I wasn't sure I wanted to talk about my situation with anyone. It was my problem and I could deal with it on my own. However, I had to admit that my plan wasn't exactly working. It was now only a few days from Parsons' endarterectomy, and I was less certain than ever that I should, or even could, do it.

I went into the kitchen, grabbed a glass of water for Ruth and an espresso for myself. It gave me a few brief moments to collect my thoughts and decide what, if anything, I'd tell her. I could remain quiet or I could share my concerns with someone who might be able to provide some advice on how to proceed. Because, God knew, at the moment I was fresh out of ideas.

Once back in my consulting room, I handed Aunt Ruth the water and then reseated myself in my desk chair. My eyes found a spot on the wall behind her.

"All right. If you must know, I'm afraid to operate on Chris Parsons." I let the sentence sit between us, wondering what her reaction would be. It took less than a second to find out.

She paused in mid-sip, eyes widening. "What?"

"Carotid endarterectomy, Monday morning. I'm supposed to operate and I'm afraid to do it."

Her eyes narrowed. "Slow down, Martin. Who is Chris Parsons and why are you afraid of his surgery?"

I briefly explained my relationship with Parsons and my agreement to operate on him the following week. "You know about my little blood thing," I added, as I was sure she did indeed.

"Joan mentioned it. Said you were cured."

"I am cured." I exhaled loudly.

"Right." She nodded. "So why are you worried about operating on Parsons?"

I slammed my hand onto the desk. "I don't know!"

Ruth held up her hands. "All right. Why don't we start at the beginning?"

I gave her an annoyed look. "I'm not your patient."

"No." She shook her head and gave me an appraising look. "But it might help to talk to someone about this."

So, for no reason at all I went through the entire miserable story, starting with that fateful day in London and finishing with the panic attack I'd had only a few hours ago. Aunt Ruth let me talk without interrupting, for which I was unexpectedly grateful.

When I'd finished, I shrugged. "So there you have it."

"Since you've overcome the hemophobia, have there been any times other than today when you've felt ill at the sight or smell of blood?"

I still blushed at the memory. "When James Henry was born. I vomited at the sight of him before they'd cleaned off the blood." Louisa, bless her, had laughed it off. The ambulance attendants hadn't been as considerate.

Her eyebrows lifted at that. "Any other times?"

"One other." I wasn't sure I wanted to admit this one. "I felt a bit nauseous when I was cleaning your wound, the cut on your finger."

"Interesting. And then there was just the thought of operating on Parsons," she said. "What do you think, Martin?"

"I told you. I don't know."

She eye me steadily. "I think you do. You just aren't willing to admit it."

"Stop it! Enough with the psychobabble."

"All right then. I'll spell it out for you. Since you conquered your hemophobia, you've had trouble dealing with blood involving only three people. Your son. Your aunt. And now, your best friend."

"All people I . . . care about," I admitted, with a deep sigh.

"Yes," she replied with a brief smile. "My guess is that you care about all your patients. Behind that cold exterior is a doctor – and a man – with a great deal of sentience. However, in order to do your job, you have to sublimate those feelings; all doctors do or we'd never be able to function. Most of us find outlets, appropriate and otherwise, to deal with the suffering. Some take up hobbies; some turn to alcohol or drugs. For you, it apparently manifests as a fear of blood. With various techniques, you've learned to control it – apparently unless the person involved is someone you truly care about."

That made a certain sense. "So how do I fix it?"

It was her turn to sigh. "I'm not sure you can."

I sat there, stunned. What did she mean I couldn't fix it? I had to fix it if I was going to continue to work as a surgeon. "I don't believe that."

"You can't fundamentally change who you are."

"But I was a surgeon for years. I operated almost every day and never had a problem. Why – why can't I do it again?"

"Martin, without a full psychological examination there's no way I can even begin to figure out what triggered that first event. Even if it were ethical for you to be my patient, which it isn't, I don't think that's what either of us wants or that such an analysis would actually help."

I narrowed my eyes at that.

She took another drink of water. "It's not unlike a soldier exposed to the horrors of combat on a daily basis without being affected. Then, one day, some random and maybe even minor event triggers a breakdown and he's no longer able to function. Something along those lines may have happened to you. And like the soldier who can't be sent back into battle, I'm not sure you'll ever be able to perform surgery, at least on a full-time basis."

Was she suggesting I was suffering from surgical combat fatigue? "Meaning?" I asked as I tried to get my mind around that.

"I think you could probably do minor procedures, probably even handle the occasional surgical emergency. In fact, I'd guess that you'd have the easiest time in an urgent situation - when you're the only one who can help. Most of the time you'll be fine. But I fear it will be a struggle, each and every time you step into theatre. And, on occasion, maybe without warning, it won't be fine. You'll react just as you did to your son, and to me, and to Chris Parsons." She blew out a long breath. "I'm not saying you can never operate again – just that I'm not sure you can have a surgical career."

I didn't know whether to believe her, and certainly didn't want to. Yet, if what she was saying was true, it meant my future, all of my carefully laid plans, were doomed. I couldn't be a surgeon again. I couldn't go to London. And I certainly couldn't operate on Chris Parsons.

"I'm sorry, Martin." She shrugged. "And I may be completely wrong."

But she wasn't. In my heart, I knew she was correct. My ability to handle blood was directly related to who was bleeding. And, for a surgeon, that was a recipe for disaster. "If you're right, what am I to do?" I asked.

She took a deep breath and coughed slightly. "Start by talking to Louisa."

"Louisa? What does she have to do with this?"

"If you plan to stay together as a couple, you need to start talking to each other, consulting each other. She can help you get through this. If you let her."

I couldn't imagine sharing my weakness with Louisa. I'd only told her about my blood issue after she'd already heard about it and then only because there was little choice in the back of Peter Cronk's ambulance.

"What do I tell her?" I asked, helplessly.

"The truth," my aunt said simply.

Author's Note: Thanks to all of you who've commented on my story. I've having issues with the ff. net review reply URL not working (says it's "out of date"), so haven't easily been able to reply personally in many cases. Hopefully, the situation will resolve itself. In the meantime, know that I greatly appreciate each and every comment.