A/N: To give you some background, this story starts at the beginning of 2020 just before the virus got out of control and before masks were commonly used to help prevent transmission (because I wanted visible faces for writing purposes). The Cullens live in Forks canon with the books/movies, the only difference is that Carlisle works at a hospital in Seattle. I want this story to provide you with a pleasant escape from reality, but I also wanted to create a piece that reflects this point in time as I believe literary works are important parts of history. I wrote this because the thought of Dr. Carlisle Cullen being out there in the world right now brings me comfort. He would know what to do about the virus, he might have even been able to prevent the pandemic, and at the very least now he could help us recover. This is me sharing my imagination with you, and I hope you enjoy the product of the weird creative corners of my mind. I hope Carlisle comforts you in the same way he comforts me.
Content Warning: This story mentions sexual, physical, and emotional abuse. Some chapters may contain mature themes.
Edited: 7/2/2023
Chapter 1 - Trauma
My blood seeped into the snow, the crimson color an even more startling shade of red against the bright white frozen particles that blanketed the ground. I wanted to just lay there forever and cry until I died. Unfortunately, none of my injuries appeared severe enough to be lethal; my miserable life would not end today. After eight grueling years in the foster care system, I'd reached my breaking point. I was done. Death was the only path to freedom and would require taking matters into my own hands. A high enough bridge, a tight enough noose, a potent enough poison... Any of those could fulfill my purpose... If only I weren't so cowardly.
Suicidality was a new struggle of mine. Although I'd had a rough life essentially from the beginning, I'd only been entertaining the idea of ending it all for a few days. Recent events had crushed what little hope I'd had for my future. I saw only darkness now. My spirit remained utterly broken, and I understood that this bleakness would never leave me. There was no escape. I'd been with the Gorders for two weeks, and the man of the house had already beaten me to a pulp. This was the third foster home I'd been placed in this year, and it was only the end of March. I'd had bad luck with every placement, I was always being sent to homes that were abusive and neglectful. I'd heard stories of good, safe foster families, but somehow those homes managed to avoid me.
If I wasn't going to die today, then I needed medical attention. Ron Gorder had taken a knife to my right arm and put a deep slash in my bicep. I knew the wound was pretty bad because I could see all the way down to the bone, and it was bleeding profusely as a result. The kitchen towel I'd stolen before darting out the door had already soaked through, causing the blood to continue running down my arm and dripping off at my elbow. If I had more faith in the state system, I would have gone straight to a social worker to prove that I was being tormented, but spending years in foster care enduring thousands of bruises had taught me that it wouldn't do any good and could potentially make things worse. Society tended to look the other way when faced with kids like me. It's not like they had anywhere else to put us.
As much as I hated the idea, I needed to see a doctor, and my only option was to go to the nearby hospital. I had a story all cued up in my head and mentally rehearsed it as I walked through the cold, blustery streets of Seattle to Harborview Medical Center. Though it was still early in the evening, the sun had already set, so repeatedly practicing my tale allowed me to block out the thoughts of what could possibly be lurking in my dark surroundings. Paranoia made for an exhausting way of life, but having a persecution complex was what had kept me alive this long. An odd paradox considering I didn't really desire to live anymore.
I'd barely made it through the emergency department doors when a triage nurse dropped what she was doing and rushed over to me, visibly alarmed by the mess on my right arm that was poorly hidden by the bloodied towel I had wrapped over the wound. Forgoing the formalities of paperwork and checking my vitals, she brought me straight to an exam room and began questioning me. I kept my answers vague and some of her questions I simply ignored, and I fought back when she tried to move my shirt aside to check if I'd been injured anywhere else. My uncooperativeness was partly strategic in that I didn't want her to suspect that I'd been abused because she would be obligated to notify the authorities, but it was also proportionately driven by my fear of hospitals. Clearly frustrated with me, the nurse told me that the provider would be in to see me momentarily. She pressed for information one last time—which I met with silence—and strode out of the room.
I wasn't alone for very long before I was greeted by a thirty-something woman with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes that were enhanced by the matcha green scrubs she was wearing. Unlike the nurse, this woman wore a knee-length white coat and gray pumps that couldn't possibly be comfortable to wear while working in a hospital all day; I found her dedication to fashion admirable. At first I assumed she was the doctor, but the letters after her name on her identification badge were "PA-C" instead of "MD". Less frantic and hurried than the nurse, she began by introducing herself.
