Chapter 2

Being a doctor in a waiting room is mind-splitting.

It's like having one foot on each side of a broken window while a sharp piece of glass is still suspended right above your head. It would be much easier - safer - if I were either totally on the patient's side or the staff's side. But that is not my choice. It's nobody's choice. It's life. And like Dad would say, a perfect example of something outside of my circle of influence that I have no control over whatsoever. Best not to dwell on it, then.

And that is exactly the problem.

We doctors like being in control. We like it when things are inside our circle of influence where we have power to help and heal our patients.

Stuck in this waiting room, the only thing that remains under my control is whether or not I stay sitting on a plastic chair. And even that isn't definite; my sympathetic nervous system is attempting a coup d'État on my legs.

That's stress hormones for you: adrenaline and norepinephrine. Once this cocktail of speedsters is unleashed, rest doesn't come easy for anyone, even doctors. Not in a surgical waiting room anyway. This place is dangerous for anyone's mental health.

Time ticks by, slowly, so very slowly. Each second without news drops heavier than the one before and makes it more difficult to stay in that chair.

Before we left Earth, and before the Resolute was attacked, I was only at the hospital for thirty-nine weeks, but in that time I saw more people in this situation than I dare to count.

Some are alone, left to deal with their thoughts and emotions. Definitely not an enviable position.

Some are surrounded by family or friends or acquaintances, like me.

After helping to transport my father, Hapgood left to keep vigil with the drill worker's sister (her brother is in critical condition), but Victor, Prisha, Angela, and Don all decided to stay.

A part of me thinks they're here because they're genuinely worried for Dad; the other fears they're here only for me in case he doesn't make it. And paradoxically, if their presence makes me feel supported, it also exacerbates my loneliness, because unlike them, I have a clear idea of what is going on on the other side of the door they're all staring at.

Not in my circle of influence anymore. I'm a patient's family now, and patient's families wait in waiting rooms.

I've seen people running through the corridors and skid to a halt right here, panting, eyes darting in all directions.

That happens with unexpected, serious conditions and accidents, like a heart attack or a drill collapse. Caught by surprise in the middle of their ordinary day, they rush, like the drill worker's sister this morning, to the first nurse station or to ambush the first staff member that crosses their path, and ask the only question that occupies all their thoughts: where is my brother, my sister, my father, husband, wife, daughter or son... my friend?

So many my's, so many connections threatening to break, to dissolve into chaos.

Entropy at work, as my first year thermodynamics teacher would say.

Unless it is genetics. Biochemistry or psychology... that's a fact anyway that we humans are poorly equipped to deal with the level of uncertainty, fear, and stress that reigns in a hospital waiting room.

That's because waiting rooms didn't exist when Homo sapiens sapiens evolved, so our brain isn't wired to understand the subtlety of the situation.

What your brain knows is that you're scared and you don't feel safe.

So your body, this well-oiled machinery that has insured the survival of the human race so far, prepares for a potential need to escape by putting charcoal in the stove and lighting it up. A few minutes after the initial cocktail of adrenaline and norepinephrine, a third stress hormone joins the party. It's cortisol's job to keep you on your feet and to do so, it shuts down all other consuming-energy functions that are not critical to the moment, like digestion, the immune system, and the libido, while rising the concentration of blood sugar to keep the fire burning and your legs ready to run if you ever need them to.

Unfortunately, running in a waiting room is not appropriate behavior. Unless you're a child, you know that. And stop staring at that door. You can't open it because it's staff only.

Since I'm both, I guess I could, theoretically. But I won't do it because I know better than to get in the way of the people who are trying to save my father.

So like the others, I force myself to sit down and wait.

Save for Don who lost control over his legs.

Here he goes again: check the time, glance at the door, sigh, bite his nails, shove his hands into his pockets, then resume pacing back and forth.

When he passes in front of her, Angela briefly raises her eyes but again doesn't say a word.

So Victor glances at his wife, who in turn says: "Please, Don, sit down. Watching you makes me dizzy."

"Sorry," Don replies as he collapses on the chair next to me with an audible sigh of frustration and exhaustion. Then he realizes that I'm looking at him and feels embarrassed by his totally normal behaviour. He tries to make it up with an attempt to reassure me, which I sincerely appreciate.

"Your dad's going to be fine, don't worry. He's the most solid guy I've ever met, right?"

"Right," I reply again absently.

