Chapter Four - Maintenance
In over four years on the starship, B'Elanna had yet to understand why Voyager, a state of the art, Intrepid-class vessel, had been designed with a sickbay that failed to provide any semblance of confidentiality for its patients. Admittedly, it was rare that a patient needed to undress for a procedure, but, even in the partitioned-off section that housed the Doctor's office, there was no soundproofing. Anyone and everyone could walk in and interrupt a private consultation.
Billy Telfer sat on one of the biobeds, haranguing the Doctor about stomach pains he was experiencing. The EMH seemed relieved to see B'Elanna walk in and beckoned for her to go and wait in the office. She sat in there for a good five minutes, unable to avoid hearing through the glass the soothing platitudes that the EMH uttered to the anxious young man.
"And how are we today, Lieutenant?" asked the hologram as he breezed into the office cubicle. Telfer had been ordered to his quarters with an antacid, an instruction he'd followed reluctantly, leaving sickbay at a snail's pace.
"Fine," B'Elanna stated, checking to make sure that Telfer had finally checked out. She had no intention of engaging in a detailed discussion about her medical status whilst another patient was within earshot. Only Tom, the Doctor, Janeway and Chakotay knew the truth about her illness, and in varying degrees of detail. She intended to keep it that way.
The Doctor reached into an equipment case and pulled out a hypospray. B'Elanna tipped her head to the side so that he could press it to her neck, the drug delivered through her skin with a familiar hiss. She sprang to her feet. The Doctor pulled up a chair and sat down. Not a good sign.
"Any headaches or dizziness?" he probed.
"No," she asserted. "Thank you, Doctor." She shifted towards the exit, but he persisted, taking a PADD off the desk and entering notes as he spoke.
"Are you sleeping well?"
She sighed, stopping in her tracks. "Yes, fine."
"Any nausea?"
"No."
"And you're eating well?"
"As well as I can on replicator rations and Neelix's cooking."
"Mmm hmm," the Doctor intoned. B'Elanna shifted her weight onto her front foot, eager for this consultation to end. He looked up from the PADD and gestured to the chair she'd just vacated.
"You may as well sit down, Lieutenant. This will take a few minutes."
Crossing her arms across her chest, B'Elanna huffed quietly and sat back down. The last couple of days she'd managed to get away with a cursory show of her face, so she should have expected a more thorough evaluation sooner rather than later.
"Constipation?" the Doctor enquired.
"No! If I were still having any problems, I'd tell you," she insisted, giving him her most intimidating yet controlled glare. The Doctor was completely unfazed as he continued to take notes. Quite why he needed to, when his auditory processors could simple convert their discussion into text, was beyond her. Just another of his irksome traits.
"I don't think I need to ask you if you're feeling irritable," he remarked sardonically. "Any trouble concentrating on your work?"
"None. How much longer do I need this treatment?" B'Elanna leaned forwards over the desk. "It's been three weeks. How much longer do I have to keep checking in with you every day?"
At least she'd managed to persuade him to knock her required visits to sickbay down to one a day. Now if she could just convince him to discharge her altogether . . .
"Until I'm satisfied you're stable," the Doctor replied, in that infuriatingly condescending tone of his, "and then for a few weeks longer."
"I feel fine now, Doctor. Really." Voyager was a small ship. People were starting to wonder about her frequent visits to sickbay, she was sure of it. And, she felt so much better. No longer did she feel the urge to seek danger on the holodeck. There was no need. The numbness had gone.
For the briefest of moments the notion occurred to her that she could deactivate the hologram and make some selective alterations to his program. She dismissed it out of hand. She was sure she could get away with it, at least for a time. It had been done before, though that had been for the Doctor's own good. But to tamper with his program for her own ends - that was something old B'Elanna would do. New, well-balanced B'Elanna would have to grin and bear his advice.
"Well, you certainly seem more like your usual self," he said, tartly, "but your neurographic scans show that your neurotransmitter levels are still a little off, though I am lacking solid data by which to make a comparison. There is no information available as to the baseline levels in a human-Klingon hybrid so I'm extrapolating from readings I took during your previous physical exams. As I've mentioned before, tailoring the treatment to your physiology has been somewhat of an experiment. In fact, I was thinking of writing a paper on it: Human-Klingon pharmacological-"
She cut him off with a fist thumped onto the desk. "But you can cure me, right? Permanently?" When all was said and done, that was all she really cared to know.
