AN: Thanks for reading and for the reviews! I don't know much about brain tumors (and I thank god for that) other than a small research I did for writing this. Anywas it's not the main focus of the story :)
The doctors piled out of the room leaving him dumbfounded, trying hard to process the load of information about his state and prognosis and treatment plan they had just dumped on him. The door was about to close behind the last white coat and he squeezed his eyes shut breathing heavily, a whirlwind of medical terms and drug names making his head spin. He sat motionless for a couple of moments before reopening his eyes to read the diagnosis again. For the tenth time probably. It was then when he noticed that doctor Tancredi hadn't actually closed the door behind herself and for some reason stayed behind. Please, don't let there be anything else wrong with him. He had more than he could handle already on his plate.
She could probably read it in his fearful eyes looking up at her from his sitting position.
- Mr. Scofield, I know that's a lot to handle.. Your case is rare but not exceptional. And both patients we treated for a similar case had undergone successful surgeries and are back to living their normal lives.
- That's a nice pep talk, Doctor, - he said solemnly. – Did those patients happen to have LLI too? And is two people's anamnesis enough to come to any conclusions regarding positive statistics?
She licked her lips and looked down for a second.
- It's not a pep talk. You've refused psychological therapy and as your doctor I'd highly recommend for you to reconsider this decision, because it's an important part of your palliative care. But I'm in no position to push anything onto you. We don't choose our diseases but we get to choose the way we handle them. Medical therapy and the tumor itself can cause quite a bunch of side effects. And they can be not easy to abide.
Michael buried his head back in his hands.
- I just need a bit of time to process the news. In my current state I might refuse the whole medication plan, not only the psychotherapy. So just give me a couple of days, please.
His hand turned into fist and came to support his jaw. He opened his eyes to stare at the papers in front of him.
- Okay. Right. Like we said, I'll be waiting for you on Friday to start your treatment. Don't be late.
She lingered for another moment to ask if there was anyone who could drive him home and he assured her his nephew would do it, simultaneously coming back to reality and remembering that LJ was waiting in the hall, probably half-dead with worry.
It wasn't until Thursday's afternoon that Michael finally gathered himself, having spent the previous evening with his brother and nephew, all three of them trying to wrap their heads around the news. Now he was able to think somewhat rationally and ponder upon all the information he had received at the hospital. They had diagnosed him with hypothalamic hamartoma, which was a quite rare kind of benign tumor, most likely genetically inherited from one of his parents. He couldn't know for sure if his mother or father had it because they had died when he was an infant and he had very scarce information about them. A bunch of doctors had discussed his state and the results of the tests and developed the treatment plan for him which included medical therapy to stop the growth of the tumor and to relieve symptoms and a following surgery.
As he had predicted, it required frequent visits to the hospital and very few working hours for him. Which sucked, to put it lightly. Lincoln gave him a stern brotherly talk about concentrating on the recovery and not even dreaming about his "workaholic bullshit". Michael made him promise not to neglect his own job in Michael's favour in return.
He sat in his home office slash library thinking about the next few weeks of pre-surgery treatment and the operation itself. He really needed to concentrate on his recovery. His family needed him alive and strong. He looked at the paper signed by doctor Tancredi and caught himself being a little relieved and satisfied by the fact that they let her supervise his medication therapy. There was something magnetic about her. He'd only seen her a handful of times so far and all of those times he was in a bad or confused state, so he decided it would be a good distraction to concentrate on the doctor tomorrow, to keep his mind busy and a little distracted from all the medical procedures and tumor talk. Which was probably a lost cause, he thought bitterly. Because when you have low latent inhibition you are concentrating on everything at once. And you notice everything. Every damn tiny thing.
But this wasn't going to start until tomorrow. He still had today for just himself. No doctors just yet and no side effects from meds they're going to start pumping into his body tomorrow.
He changed and grabbed his car keys, heading to one of the nearest bars.
Friday morning came much faster than he'd wish but he kept the promise and came on time. Within 10 minutes after his arrival doctor Tancredi was already hooking him up to an IV. She had informed him they needed to watch his state and reaction to the medicine. So she settled into the chair near the bed he was lying on.
- Mr. Scofield, I have to emphasize and remind you that you're not supposed to drink alcohol while you're on these meds until the surgery and during the recovery period.
He had to admit this caught him a little off guard.
- Yeah, I remember. Wasn't going to. I don't usually drink. Just a beer or two at weekends doesn't really count, does it?
- Mhm.
She was looking down at the papers in her hands scribbling something down slowly. Or maybe just doodling, he guessed. His body didn't show any reaction to the meds (yet?) worth noting. He brushed his teeth twice this morning but she must have still smelled some alcohol spirit.