"It's incredible what you did to save him. Running across the desert–"

"Was stupid!" I shoot back to Don. All eyes – save Angela's – turn toward me. "I'm sorry," I say before checking on Angela whose silence worries me more and more.

Waiting here is too stressful. It reminds her of her husband's death. And her sudden muteness is her body remembering the catatonic state she experienced in the aftermath of the robot's violent attack. I just hope that she isn't going to have a relapse.

Angela is a stronger woman than she seems. As the geologist in charge of the drilling project, directing Hapgood and his men, she's used to making decisions in an all-male work environment.

When I arrived at the site earlier, I overheard my father telling her that it would be nice to have someone he knew have his back. I didn't understand why he was saying that to her instead of "Good morning, nice to see you. How are you doing?" Was he worried about something? Or was he just trying to show her that he didn't hold a grudge against her after she fired shots at the robot in our Jupiter and almost got him killed? Maybe a subtle way to say that she owed him one? If it was, it worked.

She'd had his back, just as he said.

While I was running across the desert, she was talking with him, keeping him awake and distracted while he waited to be rescued. And when she feared he wouldn't hold on much longer, she'd called Victor for help and hadn't taken no for an answer.

She doesn't look strong right now.

Maybe she's just exhausted. I am too. It's been a long and hard day.

I hope she has been checked for PTSD during those last seven months like I requested on her medical file.

I roll my head right and left to ease a bit of the tension in my neck and shoulders then check the time on my wrist-computer.

It is 2:15 EH – extra-hours or like Don says, 2:15 TZ – twilight zone.

The red planet, or Mars 2, as many people call it here, has a twenty-eight hour rotation. So it was decided to keep a 24h format and squeeze the 4 extra-hours between 23:59:59 and midnight. That way, we are synchronized with the folks on the Resolute for whom these extra hours don't exist.

What happens to people who die during that non-existing time? Do they fall into an administrative no-man's land, their death never correctly registered? Can a surgeon even officially call a TOD? Dad better not die now because I don't want to find out the answers to these absurd questions. No, thank you.

He always told me to accept the unexpected. When things go wrong, don't stand and complain; assess your options, he'd say. Above all, don't forget to breathe. A deep breath goes a long way to relax your body. Have control over your mind: don't let distressing thoughts pick you but pick your thoughts. Focus on your task. Stay calm. A thought is just a thought. Let it in then let it go. Talk to a friend. Engage in an activity. Go for a run. Open a good book. Play a game. Listen to music. Keep busy. Stay positive. Shitty days happen. That's just life.

I've tried breathing in deeply, holding my breath for five seconds, then exhaling slowly. It works for a bit, but the relaxation effect doesn't last because the source of my stress still exists and I can't ignore it. Not in a hospital waiting room.

Don is already back on his feet, ready to ambush the nurse or doctor who will come through the door.

Prisha doesn't say anything this time. They're all silent, lost in their thoughts.

None of them need to speak anyway. I know the questions going through their minds: what's taking so long? Why don't we have any news? Don't the nurses and doctors see I'm dying here? (That one is Don's.)

And I know the answers too: they're not coming because the doctors and the nurses are busy saving your loved one. They don't have time for you right now. And no, you're not dying, you're just anxious. And that's okay, that's normal, that's expected. Yes, we do understand it's stressful to wait. That's why we put magazines on the table. That's why the prints on the walls are designed to inspire peace and relaxation. That's why we put boards next to the doors that give all kinds of information: what to do in case of emergency; simple memo-technic methods to recognize and provide first aid in case of AVC or stroke. It's so you can keep your mind busy while you wait through this unpleasant moment.

Unfortunately, like the Jupiter's atmosphere, a field hospital waiting room is usually devoid of any distraction. It's not even a room, more of an improvised waiting area in a corridor. A row of six plastic chairs facing a row of shelves packed with supplies and equipment inside the tent connecting the level-2 zone for relative emergencies to the level-1 zone dedicated to extreme emergencies. There are no magazines, no art on the walls, not even a coffee machine. Which leaves me with Prisha, Victor, Don, Angela, their thoughts, and mine. The space feels cramped.

3:00 EH/TZ.

Dad has been on the table for three hours and thirty minutes now, almost the length of time it took the drill workers to pull him out of the well.

It means that his heart is still beating but either a., he's still unstable, or b., Dr. Luna is still busy repairing all the internal damage. The rod probably pierced his intestines. A tear in his descending colon would certainly explain why his fever spiked so high, so fast. Maybe it went through his bladder, depending on the penetration angle. Or it may have severed the left ureter. All that would take time to patch. Or there's option c. - and I'm starting to think this is the case - he's still unstable and Dr. Luna is still repairing the damage.

