Disclaimer: Nothing recognizable is mine. No copyright infringement intended.
A/N: I just realized that I probably don't ever post updates at a good time but whatever it's Passover and I'm craving carbs and it's finals and I'm caving the sweet release of oblivion so I'm going to post a chapter before going to bed. Just an update on how writing is going for future chapters: Season 2 has started being written and oh boy does the plot deviate. But I really think y'all are gonna enjoy it.
Despite the nails in his head, Jorge is able to joke. I am concerned though, when he mentions the fact that before his accident with the nail gun he's been having headaches. He seems like a nice man and I really hope that we can help him.
"Baby," A woman calls from the door. I turn to see Derek and a woman I can only assume is Sona, Jorge's wife. Stepping back from the bed, I move to give Sona room next to her husband and join my own in the doorframe. Many patients or their families try to lighten the situation, which Sona attempts when she jokes that Jorge is in trouble. Derek puts his arm around me and gives my arm a shoulder a quick squeeze before telling me to get a medical history. He whispers a soft thank you as he walks away. Now alone in the doorway, I watch as Jorge kisses his wife's hand. Part of me can't help but picture what it would be like if this were Derek and myself. The very thought of Derek blind and injured in a hospital bed terrifies me.
After a few minutes, I ask Sona to come with me. We move a few feet from Jorge's room and I ask her questions for his medical history. The entire time we talk there are tears threatening to spill from the corners of her eyes.
She asks me if he'll be able to see again and I give the honest answer, "We won't know until the nails come out." The tears become more prominent and she seems closer to crying as she starts to talk about how Jorge is a photographer. If I didn't need more information on Jorge, I would have let her continue, but I need to know more. I cut Sona off and ask about her husband's headaches. He's been dizzy and disoriented because of the headaches. Marking down the symptoms and amount of time he's been having headaches in his chart, I wonder if something caused him to fall down the stairs. Perfectly healthy people don't usually go tripping over nothing while holding nail guns.
Before Jorge's surgery, I wait for Derek in the scrub room. Once he's joins me I start talking a mile a minute about Jorge's headaches and how there's something wrong. Despite the severity of our conversation, I smile a little under my mask at Derek's scrub cap. It's another cap I bought him. I gave it to him wrapped up in layers and layers of tissue paper. He had been confused when he opened it but I explained that with the combination of his love for ferry boats and the fact that I had just been accepted into the Seattle Grace Hospital surgical residency program that it was an appropriate gift. As soon as the words were out of my mouth he had swept me up into a hug. I loved that ferry boat scrub cap and so did he, it was the moment I gave it to him that we knew we were moving out here and leaving Boston behind.
"Just because you hear hoof beats, don't assume zebras," Derek says as he enters the OR, his arms raised in front of him to keep them sterile.
"Something caused him to lose consciousness and fall down the stairs. He could have a tumor," I argue.
"Look," Derek reasons with me as I follow after him, "I have no idea why this guy's still alive, let alone moving and talking. Not a clue. Let's just get him through this before we start digging around for something else," Annoyed a roll my eyes at him, but he catches it. Once his surgical gown is on he promises, "If Mr. Cruz makes it through this, we can look into your theory."
Raising my hands in surrender I agree, "That's all I'm asking for." From there, Derek transitions into surgeon mode. A scrub nurse holds the OR phone to his ear and I'm able to listen in on half of his conversation with Karev, talking about similar cases.
"Other words, I'm on my own," Derek says as his gloves are pulled on and he moves to the operating table. I step up behind him, a little excited to watch such a rare operation. After a short conversation with Jorge, Derek moves to the side ot the OR to talk with his scrub nurses about procedure and what he's going to need. I remain at Jorge's side, talking to him. He tells me about his wife's fondness of the color red and I can't help but smile. Derek moves to stand at Jorge's head, almost ready to start the procedure. Our eyes meet and he sighs a little. We're both thinking the same thing, that we'd like Jorge to see red again, but more importantly we'd like him to live. As the anesthesiologist puts Jorge under, Derek and I keep eye contact. Seeing the love Jorge and Sona have for eachother, part of me can't stop picturing Derek and I in the same scenario. I wonder if he's thinking the same thing.
Taking a scalpel in hand, Derek moves to make the first incision. He's about to cut when he winks at me and announces his famous line to the OR, "It's a beautiful day to save lives."
Pulling up to the nursing home, I turn to Derek and declare, "No work talk tonight."
He nods before climbing out of the car. His hand finds mine as we walk inside and he agrees, "No work talk."
I'm exhausted, everyday as an intern feels long but there was something about today that seemed to drain the life from me. Part of it is definitely the reflection of myself and Derek that I saw in Jorge and Sona. Nothing leaves a surgeon more off balance than seeing themselves in their patients. All day I couldn't help picturing how I would react if it was Derek in that hospital bed with a rare injury and a fleet of surgeons not sure what to expect.
Adding to the sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach that came from imagining my husband in a hospital bed, I also had to spend more time today thinking about my mother than I like to when in the hospital. Her old scrub nurse, Liz, was admitted with an abdominal mass consistent with pancreatic cancer. With Derek at my side, I took time to visit her room before leaving for the night. Liz compared me to my mother, something that I'm used to but all the same something that makes me uncomfortable. When she asked about what my mother is doing I told my usual lie that the great Ellis Grey is taking a break from surgery to travel. I'm honestly surprised that anybody who knows my mother believes this. Liz, though, seemed skeptical by my explanation and that alone proves the fact that she truly knew the workaholic and terrible parent that my mother was when she was in her prime.
