The morning began clear, bright, and far too early. BJ left his house in a fog, driving to the hospital on autopilot with a thermos of coffee perched on the stack of folders that lived on the passenger's seat. He made his rounds in ICU with a quiet efficiency, choosing to talk as little as possible, thankful for the uneventfulness of the previous night. Meetings with the other trauma surgeons were short and sweet; the only new patients from the night before were two men who had gotten into a drunken fight, and a little girl who needed her appendix taken out. Talking around yawns, he discussed patient progress with his team on the upper floor, moving between rooms with increasing relief as he completed his rounds.
Finally, once every patient was consulted and accounted for, he headed to the break room for a cup of the muddy hospital coffee, thankful for the lack of scheduled surgeries. Two nurses, chatting over a shared sleeve of crackers, stopped their conversation to let him know the coffee machine was broken, and he settled for a glass of water. As he settled onto the break room's overstuffed couch, the man settled on its far corner folded down the top of his newspaper, white-bearded face split in a wide grin.
"Morning, Hunnicutt; nice to see you back," he said, and folded his newspaper to tuck under one folded knee.
Smiling, BJ set down his glass on the coffee table to lean over and shake the other doctor's hand. "Happy to be back, Dr. Thur."
"Everything okay at home?" asked Thur, carefully polite when referencing BJ's week-long, mostly unexplained departure from the hospital to help Hawkeye get settled. To BJ, the week had not been nearly enough, but he had already been receiving panicked phone calls from the staff barely two days into his hiatus, and the pressure to return was too great.
He took a moment to think before answering, a million excuses running through his head. "A little rough," he finally answered, choosing to dodge a more detailed answer.
"Family trouble?" said Thur, and sighed at BJ's silence. "Hunnicutt, I consider us friends. Now, I chose not to ask questions about your absence from the beginning, but you've got bags under your eyes big enough to pack an elephant in, and I've never seen you anything but clean shaven. Maybe you're having an off day, maybe not, but something just doesn't seem right to me."
BJ grimaced and ran a hand along the stubble peppering his jaw, surprised at his carelessness. "Well don't spare my feelings," he joked, feigning embarrassment. A frown from the other man stopped his next line in its tracks, and he sighed, looking at his knees. "It's nothing big, really."
"If it's nothing big, then you wouldn't have taken time off," said Thur, a gentle tone belying his concern.
"It - it was just a family emergency," he said with a helpless shrug. He didn't feel comfortable mentioning Hawkeye, much less the man's night terrors that had been keeping the rest of the family awake. "We're just trying to get settled."
"Hunnicutt," said Thur, then softened. "BJ. I'd like to know if there's something I can do to help. If things at home still aren't going well, then I can give you the time you need to get things taken care of. But I can't help you unless you talk to me about it."
BJ frowned, resentment stirring in his stomach. "We, are fine. I took my time off, and that's all I need. I'm back now, don't worry about it."
"I'm not trying to make you feel like a charity case," Thur began, "It's just that you -"
"It's not me that needs the help!" snapped BJ, and regretted it instantly. He rose from the couch, letting out a sharp breath, and backed towards the door. "I didn't have a good night's sleep, and I let it affect me, that's all. It's not like I'm falling apart or something."
Thur stood, one hand held out to the younger doctor in a gesture of appeal. "It certainly wasn't my intention to offend you," he said. "If I overstepped my boundaries, then I apologize."
"Well," said BJ, still too stirred up to be as contrite as he should have. "That's alright, just let me know next time if my shirt's too wrinkled or my hair isn't combed straight. Might be a sign of emotional distress that I didn't know about."
Abandoning his glass of water, he marched out of the break room and in the direction of his office, avoiding the shocked gaze of the two nurses, ignoring their crackers in favor of his tantrum. Mentally kicking himself, but still too angry to go back and apologize for his behavior, BJ stomped through the halls and back to his office. He barely had a minute to sit down and relax before a nurse stepped in.
"Dr. Hunnicutt?"
He didn't bother to raise his head and looked at her feet instead, where he was arrested by a bright, fresh drop of blood resting on the toe of her white shoe. "What's happened?" he demanded, pushing back his chair.
"There's been a car accident," she reported, matching his pace as he hurried to the OR, dropping his watch into the pocket of his lab coat as he went. "White male, mid twenties, caught in the stomach by shrapnel from the wreckage."
"Any passengers?"
"He was the passenger; the driver is fine, superficial cuts that were treated in the ambulance."
