After some reviews about my opening author's note and much thought (and my friend's astonishment after reading it), I have decided to remove it.  I haven't altered the story in any way, just the opening thought.  Have a nice day!

~~~*~~~

Today was hard, I think to myself as I snap the rubber gloves off of my hands and throw them in the biohazard bin.  Three major car pileups, a couple of shooting victims are easy, but Meg, that was hard.  Meg is my neighbor a couple of floors down.  She is 16 years old, but she acts like she's a mature adult; a bit stuffy, polite, and seemingly stable.  But she's been hurt somewhere.  I thought she was before, but today has sealed that observation in my mind. 

When they brought her in, with a breathing tube and IV's, I didn't think suicide.  Suicide is for those who are mentally unstable, isn't it?  Maybe Meg is mentally unstable.  But she didn't show it.  Neither did I, a little voice in my head whispers.

~~*~~

It's hard being a kid when your mother isn't around, or even worse, you think your mother doesn't love you. 

I know this. 

I lived this. 

I live this. 

Yes, 12 years after moving out, I still have the same insecurities that I'm not worthy enough for my mom. 

I love my mom, but she is such a difficult person to reckon with.  I once told her I didn't feel loved.  She laughed at me and sent me to my room.  After she yelled at me for being ungrateful and gluttonous.  So, what do I do?  I thought I could become a doctor.  I thought, My mom is a doctor.  She'll be proud of me and love me if I become a doctor.  That was flawed thinking.

The depression and the unloved feeling got so bad when I was 16, I couldn't think of any way out besides the ugly s word. 

Suicide. 

Mom was going on one of her medical conferences again.  I thought I had it so well planned out.  Actually I did.  Thankfully Mom forgot her airplane ticket and had to turn back.  She found me; an empty bottle of pain pills in hand, me in a deep sleep.  I don't remember anything except waking up at the hospital.  I was in a coma for a week, and kept in the psych ward for two weeks.

I panicked because I missed a month of school. My grades are going to get so low, and I can't get into medical school

I cried myself to sleep the night before the first day I went back.  And every day until I left home for college. 

I went off to college, and even though I was out of the house, I still felt depressed and unloved.  Then I met Rick, or Slick Rick, as I liked to call him.  We roomed together, and one night as I was crying myself to sleep, he caught me.  We talked and missed classes the next day.  I don't remember what we talked about, but I felt something lift for the first time ever.  I wasn't happy, yet, but I wasn't so depressed.  For the first time, I could talk to my mom and not feel drained.

Then I got into med school.  I was hailed to be a bright student by most of my professors, but self-doubt still plagued most of my thought processes, and I didn't hear their compliments.  Instead, I pushed myself harder to try to make up for my perceived lacking. 

I graduated top of my class from medical school.  And then it was time for internships.  I went to college and Med School close to home (to Mom), and was beginning to feel suffocated.  I wanted to get away, so I looked for programs on the West Coast.  I found what I felt like was the perfect program.  Community General Hospital in LA.  The graduated intern reports were like music to my ears. "Dr. Mark Sloan is the greatest teacher and friend.  Roller skates and rap is optional, but a lot of fun," pretty much was the standard review.  I HAD to get in.

Lo and behold, guess where I was standing (running) three months later.  I couldn't believe I got in.  I also couldn't believe what I got myself into.  Mark's son, Steve, is a police detective. A homicide detective with the LAPD.  Mark also likes to solve murders.  He also has gotten kidnapped by a convicted murderer (who wasn't guilty), have someone try to kill him (several people, several times), and get arrested (wasn't guilty).

Self-doubt still plagues me most of the time, but I've learned how to push it away.  And besides, with Mark, Steve, and Amanda around, I know that I'm loved.  And recently, when Mom came to visit, she said she loved me.  Even though I turned down going back home to work at the hospital Mom works at.

~~~*~~~

Meg's mom is like mine.  I can also see a lot of me in Meg.  The first time I met her, I was worried.  The intensity of which she pushed herself was frightening, and I could see her on the verge of a burnout. 

She had anatomy and physiology class when we first met, and a couple of times she came here for help in homework.  One time, we got to talking about why we were pressing our selves so hard, and she confided that she was trying to please her mother.  I told her that she shouldn't worry so much about what her mother thought, that she loved her.  Meg didn't believe me, but she listened about my relationship with my mom.

As the months went by, I could see signs of her falling apart in front of my own eyes.  Just a few minutes ago, I confirmed the suspicion that she was cutting herself.  It was summer, with 90-degree weather, and she was wearing long sleeves.  Plus, she began to lose quite a bit of weight.  The more she lost, the baggier her clothes became, the sicker she looked. 

I estimate her at 90 pounds.

She is just a little bit taller than I am.

I tried to get to her.  I talked to her about maybe talking to her mom about how she felt, or letting me talk to her mom, but she always declined, or smiled and said 'maybe'.

I feel sick to my stomach.  Perhaps if I pushed harder, or talked to her mom with out her consent... or if I listened more, or... or...

Mark sees me in the hall, and comes up to me.  "You couldn't have prevented this," he said, as if he's reading my thoughts.

"I don't know.  Maybe I could have.  I just feel really bad," I said. 

"Maybe you can talk to her when she wakes up.  She should be up in a few hours," Mark reminded me.

I try to smile.  "Thanks."

"I know."

~~~*~~~

I'm standing outside of Meg's door, trying to quash the feeling of guilt, nausea, and fear in the pit of my stomach.  I'm slightly successful.  Meg's so tiny against the bed, curled up as best as she can with her arms and legs in restraints.  She no longer has a breathing tube; that was replaced with an NG tube to feed antidote and charcoal.  They both taste bad.

I pull up a chair, sit down, and get her hand.  I don't know if she can hear me, but I start talking. "I know you're probably scared right now.  I know you're angry and calm, sad and happy; just a torrent of emotions.  I'm here, your mom's here, and a lot of good doctors are here to help you sort them out and feel better.

"I was there one time..."