Lying to people about my mother's condition is hard, especially when they know her, but the thing is that it's what she wants. My mother has already lost so much, she's essentially lost herself, that I have to respect her wish to keep the Alzheimer's a secret. I've let her down so much and I have to do this one thing for her, even if it's wearing me down. It does help having Derek by my side. At least he knows. I'm lucky to have him to confide in. I'm lucky to have him to join me when I visit my mom. I don't know how I would do any of this if he didn't know, if I didn't have him.
I'm quiet as we enter Roseridge. Derek places a reassuring hand at the small of my back as he leads me to the sitting room where my mother almost always is. He nods to the nurses as we walk by but my only focus is getting in and getting out. It always hurts to admit it but I only visit my mother out of obligation. Our relationship has always been strained, never loving like that of a mother and daughter should be, and so I visit her because it's my duty, because nobody else will, not because I love her. It isn't that I don't love her. I love my mother in some strange warped way that I have never been able to explain but the fact is, our relationship isn't what it should be. When Derek says he loves his mother he means it. When I say I love my mother, I'm not sure what I mean.
We find my mother standing near the fireplace, watching the flames flicker with a far away look in her eyes. The distant look has become her normal, the more her eyes glaze over, the farther away she is. Not sure how to spend the time today, I decide to go through pictures that my mother has with her. It's a photo album that I put together when she was first diagnosed. Just old pictures that I'm sure she never looked at before her memory started to fade but that she became engrossed in as she struggled to keep any semblance of herself. Derek stands by my side as I flip through the pages, presenting each picture to my mother.
My mother stops me at a picture of my family, from before Thatcher left. It's actually a picture taken in the backyard of the Seattle house, the home Derek and I will be returning to when we're finished with our visit for the night.
"Who is that," My mother asks, pointing at Thatcher. In the picture I'm probably around three or four and I'm perched in a little red wagon that Thatcher is pulling. If I didn't know what was to happen to that small family in the years to come, for the father to leave and a frantic move across the country, the picture would be perfect. Instead, looking at it leaves me with a bitter taste in my mouth because it's presents a false idea of my family. It looks like my parents cared, which neither of them ever did. My mother's eyes leave the page and focus in on Derek's face, she points at the picture and asks him, "Is that you?"
Gently, I shake my head, "That's dad," I remind mom, placing my finger next to hers pointing at my father.
"Who?"
"Your husband," I say, "Thatcher Grey. You called him Thatch."
My mother repeats his name, the word sounding foreign on her tongue. Derek places a hand on my shoulder and gives it a soft squeeze, letting me know that he's there for me. I sigh, studying the lost expression on my mother's face. Sometimes, after looking at pictures, she has a moment of recognition. It's been awhile since that has happened. I explain the picture to my mother, hoping to jog her memory but nothing seems to connect. Sighing again, I shut the photo album and start talking about my day. Usually, when I visit my mother, I just talk. Doctors and nurses say that any interaction helps patients like her but it always feels like futile efforts to me.
"I saw Liz Fallon at the hospital today," I tell my mother.
I'm stunned when my mother laughs, "Liz. I love her. How is she? Is she still a scrub nurse? She was excellent."
I sigh again. My mother remembers her scrub nurse but not me. Seeing the heartbreak in my eyes, Derek moves forward toward my mother. He tells her that we loved seeing her but that it's getting late and we really have to get going. I don't put up a fight as he takes my arm and leads me out the door. We're leaving the nursing home quickly and I barely whisper a goodbye to my mother before we're gone.
"I'm sorry," Derek whispers as we climb into the car.
I shake my head sadly, "It's fine. It's to be expected, right?" He places his hand on my upper thigh and gives it a quick squeeze before putting both hands on the wheel and starting the drive home, "Really, I'm fine," I say. I'm not sure if I'm trying to convince him or me, it's probably a combination of both.
We're both relieved to find that our roommates are already asleep by the time we get home. Very few words are exchanged before Derek and I both climb into our bed, falling asleep instantly.
It feels as if only seconds have passed before my alarm starts beeping. Derek and I both groan as another day starts. As I climb out of bed, Derek buries his head under his pillow, desperate for a few more moments of sleep. I'm half asleep, I pull on a sweater and jeans before heading downstairs for breakfast. Derek calls after me, his voice groggy with sleep, "Eat a real breakfast today."
"What constitutes as a real breakfast," I ask, laughing, "The raw oats and cardboard you eat every morning?"
When I'm done eating, I head back upstairs to see if George and Izzie are ready to leave. I slip into my bedroom and place a fresh mug of coffee on Derek's nightstand. Despite the fact that he has an early morning surgery scheduled, he's fallen back asleep. I take it upon myself to make sure he makes it into work and I set his alarm clock to go off in fifteen minutes. Once I'm satisfied that he'll actually wake up when the time comes, I cross the hall to the bathroom. George is in the shower and Izzie is in her tanktop and underwear. It's an exact replica of yesterday morning, they're even having the same argument. Ignoring their fight, I duck down to the cabinet, looking for tampons. There aren't any. Izzie tells me George refused to buy them. I roll my eyes and go back across the hall, pretty sure Derek bought an extra box last week when I had asked him to.