Work Text:
Adrenaline was something you cherished. The high after successfully navigating a stressful situation couldn’t compare to anything else. Maybe that was why you decided to work in healthcare.
You did love helping others, especially during the critical moments that led them to the cath lab in the first place. You also found solace in the chaos. Each procedure was different than the last, each moment as critical as the one before it and the one that would follow. Every step you took had to be intentional, informed, and impactful. Mistakes in the cath lab meant crises, which meant you could make no mistakes.
Maybe that’s why when you showed up to the emergency room in overwhelming pain, you were a little bit skeptical of the care you might receive. PTMC had great care providers; you knew that. Hell, you considered yourself one of them, but that didn’t erase the fact that you were in pain, and anxious, and knew a little too much about anything that could be wrong. It was a lot to deal with. So much in fact that you completely forgot the sweet, charismatic attending you’ve secretly harbored a crush on works here.
You curled into yourself, lying on your side in a hospital bed in one of the rooms, and you were thankful you actually got a room instead of one of the overflow beds in the hallway. A soft rap at the door draws your attention, and you wince as you try to sit up in a more approachable position.
“Hi, my name is Dr. Mohan. I’m one of the residents here tonight. What brings you in?” She asks.
Her eyes are filled with a warmth that you find is hard to come by after years of working with seasoned physicians, nurses, and technologists. It’s a deeply rooted warmth, one that comes from the soul of someone who genuinely cares about everyone they meet. Her presence automatically makes you less tense about how the evening will go.
You recount your night, the sudden and sharp pain throughout your lower stomach and pelvis, how you knew because of the radiating pain down your leg that your period would come within the next day or so. You shared how nauseating it was when it first came on; the only physical reaction you could muster was to curl up on your floor and cry. You tell her about the years of experiencing similar pain. Still, always being told by previous providers that it was a normal part of being a woman, everyone dealt with period pain, and how this month, it just seemed worse than usual, and you got scared.
She listened to every word, never interrupting, only asking further questions when you finished saying what you needed. You can tell immediately how invested she is in helping you feel better and figure out what is going on.
“Alright, I think I have everything right now. Let me get you some pain medication and nausea medication. I’m going to consult with one of our attendings on the night shift just to go through what we’re working with. Until then, someone should be by to get labs, and I’ll have an ultrasound come down to do a pelvic scan, and we will go from there.” Dr. Mohan explains.
You nod your head and give her a small smile as she puts in the orders for the medication and labs. You’re not sure how long you get to listen to the rhythm of the emergency department before someone new enters the room, but the endless beeping and alarms and commotion all feel like home to your adrenaline-craving brain, which makes the chaos almost calming.
---
Dr. Mohan enters the room again with another person, when you look up, your heart rate increases, which is undoubtedly given away by the monitor that is currently attatched to your finger. You pray that they just think it’s because of your change in position, but the embarrassment already floods your face with a sickly hot aura that settles in your cheeks.
“I didn’t expect to see my favorite RCIS in my ED this evening.” Dr. Abbot says teasingly, with an underlying lilt of concern at the edge of his voice.
“Your favorite technologist didn’t expect to be here either.” You wince as you adjust your position on the bed. “Whatcha got, Doc?”
He clears his throat with a small furrow in his brow, almost imperceptible, but of course, you notice. You’ve spent nearly two years taking in every detail any time he comes up to brief one of the cardiologists in the cath lab. And it wasn’t infrequent that you ran into each other during nights out with some of the hospital staff.
“Your ultrasound came back clear for appendicitis, so that’s good. Do you have a family history of endometriosis? Have you ever been evaluated by a gynecologist for it?” He asks
Now it’s your turn to wear a look of concern: “No, they’ve always just said period pain is normal and to use a heating pad or birth control and move on.”