"Hi, I'm Laura, one of the physician assistants here. I work closely with Dr. Carlisle Cullen who will be coming down to see you a bit later. The nurse tells me that your name is Caeleigh—which is very beautiful, by the way. What brings you in today?" she asked kindly, her intense blue eyes already trained on the gaping wound on my bicep.
"I slipped on the ice and cut my arm on a rock," I lied. It sounded believable enough, I thought.
"That must have been one sharp rock," the PA commented, leaning in to examine the cut. "Usually you would expect the skin around the incision to be much more jagged after that kind of injury. And it's very deep, I can see right down to the humerus!"
I felt my heart speed up and my palms begin to sweat; I was worried she didn't believe my story. However, my fear was short-lived.
"No matter," she dismissed, turning away to enter something into the computer. "The fact that the edges are clean will make it easier to suture."
"You mean stitches?" I asked, the fear suddenly rushing back in.
"Yes, but don't worry, you won't feel a thing. Just one prick, and you'll be numb for the rest of the procedure. Lidocaine is wonderful," she said, attempting to mitigate my rising panic. She finished typing and threw a smile in my direction. "Oh, we'll want to do a tetanus immune globulin shot too just in case that rock was covered in bacteria."
"I don't want any treatment involving needles," I said.
"We don't have any other treatment options, unfortunately."
"Okay, I'll just refuse treatment then," I decided.
"I strongly advise against that choice," Laura beseeched. "It'll be over with quickly, Caeleigh, I promise. I should have you all sorted out before the nurses even get around to paging Dr. Cullen."
Despite her pleasant demeanor and reassurance, I began to feel nauseated. A cold sweat broke out across my forehead which produced even more moisture than my palms. I didn't do well with needles—at all. Laura seemed really nice, under different circumstances I might have even liked her, but there was no way she was going to stick me with anything. Afraid I would throw up if I opened my mouth, I couldn't voice my objection to stop her from telling the nurse to draw up the shot and bring a suture kit. Laura made her preparations, washing her hands and putting on gloves. The nurse returned with the supplies the PA had asked for, and both of them approached me too quickly.
"Stay the hell away from me!" I screeched, tears streaming down my face.
"Okay," Laura agreed, putting her hands up in a placating gesture. "Okay, I won't touch you. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you nervous. Tell you what, I'll go get the doctor right now. I'll inform him about what's happening here myself, and he'll know what to do."
"No! I don't want to see the doctor!" I shouted, beside myself with fear. "I just want to get out of here. Please let me go, I never should have come here," I sobbed.
"Caeleigh," she spoke softly, "coming here was absolutely the right decision. That wound needs cleaned in order to avoid getting infected. Trust me, you're in the right place. I'm going to go get Dr. Cullen now because he has expert skill in lowering people's anxiety about medical procedures. Most patients feel better the moment he comes through the door. He's the best in every way you can imagine."
The PA didn't give me the chance to respond before exiting the room, the nurse following her. I guessed that was because she knew that I would just put up a fight again. I knew Laura was only trying to do her job and fix my arm, but I was terrified beyond reason. I kind of felt bad for rejecting her aid, I was sure she was capable of stitching up my arm without causing me too much pain, but the problem lied in that I wasn't capable of letting her do so. It was stupid and pathetic, but my fear of needles was too intense. Worse than a child, I couldn't keep from panicking. It was impossible to sit still when I was this scared, and that kind of behavior at a hospital always resulted in me being pinned down. I couldn't stand to be made powerless again.
I tried to calm myself down and restore some level of logical thinking. I looked around the room, really observing it for the first time. The space was cold and sterile, something I expected was characteristic of every hospital in the world. The walls were painted a dreary off-white color, the cabinets and countertop surrounding the sink were made of that cheap gray laminate material, and the floor consisted of speckled white commercial tile that was standard across grocery stores and doctor's offices alike. I currently sat on a black, hard plastic chair, and yet that particular piece of furniture was preferable over the exam table which was a firm mattress covered with tan pleather adorned with that awful, crackly paper that originated from the never-ending roll at the end of the table. The room was ugly and uninviting, no part of it comforting. It was almost as if it was designed intentionally to keep people on edge. Replace the light gray privacy curtains with metals bars and the hospital would hardly be distinguishable from a prison. Perhaps not everyone perceived the environment in this way, but I for one felt trapped here as I waited for the doctor to arrive. Trying not to think about the upcoming horror I was bound to experience, I counted the specks in the tile flooring until my eyes could no longer focus.
