Parsons opened the door to his home, dressed in a loose-fitting jumper and baggy trousers. His expression of surprise at seeing me immediately turned to worry as he considered the reasons that I would be on his doorstep only days before his surgery.
"Mart?" His eyes narrowed. "Is something wrong?"
"Uh, no. Not exactly," I managed to stammer. "May I come through?"
"Yes, of course." He led me into the living room and pointed me to an easy chair. "Should I get Emily?" he asked nervously, sitting down on the sofa across from me.
"No, I shouldn't think so."
"There's something wrong, isn't there? Something with my pre-op workup?"
"No, everything checked out fine." His tests had been completely normal – for someone with carotid stenosis, that is.
Parsons blew out a long breath in obvious relief. "Then what's the problem?" he asked a bit more cheerfully, before his face clouded. "Nothing wrong with Louisa or the baby is there?"
"No, nothing like that. They're both well."
What I didn't tell Parsons was that they were well but that my relationship with Louisa was not. The night before last, Louisa and I had had an unexpected row that ended with her walking out on me. For reasons I couldn't quite fathom, she was angry that I'd set the date for James Henry's christening without consulting her. And, stupid as I was, I'd let her go. I'd stood there watching as she walked out of my home and, for all practical purposes, out of my life. I could have stopped her, could have said the right things that might have convinced her to stay. I could have told her that I loved her and loved James. Instead, I once again stood my stubborn ground and let her walk away, this time with our son in tow.
Parsons didn't need to know all that. It had nothing to do with his surgery and he had more than enough on his mind without having to deal with my problems with Louisa – especially given the news I was about to deliver.
He waited expectantly for me to continue. For my part, I couldn't bring myself to begin. How would I once again tell him about my weakness, my failure, which this time would affect him directly?
"Mart?" he asked hesitantly, once again concerned. "Are you okay?"
"Yes. Well, no." I couldn't meet his eyes. "It's about your surgery. I've, uh, I've arranged for Nigel Leahy to do it."
Parsons simply looked at me for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "May I ask why?" I could see he wasn't entirely pleased at the news, even though Leahy was arguably the best vascular surgeon in the UK.
I couldn't tell him, couldn't bring myself to say the words. And, then, it was as if he sensed the depth of my consternation.
"Is it because you know me?" Parsons asked quietly. "Are you worried you won't be able to be objective?"
Close, I thought to myself. I kept my gaze averted. "I'm afraid I might kill you."
His eyes widened. "What!"
Oh God. First Aunt Ruth, then Louisa, and now Parsons. How many times was I going to have to go through this? I took a deep breath. "The other day, I was imagining myself performing your surgery, mentally reviewing the procedure and I . . . had a flashback."
Parsons gave me a look of confusion.
"To the day in London, my patient, when I first experienced my . . . blood issue."
This time Parsons eyes clouded over and it seemed they almost misted. "Martin, I don't know what—"
I plowed on – best to get it all on the table. "Ruth, my aunt, she's a psychiatrist, believes that the hemophobia isn't fully gone and may never be. And when my patient is a relative, or a friend even, it's more likely to recur. So you see, I can't operate on you. Not tomorrow and probably not ever. In fact, I doubt I can be a surgeon again at all."
He sat there in silence for a long moment. "Are you sure?"
"Chris, I can't go into theatre unless I'm fully confident in my surgical skill. If I were to falter while I was working on a major artery, we both know the consequences. I can't let that happen with any patient and especially not with you."
"Damn, Mart. I'm so sorry, so very sorry. I know how much surgery means to you."
I brushed off the concern. "I've already called Leahy. He's agreed to come to Truro to perform your surgery a week from Thursday. Dinwiddie will assist; he's good."
"Not sticking me with Adrian Pitts, huh?" Parsons asked with a smile.
I hung my head in shame. "I know you were counting on me and Emily trusted me . . . I don't know what to say."
"Mart." Parsons reached out his hand to touch my knee then seemed to think better of it. "It's not your fault. You have an illness every bit as real as mine. I don't blame you in the least and neither will Emily. Besides, how can I complain after you convinced the second-best vascular surgeon in the UK to come all the way to Truro for a poor sod like me?"
I managed a limp smile at that comment. "It was the least I could do." Leahy was a good man – one of the few who hadn't taken some inane pleasure in my bout with hemophobia and who, when I'd called last evening, had been willing to help out even though he had no cause to do so.
"Look." Parsons interrupted my thoughts. "I know this is going to disrupt your plans – Imperial and all that. Think about what you want to do and, after my surgery – if all goes well, we'll talk. I've some ideas that might tempt you."
This time I was the one left momentarily speechless. Parsons was facing major surgery, his surgeon – me – had pulled out on him at almost the last hour, and yet his first thought was of me, of my future. It was much more than I deserved.
"Of course, all will go well," I replied automatically, referring to his comment about the surgery.
"Yeah."
"Chris, I've told you there's no call to be worried."
"Intellectually, I understand. I know this is routine surgery, I know I have a great surgeon even if it's not you, and I know that I'll be fine. But, it's all still a bit . . . overwhelming." He let loose a long breath. "Emily – she's trying to be strong. And Dan . . . I know he's scared and nothing I say seems to help."
In all my years as a surgeon, I'd never really considered what my patients or their relatives were going through. All I cared about – all I needed to care about – was making sure the surgery was concluded successfully, which for me had generally been relatively simple. So, I had little idea how to respond to Parsons' concerns.
"Oh, for goodness sakes," Parsons said. "The last thing either of us needs is for me to get all maudlin." He stood up. "And besides, you need to get back to your surgery. Can't have the head of the PCT keeping a GP away from his sick patients."
I also rose to my feet, guilt wrapped uncomfortably around me. I'd spent almost my entire time in Parsons' home revealing my inadequacies. What I hadn't done was give him any moral support beyond spouting platitudes about his impending operation. In all the years we'd known each other, he'd always been there for me. The only thing he'd ever asked me to do was perform his endarterectomy and, by backing out of his surgery, I'd done the exact opposite.
This, I knew, was my opportunity to return the favor. Even now there had to be something I could do, something short of performing the operation, which might be at least remotely useful. I hadn't been there for Louisa; maybe I could do a mite better with Parsons.
"Would it be helpful," I asked tentatively, "if I were to come to hospital with you the day of the operation? I could . . . sit with Emily?" As I spoke, I tried to gauge Parsons' reaction. I'd done enough to make a mess of things. Perhaps my being there to remind them of that fact was the last thing he or Emily wanted.
Parsons' eyes seemed to light up. "Would you do that, Mart? I'll be okay, but Emily and Dan . . ."
"Of course," I said quickly.
I could almost see a layer of stress leave Parsons' body and his eyes seemed to mist yet again as he grasped my hand. "Thank you."
I forced myself not to pull away from the contact. "Right. Then I'll see you a week from Thursday."
As I took my leave, I wondered who was more apprehensive about the surgery. Parsons, who would undergo operation? Or I, who would sit in the waiting room with Emily and Dan while another surgeon operated on my friend?