As BJ scrubbed in preparation for the surgery, he was joined at the sink by one of their new techs, a young man who he dimly recalled as being named Erickson. He looked nervous, hands shaking as he poured too much soap into his palms.
Erickson caught his eye as he tied on his face mask and shrugged. "I've never done an emergency surgery like this before," he admitted. "Just scheduled stuff."
"Well then you're lucky you're not actually performing the surgery," said BJ, fighting back annoyance as he rushed into the OR. It wasn't his job to reassure nervous techs who never did more than push a broom through the leftover mess of surgery.
The man lying on the table was pale as a sheet, a mess of blood and exposed organs leaking out of his stomach like an unraveled sweater, and as weak as he was, he was still fighting. One hand was clutching the ruins of his stomach, the other was pushing the anesthesiologist's hand away from his face, fighting against the mask.
"Get the hell off me!" he shrieked at her, and managed to smack the mask out of her hand. It went clattering to the floor and was promptly grabbed by a tech, who fit the hose with a sanitary replacement, and handed it back to the anesthesiologist. A nurse stepped in, attempting to restrain the man, hands flying to stop him from hurting himself any more than the car wreck already did.
Without stopping to ask questions, BJ ran to the table and pulled the nurse away by the shoulder, being as gentle as he could under the circumstances. "Step back, Gina, you're making it worse," he told her.
"I don't know what to do!"
"I do," he said, and shooed the other tech away. The man on the table was still crying out, both from pain and fear, gulping huge breaths of air and reaching out for something only he could see. It was painfully familiar for BJ; the last time he had seen this behavior was just last night, during one of Hawkeye's increasingly regular night terrors. He learned early on that touch was a cause for panic rather than comfort, and he stepped back a pace to give the patient room.
"Calm down, we're doctors," he said to the patient, who whipped his head around to fix him with a wild stare. "We're not here to hurt you."
"His name is Robert," whispered Gina from behind him.
"Okay, Robert?" said BJ, and the man seemed distracted momentarily from his fear by the sound of his name. "Robert. Good. We're here to help you. The mask is to give you anesthesia so we can treat your wound." Robert seemed to quiet, head sinking back.
BJ made the mistake of stepping forward, and Robert began to thrash again, trying to get up from the table and bleeding everywhere at the same time. "He's gonna kill himself if he keeps this up, get a sedative!" BJ shouted to the nurse, jumping forward to catch the patient from rolling off the table.
Shouting, Robert fought against him, cursing as BJ wrestled him back onto the table. "Get off me! Get off me, my buddy's still outside, I wanna see him first, dammit! You're not knocking me out!"
A door slammed and Erickson raced in, clutching a hypodermic wrapped in gauze. "I've got the sedative!" he cried, passing it to BJ.
Ripping off the sleeve of the man's tattered shirt, ignoring the bulky scissors standing by for such a procedure, BJ plunged the needle as accurately as he could into his bicep, and depressed the plunger.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" cried Robert, his movements already slowed by the sedative effects. "Who's the CO around here?"
"Colonel Potter," BJ answered without thinking, the answer springing to his lips as readily as the answer for what color the sky was. Behind him, a group of techs, assistants, and nurses stood by, waiting for him to give them the okay to finish prepping the patient, but he felt frozen in place. Like cold water filling his shoes, memories of a different OR came flooding back from behind the dams he'd built to keep them out, and he blinked hard, trying to force himself to focus on the present. The man's eyelids fluttered, and his rigid, unyielding body went soft in BJ's hands.
"Okay," said BJ, voice hoarse. "Okay. Let's get started." Ignoring the slight trembling of his hands, he discarded the used needle and stepped over to a nurse to reglove, cautious of the filthy shirt he had been handling moments before.
As he stepped back to the patient, whose face was now mercifully hidden behind a surgical screen, Gina positioned the equipment cart near his right hip, where he preferred it. The patient was now quiet and anonymous, except for a small tattoo on his right forearm. As the initial incisions were made, he found himself catching glimpses of it in his peripheral vision; an anchor, wrapped in a banner printed with the letters 'USN'.
The clatter of the instruments was magnified by the deathly silence in the OR, and even the most talkative of the staff members seemed drawn and pale, shaken by the patient's outburst. As he worked, he tried to ignore the searching eyes of Gina, one of the few staff members he had grown close with over the last few years. She couldn't know what was bothering him; he had chosen not to talk about his service in Korea, preferring to forget and try to move on. Avoiding her gaze, he began to repair a torn section of intestine, removing fragments of metal and glass that a mere thirty minutes ago, had been a solid piece of car.