Without glancing at a clock, it was difficult to tell whether ten minutes or an hour had passed. It seemed like I'd been in this room for days, and being alone in a scary place was starting to wear me down. I sat uncomfortably in my chair, anxiously shifting my weight around. My distractions had run out, and the sights, sounds, and smells of the medical environment were getting to be too much to handle. The dreadful anticipation was driving me crazy, making it harder to keep myself together. I wished I'd taken note of what time it had been when Laura left to fetch the doctor because aside from tracking the minutes from this point forward, I had no sense of how long I'd been waiting. The ticking of the wall clock seemed to get louder with each passing second; I briefly entertained the idea of smashing it to pieces as revenge for mocking me. Hospitals were my literal hell on earth, and the thought of having to spend any length of time here was unbearable.
The sound of the door unlatching from its frame as someone depressed the handle made me jump out of my skin.
The PA was right, I felt better the second the doctor walked into the room. I was startled by his entrance and physical appearance, but that feeling of shock quickly faded and was supplanted by an odd sense of relief. It was inexplicable, but something about his presence comforted me and gave me hope. Hope that circumstances could change into something good, hope that I could be okay. None of that made any sense to me, I couldn't recall a time in my life where I had felt even remotely okay, yet suddenly that seemed like a possibility? All because a porcelain, golden-haired, inhumanly beautiful medical professional had entered my hospital room… Maybe "delusional" needed to be added to my list of psychological issues.
"Hello there," the doctor greeted flashing a warm, perfect smile. "I'm Dr. Cullen."
"Hi, my name is Caeleigh," I timidly replied.
"Well, it's lovely to meet you, Caeleigh." His voice was softer than velvet. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine." I was anything but.
"Hmm, it looks like we don't have much information about you," he mused, flipping through the pages on his clipboard. "Did the nurse not do an assessment before my PA came to visit you?"
It was then that I noticed Laura had returned along with Dr. Cullen. He'd captured my attention so completely that I'd failed to see that she'd entered the room after him. She now stood dutifully at his side. I could see from her poise how deeply she admired her preceptor, watching his every move and hanging on every word he spoke. Whenever he finished asking me a question, only then would she turn her attention to me with a curious, clinical stare. I found her fixed look to be intense and a bit intrusive, but her eyes also communicated the sympathy she had towards me. Hopefully I hadn't pissed her off too much, she really did seem kind.
I chewed nervously on my lip and turned away before answering him. "She tried. I wouldn't answer her questions or let either of them touch me."
"So I've been told." Laura had probably told him what a difficult, annoying patient I was to deal with. "Not a fan of hospitals?" he surmised.
"Not a fan of being interrogated or poked and prodded," I said. "And, those things are closely, if not exclusively related to nurses, doctors, hospitals, etcetera."
"I see." Dr. Cullen's tone was understanding and non-judgemental. "I'm sorry, this must be really difficult for you. Is there anything I can do to make being here a little more comfortable?"
I shrugged. "Let me leave?"
"I'm afraid I can't do that in good conscience."
"Pity."
He set the clipboard aside and moved a few steps closer to stand at the end of the exam table. "Take a seat up here and we'll get the physical exam out of the way before tending to the wound on your arm."
I shook my head in refusal and quickly looked away again, ducking out of the chair and scampering towards the wall to hide as hot tears began streaming down my face. It had taken enormous effort to hold myself together for as long as I had, but my steely emotional resolve was failing now. My fear was demanding outward expression, and I couldn't help it—hiding was the only thing that made me feel safe. If I didn't exist, then I couldn't be hurt. The sound of the doctor's footsteps increased in volume, meaning he was even closer. I cowered into the corner, whimpering.
"Caeleigh, what's wrong?" His voice was gentle.
I didn't want to answer him, for if I did, I knew my voice would crack and I would find myself in a crying fit.
"Caeleigh, are you in pain?" he asked as he hovered over me, concern evident in his tone.
Yes, but that wasn't why I was shriveled up in the corner of the room. I opened my mouth to reply to the doctor's question, but no words came out. My heart was pounding so hard that I could hear it, I could feel my pulse in my throat, and my chest heaved up and down as I began to hyperventilate. Fighting to stay calm had quickly become a losing battle.
"Take a deep breath, dear," the doctor instructed, taking a couple of steps back. "You're having a panic attack. Let it out, don't try to stop it because that will only intensify the anxiety and prolong the episode. It's better to let it happen. Caeleigh, listen to my voice and when you are ready, match your breathing pace with mine. If you gain control of your breath and take longer exhales, the panic will begin to subside. We can calm the mind by calming the body. It's okay, keep breathing. You'll be okay. I'll stay right over here and keep you safe."