He frowns, “Okay. That’s bullshit. And based on your history and your symptoms, I think it’s a very real possibility that’s what could be causing the pain you’re experiencing. The gold standard for diagnosis is laparoscopy, but sometimes adhesions can be seen with MRI or ultrasound. I’d like to have you get an MRI, and I’ll have my colleague in maternal and fetal medicine take a look at the ultrasound we did earlier, and we can see if there’s anything present on imaging.”
You groan and throw your head back on your pillow. MRIs take forever and are rarely covered by insurance without jumping through a million hoops. You’re still recovering from the loans it took to get through school, “I- I’m fine, it’s fine, really, I mean it’s not like I passed out this month.”
“You pass out during your periods?” Jack says.
“Not all the time”
“…that’s not very reassuring,” He mutters, “Look, just get the MRI, and in the meantime let fetal medicine look at the ultrasound to rule out ovarian torsion or a ruptured cyst.”
You look up at him, one hand putting pressure on your abdomen, ready to tell him to forget about it and that you’re just ready to leave AMA. But something about the way he awaits your response makes you stay.
“Fine. I’ll stay.” You say hesitantly.
He looks more relieved than you anticipated. His shoulders drop slightly, and he lets out a brief exhale, “Good,” he says, clearing his throat in a way that makes you unsure if what he said was meant more to reassure himself or you.
“I gotta be discharged and home by 5:30 though, my shift starts at 7.” You say
“Nope.” Jack counters.
“You don’t know my schedule.”
“I’ll call Dr. Bennett myself to have her take you off. She has plenty of techs on call this weekend, just like every other weekend. You need rest.”
You huff and cross your arms, opting to curl on your side again, away from Jack. Now that Dr. Abbot has name-dropped your boss like it’s nothing, you’re all too aware how proximal you are to everyone here. Even if you don’t know them by name, someone in the hospital has a connection to you or your department. It’s now that the anxiety creeps in. The voice that tells you that you really are overreacting. Every doctor before this has told you that period pain is normal. At some point, shouldn’t you start to believe them? Try to get over it yourself without burdening anyone else?
“Hey,” Jack says, sitting on one of the chairs across from you. “The cath lab can handle a shift without you. I’m sure everyone would want you to take care of yourself.” He pauses, “I want you to take care of yourself. You’re not wasting anyone’s time by being here. You came in tonight for a reason.”
As he stands up to leave the room, he looks at you one more time. The moment lasts a millisecond longer than it should. He sighs and dims the lights on his way out.
---
The medication Dr. Mohan prescribed doesn’t take the pain away, not entirely, but whatever it was she gave you works a hell of a lot better than the Tylenol or Ibuprofen that you’ve given up on after years of them not even touching anything.
You can tell this evening is busy in the ER, or the Pitt, as everyone down here so lovingly calls it. A trauma rolls through, multiple stroke codes are called, a code blue, even a code brown. At one point, campus police run past your room and escort a patient back to their room. As time goes on, the pain creeps back in. You would love to ask for more medication, but tell yourself that there are so many other patients tonight who need help more than you.
Jack knocks on the door before entering. He quickly closes it again and pulls the curtain behind him, ensuring the room stays dim and quiet. As soon as he sees you, he realizes how much pain you’re still in. Without saying anything, he pulls up your chart and reads through it.
“Last dose of ketorolac was two and a half hours ago. Looks like you’re ready for another…” He mumbles.
Jack pulls up a chair and sits facing you as you’re curled up on your side, “Sorry I didn’t come back sooner, we’ve been slammed and-“
“It’s busy, I’m the least of anyone’s worries, it’s fine. I’d rather you help everyone else first.” You whisper.
Jack visibly bristles, “I worry about you.” He admits, “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Mohan told me you were in.” The room suddenly feels smaller than it was, and you had completely forgotten about your pulse-ox until you hear the steady beeping of your heart speed up momentarily.
You look at him, really look, and try to evaluate what he’s saying, the same way you stare at a fluoroscopy study trying to see an occlusion during a coronary angiography. It’s all honesty and a little bit of fear.
“Dr. Abbot I-“
“Jack, please…call me Jack.”