A shard of glass dropped into a metal, kidney-shaped pan with a familiar clink, and he cringed at the sound.
"Doctor?" said Gina, her gentle voice like a gunshot in the utter silence.
The organs and muscles in front of him, normally so familiar and orderly in their own, chaotic way, seemed to writhe before his eyes, and he nearly dropped the clamp he was trying to fasten onto an artery. Gina, sensing his distress, took it from him and performed the action herself.
"Thank you, Baker," he murmured.
"My last name is Hampton, sir," she said, her eyes anxious above her white mask.
"Yes, of course it is."
BJ swallowed and struggled to push down his rising sense of dread, and realized he was gripping the edge of the table with his left hand, smearing the cold steel with blood. "I - I need suction here, nurse," he said, looking down at a well of blood growing in his patient's foregut.
As the blood was siphoned away, he was visited by a feeling of panic that he had not experienced since his early days at the MASH. He had rarely lost his cool then, but on one of the few occasions he had, Colonel Potter had stepped in and guided him, a calm voice guiding his actions with gentle surety. Now, as his stomach turned and knotted, he wished desperately for the man to appear at his side, the one constant source of comfort in the middle of one big discomfort.
"Retraction," he ordered, unable to disguise the quaver in his voice. The edges of the room were fading into darkness, the only bright spot that remained was the patient's open gut, illuminated by the hot white lamps. Was this how Hawkeye felt in the depths of his nightmares?
"Doctor," asked an assistant, brow drawn, "Are you able to finish the operation?"
"I'm fine," he barked, tossing a saturated sponge over his shoulder. His stomach was swimming, his breath was coming in short bursts, but he'd be damned if he couldn't pull through for the patient. Unbidden, a memory of Frank leapt to his mind; panicking, obstinately refusing help, and unable to help his patient. But Hawkeye couldn't step in for him now, and Potter wasn't there to relay instructions from across the room.
A wave of terror crashed over him, leaving him reeling, and he stumbled back from the table, dropping his forceps. They fell to the floor, leaving a splatter of blood where they landed. Immediately, the assistants crowded around the table, picking up where he left off, packing the area off with gauze before the carefully manipulated tissue could slip back into place.
"Doctor!" called Gina, "Dr. Hunnicutt!"
BJ said nothing and stood, trembling, unable to move.
"Get Dr. Stoddard in here, now!"
Unable to protest or even make an excuse, BJ was escorted out of the room by a nurse and left to sit in an empty waiting room. Feeling helpless, he sat with his arms folded tightly against his chest, trying and failing to calm himself. Eventually, the same nurse reentered the room with a blanket and a mug of coffee, a sympathetic expression fixed on her face. He accepted the coffee and refused the blanket, ignoring her requests for details of his condition. She held out an unfolded paper napkin, and after a moment of confusion, he realized what she wanted and dropped his bloodied gloves into the napkin. When she finally left, carrying his surgical gown and wrapped gloves, he sat in silence, staring at a white placard on the receptionists desk without reading the words.
"Dr. Hunnicutt to see Dr. Thur. Dr. Hunnicutt to see Dr. Thur," said a voice over the PA, and he startled, slopping coffee over the rim of his mug.
Apprehensive of what was to come, he left his mug behind on top of a magazine, and made the long, winding trip down to Thur's office on the first floor. He hesitated outside the door, taking a moment to catch his breath before entering the room.
The chief of surgery sat behind a stack of paperwork that alway seemed the same, towering height whenever BJ saw it, regardless of how much time was spent chiseling away at it. A gooseneck lamp shed light on a silver-framed photo of a younger Thur and his family, and taking up the center of his desk was a sleek typewriter, always prepared with a sheet of paper fed into the carriage. As BJ entered, hands deep in his pockets like a scolded child, Thur glanced up from his work, raising a pair of hoary eyebrows.
"Welcome, Hunnicutt," he said. "Please, have a seat." He waited for BJ to settle himself before continuing, broad hands folded in front of his chest. "I've been informed that there was an incident today during surgery."
"Yes sir, and I apologize, there's no ex -"
"And I understand that this took place immediately following our conversation in the break room," said Thur, overriding his apology. "Hunnicutt, I expressed concern for you today. You seemed tired and out of sorts, but you very firmly insisted that everything was fine, and now I find out that you panicked during surgery, and had to be covered by Dr. Stoddard."