Dr. Cullen's words anchored me during the chaos that surged through my mind and body. I listened to him as intently as I could, struggling to focus as the panic raged on. I did my best to let go and just let it happen as he suggested, but not fighting back against the anxiety was easier said than done. I hated this experience and wanted to avoid the overwhelming feelings, not welcome them to flood my consciousness. He ended up being right, though. Once I stopped attempting to thwart the feelings of acute and disabling fear, the hysteria peaked and then started to quell on its own. Very, very slowly I began calming down. The doctor exaggerated his breaths so I could hear the deep, slow exchanges of air. I did my best to breathe with him, but I couldn't relax enough to take a full breath, so my exhales came out in shallow, ragged puffs.
My hyperventilating was mostly under control now, though my lungs still burned as a consequence from the panic attack. I gained the courage to look up at Dr. Cullen, afraid of what I might see. He stood a few feet away from me, keeping a respectful distance yet close enough to provide support. He met my gaze with an attitude of patience, his eyes conveyed concern and empathy. I could tell he was curious and wanted to examine me, but, unlike any doctor I'd encountered before, he wasn't forcing me into anything. I was still reluctant to talk to him, though. Doctors tended to not be very good listeners.
"Caeleigh, what's important for me to know right now?" he tried.
His question caught me off guard. Surely he had his list of priorities, stuff he wanted to know about me medically or otherwise, yet he was asking me to tell him what was important. How strange. Because it was a matter of subjectivity, there would be no incorrect answers to that question, right? It would be safe to give an answer… I took a minute to think and decided to tell him what I wanted him to know at the moment.
"I… It's important to me that… that you know how s-scared I am." I barely got it out.
"I hear you. Can you tell me what's going on so I can have a better understanding?"
I shrugged and looked down at the floor. "I don't know how to describe it. I just can't handle being at the doctor."
"There's no need to feel embarrassed, Caeleigh. Anxiety in medical settings is a common issue, so common that we actually have a name for the condition: white coat syndrome. Don't worry, I'm not offended, I know it's nothing personal," Dr. Cullen said jokingly before returning to his no-nonsense tone to ask me more questions. "Are you experiencing any troubling thoughts or memories in addition to feeling distressed?"
It took me a minute to notice that I was indeed remembering a slew of bad moments from the past. "Yes."
"How about somatically? Are there any physical sensations concentrated in certain parts of your body? Tingling, tension, things of that nature?" he asked.
I nodded. "I guess I'm really shaking a lot, like all over… and, yeah, my muscles feel pretty rigid. My hands and feet have this buzzing, pins and needles feeling, too. Also, my stomach hurts."
"It's very helpful to know that you're really scared. Thank you for sharing that with me," Dr. Cullen replied. "I'm sorry this is stressful for you. I know my words alone won't abate your fears, but I want you to know that I am not a threat to you. I want to help you."
I risked a glance at him to see if he was being genuine. He was. I searched his face carefully, looking for signs of anger or impatience, but there weren't any. He maintained his calm, gentle demeanor and knelt down to my level about three feet away. His lips held a subtle smile, an attempt to put me at ease. His golden stare, while intense, was soft and caring. He exuded confidence and intelligence in a comforting way, a way that made you feel good about being under his care. He seemed to embody everything a physician should be. But if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was, and I wasn't going to give him the benefit of the doubt. It appeared he knew that, too.
"You've had a grotesquely negative experience with healthcare in the past." It wasn't a question.
"My life has been a grotesquely negative experience," I muttered.
"Is that something you'd like to talk about with me?" he queried.
I hadn't intended for him to hear that, I thought I'd spoken more quietly. Odd, usually my voice was so faint that people didn't hear me even when I wanted them to.
"I wouldn't know where to begin," I responded.
"You could tell me what happened to you to cause you to be so afraid of the hospital. Unless that feels like it would be too much…"
I breathed deeply to stabilize myself. "Yeah, I definitely think that's more than I can handle."
"I understand," Dr. Cullen accepted. "Let me know if there's something you want to talk about, okay? I'll do everything I can to help you."
"Okay."
Dr. Cullen observed me for a moment from his spot on the floor. "This doesn't have to be done right now, but I would like to screen you for post-traumatic stress disorder," he said. "You seem to really be struggling, and there are many tests and tools that can give us guidance on how to best improve the situation."