- Well yeah I did drink yesterday. But my therapy hadn't started back then. So it's okay I guess.
She merely looked at him and didn't say anything.
- Like I said, I don't usually do this.
- You don't have to justify yourself, Mr. Scofield. I'm just reminding you what you should and shouldn't do during this period.
Her gaze was penetrating and it was a good distraction for real.
- Can I ask you for something? A personal favor, - he asked earnestly.
She looked at him questioningly in return, a mix of guardedness and curiosity in her eyes.
- Could you call me by my first name, please.
He must have looked really miserable, he thought, because her posture softened and she nodded in response.
- Okay. I can do that. As long as you don't assume this means you get to call me by my first name too.
He smiled a little shaking his head.
- Wouldn't dream of that. Thank you. Being inside these walls really makes me feel uneasy and I'd appreciate a little less officiousness.
After a couple of minutes of silence she had asked him how was he feeling and he reported everything was fine. She disappeared for a while promising to come back soon and asking him to not fall asleep.
This was how it went that first day of the therapy, she kept coming back into the room to check on him and making sure he was doing alright and leaving him alone to see other patients in the meanwhile. When he was done with the IV, he got his other prescription meds and after saying goodbye he left the hospital calling his nephew to come pick him up.
Well. This was bearable, he thought to himself. Maybe next time he could convince them he was able to drive himself to and from the hospital. And maybe, just maybe, they would soon allow him to actually go back to work, at least on those days he didn't have appointments at the hospital.
However, his relief was short-lived as that same afternoon he started to feel a little light-headed and weak and had to spend the rest of the day in bed. His worried brother made him call the hospital and after a short conversation he was advised that it was the effect of the meds and he was to stay on bed rest until his next visit to the hospital. Needless to say it was a long and worrisome evening for the three of them.
His next visit came on Monday and Michael was really dispirited. He was silent and dismal and it couldn't go past his doctor. After taping the IV needle to his hand gently she sat beside him fumbling with his chart.
- So, how is it, Michael? Was yesterday better than the first two days?
He looked at her silently for a moment than averted his gaze to the ceiling.
- A little.
He paused.
- I hate being here. – After another moment he turned back to her. – I don't mean around you, doctor. Just these walls.. these beds.. I'm starting to hate my own bed too, you know. Because I spend too much time lying in it and feeling too weak to do anything.
- It will get better, Michael. The start is rough. We'll see how it goes and maybe we'll have to reschedule your surgery for an earlier date. We'll do a CT scan in a week and check the progress. But your body will adjust to the meds and it will get easier, I promise.
He didn't reply.
After a minute of silence he heard her soft voice.
- Still don't feel like trying a therapy?
He heaved a sigh.
- I just want to go home. To be with my family. I don't want to spend another hour inside these walls talking to a shrink.
- They can be helpful, you know. I used to visit one myself. It was productive.
It caught his attention but only briefly. And she looked like she regretted mentioning it.
- Sorry, I'd leave you alone but I need to monitor your state. We don't have to talk though, if you don't want to. Just let me know if something's off.
He contemplated her words and realized he would hate the (certainly) awkward silence even more than he hated being here in general.
- No, that's.. I would actually prefer talking, just not about.. my state. I could use a distraction.
He looked at her with hope catching a shadow of hesitation on her face but she conceded:
- Alright. Let's try, - she smiled lightly. – Want to tell me about that family of yours?
Michael smiled back.
- You met my brother. That big guy with rough exterior? Remember?
- Yes, I do, - she nodded.
- Yeah. Total softie when it comes to those dear to him. He and his son is pretty much all the family I got. So.. we really try to stick together. Always had. It's hard at times.
He paused and winced as something suddenly burned inside his chest causing his heart to skip a beat.
- Are you okay? – came his doctor's immediate reaction.
Michael swallowed and the burning feeling faded.
- Yeah. It's fine. I'm okay. Anyway, he's a tough guy, my brother. He raised me. Put me through school. And I owe him pretty much everything. So I hate causing him so much trouble..
She tapped her pen on the chart soundly:
- You wanted to avoid the subject.
- Right, - he smiled appreciatively. – So. What about you? Do you have a family?
He knew it was a risky question but he decided to take a chance. Predictably, the answer was evasive.
- I am less lucky. Glad you have something to keep you going.
She fixed a strand of hair behind her ear and there was a certain finality to her gesture and tone telling Michael it was a wrong question to ask. She was less lucky? Less lucky than having only one person in the whole world to stand by your side while you were growing up? And that said person was barely 5 years older than himself. Her phrasing implied that she had nothing to keep her going. Or so he heard. A young highly attractive woman, a doctor.. with nothing to keep her going? This was puzzling. And, he had to admit, intriguing.
Oh, and so much about avoiding awkward silence.