He said nothing and stared at the nameplate on Thur's desk, face hot with shame.
"The patient is taken care of and resting quietly in post-op; your mistake did not cost him his life."
"Thank God," said BJ, voice hoarse.
"Accountability is vitally important in the medical world," said Thur, his face grim. "We, of all people, should know that we hold ourselves to the highest standards. You do understand, that if you are unwell or incapable of operating, that you are required to inform the rest of staff so that accommodations can be made. We cannot risk the lives of our patients."
"I understand."
"Do you?" demanded Thur, eyebrows meeting in a scowl. "Because based on your behavior today, I don't think you do."
BJ flushed red. "I'm terribly, terribly sorry sir. There's no excuse for my behavior."
The older man seemed to lose some of his fire and sat back, regarding BJ. "I know. That's why it worries me so much. Are you willing to tell me the truth now about what's been going on with you?"
"I'm afraid I don't understand," said BJ, attempting to sidestep the question.
"If you cannot provide justification for your behavior today," said Thur, his voice calm despite the threat in his words, "Then I'll be forced to believe that your actions were born out of malicious disregard for your patient's health."
The air seemed to go out of the room. "That isn't true," said BJ, trying not to shrink into his chair. Thur had never spoken to him in such a way before. "I want to explain… I just don't feel like I can."
Thur raised an eyebrow. "You started working here five years ago. When you started, you were thin, quiet, and jumpy. Since then, you've rounded out some and made a few friends. Not many, but a few. Everything was fine up until today, when a veteran came in, hysterical, and asked for your commanding officer. Now I don't need you to tell me what I already know, but it'd sure be nice not to have to read between the lines."
Feeling humiliated and defeated, he laced his fingers together and squeezed, trying to release some of the pressure he was feeling. Thur waited, impassive. "My CO was a man called Sherman Potter, regular army," said BJ, barely loud enough to be heard over the hum of the traffic outside. "He's a good man, like a second father to me. I haven't thought about him in five years. I didn't want to. Then, this past week, a friend came to stay with us, and…"
Thur nodded. "This friend, was he or she the reason you took off work?"
"Yes," he said, surprising himself with the truth. "His father died, and I didn't feel comfortable leaving him to live on his own. We're not entirely sure yet, but I think he'll be staying with us permanently."
"And is he a veteran as well?"
"Yes."
"I imagine he brought a lot of bad memories with him. That's very kind of you to help him out," said Thur, and withdrew a form from the pile of papers on his desk. "I take it this visit hasn't been very relaxing?"
"Not very," admitted BJ, watching as Thur began to fill out the form in a steady hand. "Nobody's been getting very much sleep. I hoped it would sort itself out within a week, but I can see now that was a foolish hope."
Thur leaned over the desk to pass him a pen, which BJ accepted with confusion. "I won't ask questions you're uncomfortable answering," he said. "That won't help anything. But I can't allow you to come in tomorrow in this sort of state. I'd like you to take another week off, and consider seeking some form of therapy or psychiatric help in the meantime." He slid the form across the desk, which BJ recognized as a paid time off form.
"Excuse me?" he protested, rising from his chair. "I don't need psychiatric help."
"Your flare-up today says you do," Thur said, gruff and commanding. "I'm not saying I won't accept you back without it, but I strongly recommend it. If you like, I can put you in contact with a psychiatrist who deals specifically with cases like yours."
BJ stared at him, open-mouthed, and let out an incredulous laugh. "You've got to be joking," he said, knowing full well the other doctor was not. "I've got a wife, two children, and a man who's falling apart at the seams to take care of. The company clerk got a new apartment and left me holding the bag. The lawn needs mowing, our bathroom sink is leaking, and our neighbor keeps leaving his bins in our driveway. I don't need a psychiatrist, I need a nanny and a janitor."
"Take the time off anyway," said Thur, tapping a finger towards the line where BJ should sign. "At least for the sake of your patients. They don't need a stressed out, unstable doctor."
Chagrined, BJ bent down and signed the paper. There was a tense, silent pause while he capped the pen and handed it back to Thur, who accepted it with a mixture of resolve and regret. They looked at each other, BJ trying to hold back from pleading for a second chance, Thur using the firmly sympathetic expression he so often employed when telling his patients a piece of tough news. Finally, BJ nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and left to go pack up for the trip home, angry tears smarting in his eyes.
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