"I've already been diagnosed with PTSD," I told him. "And OCD, anxiety, and depression. I'm also a really strong candidate for borderline personality disorder, apparently. There's a few other mental illnesses that have been tossed around, but I can never keep track."
"What treatment have you received?"
"Nothing significant. I had a therapist for a while, but I wasn't there long enough to make much progress." Dr. Cullen looked curious, so I quickly spewed out a lie to explain before he could inquire. "I got bounced around too often because of my mom's job to have any kind of consistency."
"Any medicines?"
"Medication isn't an option for me."
"No?"
"No," I confirmed, growing defensive of my choice. "I've seen drugs do more harm than good, and the side effects sound horrible, actually worse than the condition they're intended to treat. Plus, all it does is mask the symptoms, the root problem never gets fixed. I don't want to be dependent on a pill for the rest of my life, especially when it probably wouldn't work anyway."
"While your concerns are valid, it would be prudent to explore the benefits of medication. When properly prescribed, medicine can work wonders, but that is a conversation for a later date," he said.
I glowered at him. "You're not putting me on meds."
"A conversation for a later date," he repeated lightly. "For now, let's take care of the more immediate matters. Normally, I would begin by performing a comprehensive exam; however, I believe that would cause you too much anxiety. I do not want to traumatize you further, so for the time being I will only address the issues that require prompt attention. What needs to happen in order for you to allow me to take a look at that open wound?"
"I don't know. I don't know how to stop being afraid of you," I said, looking down at my shaking fingertips.
"Well, I don't believe it's realistic or fair to expect your fear to go away. I think we need to honor it and work with it best as we can. How's this? I promise that you are in control here, I won't do anything without your permission. I will talk you through a procedure before I do it, and you can stop me at any time, and we'll just try. If at any point you become overwhelmed, we'll take a break," he proposed.
"That sounds okay," I slowly agreed. "Yeah, I think I can do that."
He smiled. "Excellent. Now, I noticed the exam table was a bit intimidating. Would you prefer a regular chair instead or what alternative would make you most comfortable? I'm happy to work around you."
I would have preferred to remain on the floor, but I didn't want to make the doctor's job more difficult than it already was since he was being so kind to me. I glanced around the room, searching for a place that seemed safe enough to sit still and let Dr. Cullen clean up my wound. I knew that I would never find anywhere that felt even remotely comfortable in a hospital, but the doctor's willingness to accommodate me in any way that he could was reassuring in itself. I didn't know how to trust him, but I knew that I wanted to.
"I suppose the chair would be all right," I decided.
The doctor stood up and reached out a hand to help me to my feet. I cautiously accepted the hand and allowed him to pull me up off the floor. I made my way over to the chair and took a seat, watching as he flitted about the room gathering whatever supplies he needed. He swiftly grabbed items from the cabinets and placed them all onto a suspicious-looking sterile procedure tray. He covered the tray with an opaque sheet of paper before setting it on the counter next to me and brought over the big lamp that was by the exam table. He switched on the light, adjusted its position, and sat down in front of me on one of those rolling stools. He snapped on a pair of purple gloves, and I stared nervously at the ominous tray.
"All right. Let's have a look at you, Caeleigh. May I?" he asked, reaching for my arm.
I nodded. He gently grasped my forearm and tricep and guided my arm to rest on the countertop. I resisted the urge to yank my arm away from him and tuck it back tight against my body. He'd barely looked at it, and here I was, already on the verge of freaking out. Again. This was not going to go well.
"Dr. Cullen…" My voice heightened an octave to a panicked tone as tears formed in my eyes. "I can't… I can't do this. Stop. Stop!"
He immediately took his hands off me. "Okay. Caeleigh, it's okay. Take a deep breath, focus on that long exhale. You're in control of the situation. See? You told me to stop, and I listened."
"I'm sorry," I sputtered.
"You have nothing to apologize for," Dr. Cullen softly assured me.
"It's just… I'm so pathetic!" I sobbed. "I can't even let you look at my arm without having a meltdown, and I can't even think of letting you bandage it. I'm so scared!"
"That's the nature of trauma. Your brain is just trying to keep you safe by making you feel anxious so you are compelled protect your body and not have a repeat of the event that traumatized you in the first place," he explained. "It's normal, and it's not your fault."
"I don't know what to do! I'm freaking out but I want to let you take care of my arm because it really hurts," I cried, beginning to succumb to the pain of my injuries.
