm assuming that she's somewhere in Africa or back in Paris with her family. We haven't had much of a relationship since Joshua died. She's a stranger that occasionally calls to inquire as to if I'm still alive. Kem occasionally finds herself in my home to make an appearance for investors. She finds her way to a hotel shortly after because if my sperm made contact with her body, it might just be the end of the world.
My life revolved around that emergency room. Now I watch people that I don't even know clock in for shifts. It makes me long for the days when my biggest concern was staying the hell out of Benton's way when he was pissed. Those days are so far gone. Peter is a surgeon in some high class practice in the Gold Coast, Kerry is somewhere, Mark is dead, and the leadership of the hospital has turned over so much I that I don't know who my boss is anymore.
I've watched them all leave me. It's either been by choice or by death. I still hate the curtain areas. I can still see the puddle of blood no matter how much bleach housekeeping uses on the floor. I see their random faces on the street. I'd like to think that it's more than a hallucination, but that would be just confirming that my mental balance is teetering at best. I see them on the table in my trauma room. Faceless Lucys and Marks. It's as though I'm being haunted.
I've always wondered when it will be me on that gurney. I've managed to survive being stabbed, drug addicted, and in kidney failure. I reason that my luck is going to run out at some point. I wonder how I'll die. I'm pained to think that I could be brought into County. Little Rachel Greene could be the one treating me, looking at me with pity in her eyes. Sometimes, I think that I might just be too tough to die.
I miss Luka. He's probably the last person that I would ever dream of missing, but I miss him all the same. I think about Africa. I think about all those nights we spent talking while getting drunk by a fire of brush, sticks and used medical equipment. He knew my demons. I knew his. He keeps in touch by email. Apparently, keeping Abby sober is more of a full time job than he ever intended. I'm amazed that he can do that and raise Joseph to be a normal, well-adjusted child.
I long for someone to come into my life and make this all better. Kem has not-so-subtly suggested that I date. I've asked her to come home. Her only compromise is that we divorce, but I cannot bring myself to sign the papers. I'm still holding onto the hope that my wife will come back and the part of her that was lost will be revived. I live in the same damn fantasy world that my father does. It's a morbid club that we have; meeting on the holidays and making the same cryptic conversation about how much we hate our lives.
Everything I did . . . it was never enough.