Chapter 10: August 12, 2000, 5PM, Admit Desk (Doug Ross's Point of View):
I should have reported Carter when I first caught him. Why did I give him a chance to come clean on his own? Of course I could still report him, but he is starting to act like himself again. Maybe he never had a problem and I was over reacting. Maybe he is all better now. Everyone goes through a few bad times in his or her life. Maybe this was one of his bad times and now that the phase has passed, he will be okay. Why am I making excuses for Carter? I should be thinking of ways to help him not ways to ignore his addiction.
Okay, he's coming in. What was I talking about that Carter is getting better? Today he looks almost as bad as the night I stopped by his apartment. Granted he is wearing clean clothes and they aren't too badly wrinkled, but he is unshaven again, and he doesn't look anything like the old Carter, the Carter I knew years back when he was in medical school.
From across the ER I hear Weaver shout, "What's wrong with you Carter? You're ten minutes late and you look like hell! Get in the lounge and clean yourself up or go home!" I think this is the first time Weaver and I shared the same thought. Carter does not give a verbal response but does as he is told. I follow him into the lounge. When I enter, Carter is already at his locker and I see him popping a pill in his mouth.
I clear my throat and Carter turns to me. I say, "I want to know what you think you're doing?"
He turns back around and continues tidying up. Just as I am about to walk up to him, Carter responds, "Regarding what?"
"Regarding the pill I just saw you take. Carter I won't hesitate to report you-"
He looks at me again and tosses me a prescription bottle. I look at the label and sure enough it says, "Dr. Jonathan Truman Carter III."
"Next time," he says to me, "You shouldn't assume the worst."
"With you it's hard not to." I toss back the bottle. "What else did you take today?"
"Only what I needed to." He twists around and winces from the pain. It is so bad that he needs to hold himself up against the locker. I rush to him and put his arm around my shoulder. We slowly make our way to the sofa and I sit him down, where he proceeds to take another one of his pills. I take the bottle away from him now and sit down next to him. "You have to stop this John." I don't think I have ever called him by his first mane before, but it seems appropriate. "The bottle says to take one every four to six hours-"
"Or as needed. And I needed it." I look at him and he continues with, "I didn't mean that. I don't need it. But it helps me get rid of the pain."
"Because you are high!" As I shout this, Weaver comes in.
She says, "You two aren't getting paid to sit here and talk. There are patients out there that need to be seen!"
"Yes ma'am." Carter says as he stands up. He tries to walk away but has a hard time hiding his limp.
"Carter," Weaver's voice is softer now, and since I am still sitting on the couch I can barely hear her, "Are you okay?"
"Yes, I am fine." Carter gives me a dirty look before he leaves the lounge.
"What was all that about?" Weaver asks me.
I was still watching the door close and didn't hear her. "Huh?"
"Doug, if you need to tell me something, I think you should now. What's going on between you and Carter?"
I almost tell her, but instead say, "It's just a little spat that we need to settle." And I smile at her as I stand up and leave the lounge.
I should have reported Carter when I first caught him. Why did I give him a chance to come clean on his own? Of course I could still report him, but he is starting to act like himself again. Maybe he never had a problem and I was over reacting. Maybe he is all better now. Everyone goes through a few bad times in his or her life. Maybe this was one of his bad times and now that the phase has passed, he will be okay. Why am I making excuses for Carter? I should be thinking of ways to help him not ways to ignore his addiction.
Okay, he's coming in. What was I talking about that Carter is getting better? Today he looks almost as bad as the night I stopped by his apartment. Granted he is wearing clean clothes and they aren't too badly wrinkled, but he is unshaven again, and he doesn't look anything like the old Carter, the Carter I knew years back when he was in medical school.
From across the ER I hear Weaver shout, "What's wrong with you Carter? You're ten minutes late and you look like hell! Get in the lounge and clean yourself up or go home!" I think this is the first time Weaver and I shared the same thought. Carter does not give a verbal response but does as he is told. I follow him into the lounge. When I enter, Carter is already at his locker and I see him popping a pill in his mouth.
I clear my throat and Carter turns to me. I say, "I want to know what you think you're doing?"
He turns back around and continues tidying up. Just as I am about to walk up to him, Carter responds, "Regarding what?"
"Regarding the pill I just saw you take. Carter I won't hesitate to report you-"
He looks at me again and tosses me a prescription bottle. I look at the label and sure enough it says, "Dr. Jonathan Truman Carter III."
"Next time," he says to me, "You shouldn't assume the worst."
"With you it's hard not to." I toss back the bottle. "What else did you take today?"
"Only what I needed to." He twists around and winces from the pain. It is so bad that he needs to hold himself up against the locker. I rush to him and put his arm around my shoulder. We slowly make our way to the sofa and I sit him down, where he proceeds to take another one of his pills. I take the bottle away from him now and sit down next to him. "You have to stop this John." I don't think I have ever called him by his first mane before, but it seems appropriate. "The bottle says to take one every four to six hours-"
"Or as needed. And I needed it." I look at him and he continues with, "I didn't mean that. I don't need it. But it helps me get rid of the pain."
"Because you are high!" As I shout this, Weaver comes in.
She says, "You two aren't getting paid to sit here and talk. There are patients out there that need to be seen!"
"Yes ma'am." Carter says as he stands up. He tries to walk away but has a hard time hiding his limp.
"Carter," Weaver's voice is softer now, and since I am still sitting on the couch I can barely hear her, "Are you okay?"
"Yes, I am fine." Carter gives me a dirty look before he leaves the lounge.
"What was all that about?" Weaver asks me.
I was still watching the door close and didn't hear her. "Huh?"
"Doug, if you need to tell me something, I think you should now. What's going on between you and Carter?"
I almost tell her, but instead say, "It's just a little spat that we need to settle." And I smile at her as I stand up and leave the lounge.