"Caeleigh, I promise I'm going to help you. I won't leave this room until I've treated your wound," he calmly reassured. "I understand this situation is very activating for you, and you're having a hard time letting me treat you because you don't feel safe. That is very logical given that you were hurt by a doctor in the past. We just have to help your brain understand that this isn't the same set of circumstances."
"How?" I sniffled.
"We could try gradually exposing you to the distressing trigger which, in this case, is me," he said, a rueful expression on his face.
I cracked the smallest of smiles at the slightly humorous way he identified himself as the radix of my fear.
Dr. Cullen continued. "With your permission, I would like to hold onto your arm for a moment to allow you to get used to feeling my hands on your body and send the message to your brain that my touch won't hurt you."
It seemed so silly, but if there was a chance it could work, I was all for it. "Go ahead," I told him.
With gloved hands, Dr. Cullen cradled my arm by placing one hand around the back of my upper arm and holding onto my forearm with the other. Instinctively, I recoiled from his touch.
"It's okay. I'm not going to harm you, Caeleigh," he promised in a soft voice. "Let's try again."
I allowed him to take my arm again and this time, I didn't pull back. A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck as the anxiety continued to build, but I pushed myself to hang on through the unpleasantness. I was trembling with fear, but I remained in the doctor's grasp. I didn't know if I could bear it much longer, though.
"Can you describe what it's like to feel my hands on your arm?" he asked.
I thought his request was weird, but he'd gotten me this far with his technique, so I obliged. "Um, your hands feel smooth and kind of cold. The gloves you're wearing feel silky and rubbery against my skin. You're holding my arm gently, applying light pressure."
"You're doing a really good job, Caeleigh," the doctor praised me. "I know this is hard."
My anxiety was beginning to win. "I don't think I can do this."
"You already are doing this, my dear," he said, rolling forward to sit as close as he needed to be to take care of my arm. The edge of the stool was just inches from the corner of my chair. "I know it's difficult, but you are tolerating the uncomfortability."
"How is this supposed to make me less scared?" I asked.
Dr. Cullen watched my face carefully, silently seeking my permission to begin cleaning out my wound. I looked at the needleless syringe that was filled with saline and the gauze pad in his hand and decided the items seemed innocent enough. I swallowed nervously and nodded, and he wasted no time in beginning to flush out the wound. Aside from the liquid being cold, the process wasn't uncomfortable at all. The stinging feeling I'd had since the injury had occurred actually began to subside as he flushed out the dirt and debris.
"Think of it as strengthening a muscle. When you first begin exercising, the muscle is weak and gives out relatively quickly, but as you progress through your training, the muscle becomes stronger and eventually is able to perform the same exercise without much trouble at all. By doing this prolonged exposure, we're giving your brain the opportunity to build up resilience to your fear and make it through the experience without being retraumatized. The goal is that with enough non-traumatic encounters, we can turn the negative associations you have with medical care into neutral or even positive connections, which will hopefully make future doctor visits easier on you," Dr. Cullen explained.
What he said made sense, and the theory seemed to be working as he'd just succeeded in getting me to sit still and allow him to clean my wound. I peeked over at Laura who was still standing in the doorway observing as Dr. Cullen worked. Her face held an expression of mild awe, no doubt about how swiftly Dr. Cullen had gotten me to settle down. I realized that the doctor's hands had quit moving halfway through his explanation, that he'd completed the task of cleaning my cut before he'd even finished speaking. My anxiety started to boil up again as I understood what that meant.
"It's time for needles now, isn't it?" I guessed, immediately fearful of him again.
"Yes, unfortunately Laura was correct when she told you that you will need stitches and an injection," he said, his soft voice an utter contradiction to the horrific information he was telling me.
My eyes welled with tears again, and I turned to hide my face. I felt like such a crybaby. The droplets fell silently, at least. I was able to stifle the actual crying sounds that were trying to escape from my throat. Dr. Cullen only wants to help. He wouldn't do this if it wasn't absolutely necessary, I reminded myself. This isn't Fort Hood… I'm far, far away from that wretched place… This is not Fort Hood…
Luckily, that awful train of thought was interrupted before I could travel too far down the trauma line. Laura's pager went off sounding a shrill, repetitive beeping and vibration that startled me back into the present moment. She yanked the offending device from her pocket and quickly silenced it, an apologetic look on her face.
"Go ahead and take the page, Laura," the doctor granted. "I've got this one here."
"Thanks, I'll go see what this is about. Feel better, Caeleigh," she bid as she hurried out the door.