This is no benign surgery he's going through, like removing his appendix. You know what to expect from an appendectomy. The surgeon can tell you it's going to take one hour in the operating theater, then one hour in the post-anesthesia care unit, then the patient will be transferred back to their room where you'll be able to see them. It's a stress-free procedure, for the surgeon at least.

For Dad, it's another story entirely.

When I cut his shirt off in Victor's Jupiter and saw the putrescent slime of blood, pus, and shards from the rod that had half-disintegrated in his inflamed flesh, I instantly knew it would take some time to fix and clean up. But how long is "some time" exactly?

Again, I know the answer to that question: as long as it takes.

With exploratory surgery there's no way of knowing in advance. I don't know how long I'm going to sit in this chair any more than the drill worker's sister did this morning, nor do I know what will happen when "the door" on my left finally opens.

It strikes me as weirdly familiar. Not knowing is a constant in our family, especially - no, exclusively - when it comes to Dad. Not knowing where he is. Not knowing what he's doing. Not knowing how his day went. Not knowing if he's in danger behind enemy lines or in relative safety at the bases. Not knowing what time zone he's in, if he's awake or asleep, having breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Not knowing when he'll call. Not knowing if he'll call. Not knowing when he'll come back. Then not knowing if he'll come back at all. That is all dad. Not knowing a damn thing about him.

That's a sad reality for a child not to know their father. I know his rank, that he likes running, and lasagnas. That's about everything. He's good at pep-talks too.

I was seven when he explained to me the concept of a circle of influence inscribed within a wider circle of concern. He wanted to help me focus my overflowing thirst to learn and desire to control my environment by focusing my energy on the specific matters I could actually exert a hold over.

Later I realized that he was telling me that his deployments orders were neither under his or my control, and that focusing on those would only keep me from living my everyday life happily. Even though comparing the control I had over his presence at home to the weather forecast didn't seem right, I learnt that he existed only in my circle of concern, no matter how much I wished he was closer to me.

Until he abandoned us.

The third Christmas he missed, without even calling this time, I stopped caring. It was a waste of energy to be concerned with his outrageous behavior. His pathetic apologies the next summer fell far short of convincing me to change my mind. All his efforts to mend the chasm between us, I ignored deliberately, not because I thought he wasn't sincere about wanting to help me, like in the garage after my near-death experience in the ice, and in the infirmary the night after I had to announce the death of a young man to his family, but because I'd made it clear to him already: I didn't want his help. I could deal with everything alone.

And now I'm here, sitting on an uncomfortable chair, waiting for someone to tell me if I'll ever be able to talk with my father again, because I thought I could deal with his injury alone.

Is all this somehow related to my damaged relationship with him? Rushing headlong is me, but wanting to go all alone, not asking for help?

Maybe it is too.

Looking back, it's hard to find a moment I needed help, not academically at least. Physically, yes: carrying heavy stuff, moving furniture, learning to bike without my training wheels, but otherwise? To understand how the world works… I loved all the discussions we had, Dad and me, when we were running together. I missed those privileged moments with him so much. It's not the same anymore, not since he left. The last time we ran together, on the treadmills in the garage after the ice, it was so awkward, this silence... why would I asking him for help?

That can't be. I can't be a doctor if I'm still struggling to… to… dammit, Dad! I don't even know what I'm thinking anymore. I'm just too tired to think about all this. It's just exhaustion speaking.

The clock is ten seconds away from re-synchronizing with the Resolute's normal 24h day.

Three, two, one. We're back to normal time. It is now officially midnight.

And the door is still closed.

It will be Dr. Luna who will come to break the news, good or bad:

a. I'm sorry, we did everything we could, but he lost too much blood. His heart couldn't take it.

b. We did everything we could, but he was already in irreversible shock when we got to him. All his vital organs are shutting down. We're keeping him on life support but it's just a question of time before he dies. I'm really deeply sorry.

c. He's alive, but the surgery has taken a toll on his body. We'll know more in a few hours if he'll make it or not.

d. Everything went well. He's stable and awake, eager to see a loving face.

I can imagine each of these scenarios very vividly, especially the first three. That's not right. That's torture. Stop thinking, please. Just stare at your wrist computer and the door like the others.

It's 0:26 am.

The door finally opens.