The vertical lines between the Doctor's eyebrows deepened into furrows. "Well," his mouth twitched, "I am more than capable of managing your condition - as you already know from the progress you've made so far. Not that I'm suggesting you haven't put in some work yourself to-" He halted abruptly. Changing his tone from boastful to compassionate, he continued more slowly. "I can't promise that you won't experience a recurrence of the condition in the future. There's no vaccine. The brain is an incredibly complex organ, and statistically, having suffered from one episode makes it more likely that you'll have a recurrence. I don't mean to be pessimistic, but it would be remiss of me if I didn't make you aware of the possibility. But, you know the danger signs now, if you'll pardon the expression. There are steps we can take to help prevent a relapse . . ."
She slumped backwards, taking in the prognosis. Damn it. No permanent cure? Yet he'd been able to cure Tom and the Captain from a case of hyper-evolution. It didn't make sense. Maybe she shouldn't be so hasty in wanting to discontinue her treatment. Hell, she'd happily stay on the meds indefinitely rather than risk another episode. It wasn't as if they were causing her any adverse effects, although the regular hyposprays were a persistent reminder of what had befallen her. And, the regular doses of the Doctor weren't helping her build up a tolerance to him.
The Doctor was still talking. She brought her focus back to him. ". . . and I think some changes might be in order."
"What sort of changes?"
"Lifestyle changes."
She snorted. "Lifestyle changes? On Voyager? What am I going to do, get a new job?"
"There are always changes one can make to improve one's quality of-"
"Just tell me what you recommend, Doctor," she snapped.
"You could take up a hobby. Learn about something new. I'd be more than happy to introduce you to opera, or . . ." He changed tack, processing her bemused expression. "Or perhaps something less refined. You might like to consider meditation. I'm sure Mr. Tuvok could give you some pointers."
B'Elanna smiled disdainfully. As if that was going to happen. She resigned herself to the discourse, letting the hologram ramble on. A few minutes rest wouldn't go amiss, having been on her feet all day. Lifestyle changes, indeed. Just beginning to tune out she heard:
"You could change your hairstyle or-"
"My hairstyle?" she scoffed, sitting up straighter.
"It's the little things, Lieutenant, that can make a big difference. How about new quarters?"
"New quarters? Why?"
The look he gave her implied that it should be blatantly obvious. "A change of scene. Studies have shown-"
"But all the junior officers quarters look the same."
"That's not true," he asserted, beginning to gesticulate. "For example, on the starboard side of the ship, the star trails pass from left to right, whereas on the port side, they move from right to left."
She looked at him squarely, incredulous. When the hell did she sit in her quarters gazing out at star trails?
The Doctor continued, "Furthermore, I've been doing some research. Did you know, the quarters on deck four have arctic grey carpet? Deck eight has slate grey, not to mention the differing configurations of the bathrooms. And, on deck nine, for example, the walls are a shade or two darker than on the other decks, and if you changed quarters, you'd have new neighbours – different people to pass in the corridors. As I say, Lieutenant, it's the little things."
As superficially silly as the idea was, she had to admit that there might be some merit in it. Her quarters on deck four had been the scene of some unpleasantness in recent months, having become more of a first-aid station than a place to relax or entertain.
"And, I think it might be good for you to talk over some of your past experiences in the Maquis with those who were there at the time. Commander Chakotay for example."
Given that such a discussion was already on the cards, she nodded her assent without protest.
"Have you considered telling some of your friends about your condition? I'm not suggesting you broadcast it to the whole ship, but explaining the situation to one or two close friends might help you feel less isolated."
Considered it, she had - if only to dispel the puzzled glances that Harry kept giving her every time he asked how she was getting over her accident, and she told him she was still checking in daily with the Doctor. But more people knowing? It was nobody else's business . . . yet it might make her life easier if a few, select people knew the truth.
"I'll think about it," she said, only to be met with a dubious look. "I will, really," she repeated, adamantly, surprising herself by meaning it. "I'll think about everything you've mentioned."
The Doctor beamed, suitably convinced. "Very well." With a final glance at the notes he'd been taking, he placed the PADD back on the desk and stood up, signalling that the appointment was at an end. "And B'Elanna," he said softly as she headed out the door, "remember, you don't have to wait a whole week before you come back to see me. If you ever feel the need to talk in the meantime . . . well, you know where I am."
She sighed even as she offered him a gracious smile. Know where he was? She most certainly did.