"What were you thinking about just now?" Dr. Cullen inquired gently.
"It doesn't matter." He didn't seem satisfied with my response, so I disclosed part of what had gone through my head. "I was beginning to panic again, so I was just reminding myself that you're not out to get me."
I could tell that he was curious to learn more about my backstory, but he didn't press the issue. Keeping his left hand curled around the back of my arm, his right hand reached for the tray and grasped another syringe—one I was certain had a needle on the tip this time. In a last-ditch effort to stall the inevitable jab, I asked the first question that popped into my brain.
"Why do you bother with going so slow when you could easily just pin me down or jump at me from across the room?" I blurted.
My strategy worked, the hand with the weapon paused to hover above the tray. He gave me a quizzical look. "Is that what you want me to do?"
"No!" I exclaimed, worried that my plan to divert the needlestick would backfire on me. "I'm just wondering why you're so warm and fuzzy when most other doctors would have run out of patience by now. You know that the pain of the needle won't be near as bad as I'm imagining. My fear of it is childish and ridiculous."
"What good am I if I just patch you up without addressing your mental health?" Dr. Cullen asked rhetorically. He let go of my forearm and instead placed that hand on top of mine. His golden eyes gazed intently into mine as he spoke. "It's not supposed to be this hard. The way you were treated in the past was wrong. The question isn't why are you so scared; it's why wouldn't you be?"
I hadn't expected such a thoughtful answer to my perfunctory question. Apparently I was still acclimating to his kindness. He had no clue of what had happened to me, just a suspicion that I had suffered horribly at the hands of a medical provider, yet that did not impede his empathy. I'd never encountered anyone so compassionate.
"I suppose I'm just not used to a person being so understanding," I said. "What you said about honoring the fear is starting to make sense."
Dr. Cullen gave a reaffirming smile. "Do you have any other questions for me, or should we give this a go?"
I could feel my heart pounding inside my chest. "Do it, but I'm probably going to cry the whole time."
He chuckled sympathetically. "Oh, that's all right. Best to let it out rather than hold those tears in. I think that once it's over you'll find it's less bad than what your fear has made it out to be. That said, I want you to now turn over your left shoulder and look at the wall for a moment. Try not to think about it too much and just look away."
I forced myself to follow his instructions and the second I turned my head, I felt a sharp pinch. I winced as the medicine was injected, but then the entire area went numb. I whipped my head back the other way to watch as he continued sticking me all around the cut; however, I didn't feel the subsequent pokes as the lidocaine had already taken effect. He exchanged the syringe for a needle and thread, and all I felt was a strange tugging sensation as he began closing the wound.
I couldn't help but laugh. "I feel like a damn fool."
Dr. Cullen grinned in amusement. "Don't be so hard on yourself. It's natural human instinct to shy away from sharp objects."
"Am I going to have an ugly scar?" I asked worriedly.
"Not if I have anything to do with it," he replied, smiling. "I'm repairing the incision with a subcuticular running suture technique, which is often used in plastic surgery due to its excellent cosmetic outcome. Once I'm done suturing, you actually won't be able to see the thread because the suture lies below the epidermal layer. This allows the wound to heal with essentially no scarring. You may notice some discoloration or texture for a few months, but with time it should fade entirely."
That was a relief. I wasn't a vain person, but I did care how I looked. I was somewhat pretty, and I wanted to keep what beauty I had. I would have a hard time coping with being permanently marred.
"Do the stitches stay in there forever?" I asked.
"No, they will dissolve within a few weeks. If your body rejects the material, you may see some fibers push through the skin, which can feel a little sharp. If that happens, you can try to gently remove them with a tweezers. If you are having to pull excessively on the extruding thread, just trim the part that sticks out and let your body push it out the rest of the way. You can always go to your primary care provider for assistance as well."
I responded with an absentminded nod. I'd sort of stopped listening after the first sentence, preoccupied with the soothing intonation of his voice rather than his actual words. Despite my fear of doctors, Dr. Cullen had a comforting presence. His voice was soft enough to fall asleep to, yet he spoke with reassuring confidence. His hands were strong and gentle at the same time, performing delicate work, but every movement was certain. His high intelligence was evident, but it didn't overshadow his compassion. I knew in my heart that I'd miraculously ended up in the best hands possible.
"I'm sorry for being such a difficult patient," I apologized, feeling the full extent of my humiliation now that I had my head on straight. "I don't mean to be. I just having a hard time trusting people, especially doctors. But I can tell that you're one of the good ones."
"Thank you, Caeleigh," Dr. Cullen said, turning his head to look at me briefly before refocusing on my arm. "Please don't be ashamed of your behavior today. You're not a difficult patient, you're a scared patient. It must have taken substantial courage just to come to the hospital, and I know you've given me your best. Trusting others is hard if you've been burned in the past; I don't fault you for that one bit. In spite of everything, we found a way to work together and get you taken care of, and that is what matters."
As the gentle tugging sensation continued—and as my pride bubble expanded with every thought that had the tone of "I did it!" attached to my reflections about the hurdle I had just overcome—I found myself with the temptation to glance at my arm. Daring to take a peek did have a high probability of causing me to freak out, ultimately undoing the progress I had just made, but I thought I might be missing out. Watching Dr. Cullen stitch up my wound might actually be kind of cool. Deciding it was worth the risk, my eyes flicked downward to look at my arm. It turned out that I'd missed my chance, for Dr. Cullen had already tied off the final suture and swiftly placed a bandage over the closed gash before I could get a decent look. I must've seen enough, though, because I was feeling a little queasy.
"All right, just the anti-tetanus immunoglobulin shot left to do now, and then I'll cut you loose," Dr. Cullen said, clearing away the leftover medical supplies. "Stand up, bend over, and let me know which cheek you'd prefer get the needle."
I felt the blood drain from my face. "W-What?"
He smirked. "I'm joking. I can administer the injection into the deltoid muscle, I only need your arm."
It took me a minute to overcome my shock so I could yell at him. "You're not funny!"
"You should have seen the expression on your face. Priceless," he snickered.
I rolled my eyes and shook my head, finally laughing with him. "You really had me for a second. That was mean, Dr. Cullen."
"I'm sorry," he apologized, not sounding sorry at all. "I can't seem to resist my own wit."
I giggled again and then met his golden eyes with a sincere look. "Thanks for going out of your way to make this experience less scary. I really appreciate your kindness; I won't ever forget it."
He nodded once and smiled. "You're welcome. Is it okay if I administer the antitoxin now?"
I took a deep breath. "Yes, get it over with."
He rubbed just below my left shoulder in a circular motion for several seconds and then gave me the shot. This one hurt a lot more than the numbing medicine, took longer to inject, and left behind a bit of a burning sensation. The doctor placed a bandaid over the puncture site and held onto my arm, applying gentle pressure to the muscle. His cold hand felt really good over the fire that was slowly spreading beneath my skin.
I grimaced. "That definitely hurts. Ooh, I hate shots."
"I know, my dear, I'm sorry," Dr. Cullen said, a sincere apology this time now that all jokes were over. "I wish there was a less painful method. I'll bring you an icepack to take with you when you leave, and any residual soreness should subside within a day. Just take it easy here with me for the next few minutes until the stinging stops."
I agreed. I closed my eyes and breathed with him like I had earlier. I tried to soak in his comforting presence as well as be proud of myself for getting through today. The worst part was over, and I'd faced my fear as best I could. And ultimately, I'd won. I still abhorred doctors and the idea of needles, but now I had one good experience amongst the bad. I would hold on to that not because I thought it would alleviate my fear, but as a reminder of Dr. Cullen's compassion. For the first time in my fifteen years of life, I felt like someone gave a damn about me… even though it was only temporary.
A/N: Carlisle Cullen has taken care of me since I was a little girl. Whenever I needed comfort, he would appear in my fantasy in a way so powerful that I could almost feel him as if he were real. I think he is real to me in a sense. I like to think he watches over me and nurtures me into the person I'm meant to become. I went years without thinking about him, but ever since reading Midnight Sun a couple months ago, his presence is as strong as it was when I was a child. He's back to being the last thing I think about before I fall asleep; he's who gets me to sleep. When he returned, I initially felt a deep sadness that he'd been absent for so long, but then he said to me, "Oh my love, you have it all wrong. Sweetheart, I've been here by your side the entire time". I realized Carlisle has stood by me through everything although I didn't notice he was there because my mind was busy with other things and, honestly, focused on other characters. I didn't need him for quite some time, but apparently now I do, and I thought I'd share this story because maybe you need Carlisle too.
Please leave a review with any and all comments/questions you have for me. I'll post the next chapter in a week or so! It's already written and edited, but I'm waiting to post it to give everyone a chance to read this one first. I hope you are well, and feel free to reach out to me anytime. I truly care about you!