You clear your throat and wince. Your hand flies to your abdomen as you curl into yourself further. Jack is immediately out of his seat and rushing out of the room. He quickly comes back, dims the lights even further, places not one but two warm blankets over you, and puts your cold one on top to keep the heat in. He pulls the computer down so it’s next to him, and he can still sit across from you.
“I’m putting in an order for more meds. What’s your pain?” He pauses and looks at you knowingly, “And be honest.”
You close your eyes in defeat and, against all better judgment, decide to tell him the truth, “Uh…maybe a 7.” You sigh.
“Ok, so at least an 8,” He mumbles, “A nurse is going to come in and give you a low dose of morphine, hopefully that helps to curb it while we’re waiting on MRI.” He says softly.
A heavy silence sits between you as you wait for the nurse to arrive. You close your eyes and try to focus on your breathing, something you’ve done for years to work through moments like these. Once the meds settle in your veins, it takes a few minutes, but Jack sees you visibly relax. Your shoulders drop, you shift into a comfortable position, and your jaw unclenches.
Jack looks down and smiles to himself before turning back to his computer to work on charting. You breathe deeply, open your eyes, and glance over to see that Jack is still in the room. Something tugs at your heart when you realize he stayed, especially on a night that you can tell has already been hectic. There’s still a tension in his shoulders, and you can see the exhaustion that seems to be permanently etched on his face.
You inhale and sit up slightly, “Thank you…Jack,” you whisper.
His shoulders stiffen, and his hands freeze over the keyboard before he turns to look at you fully. He sighs, relieved, and looks at you as if you had hung the moon, “You don’t have to thank me for taking care of you. You deserve to be heard.”
His words strike you in the chest. They’re so simple, but spoken so honestly, it almost hurts. For the first time, you were starting to wonder if you weren’t crazy. If your pain was meant to be something taken seriously. You swallow the emotion down, then maybe because of the newfound relaxation from the morphine or the tenderness you find in Jack’s gaze, you feel yourself tear up.
“I always try so hard,” You start, whispering so he doesn’t hear the waver in your voice, “to be strong for everyone else, my patients, my team…I’m so tired, Jack.”
He rolls closer to the bed and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, brows furrowing with concern, “Sweetheart…you don’t deserve to carry this alone.”
You sniffle and feel the dreaded rivulets of tears make their way down your face. You immediately wipe them away and look up toward the ceiling, willing them to stop.
And then, like a reflex, “Sorry. I just-“
“Don’t apologize for this. I want to be here.” Jack says firmly, placing a hand over yours and then pulling away, looking down where your hands had touched.
A chime on the computer pulls both of your attention away from the moment, the invisible walls of professionalism returning. Jack frowns as he looks at the message and curses under his breath, “Dammit.”
He turns to face you again, “MRI is delayed, it’s been chaos out there. I’ll try to see what I can do. You rest.” He says.
You nod in understanding and offer him a small smile and salute, “Yes, sir.”
And then, Jack breaks out in a laugh. It’s warm and genuine, and makes you feel better than any pain medication could—knowing you were behind it. Something rarely heard throughout the Pitt.
As Jack leaves the room and makes sure the curtain is fully closed, you lie on your side again with a soft smile and let yourself relax as you fall asleep. Time passes, and you miss the moments where Jack peeks in, making sure you’re still okay, his shoulders easing every time he sees you’re still asleep, no longer in pain.
MRI finally makes their way down to get you. The scan gives time for the anxiety to creep back in. You wonder if you’re overreacting, if it’s all in your head, if you’re burdening others, or taking resources away from people who need them. For some reason, you keep returning to Jack’s face. The look on it when he assured you reminded you that he wanted to be there. And for some reason, it makes you feel steady, like maybe despite everything, you’ll be okay.
You get rolled back to your room, and on the way, you see daylight breaking through the windows of the PTMC. A clock on the wall reads: 8:07. You know that by now, Jack must be home. Doffing his scrubs in exchange for something suitable for sleep and blackout curtains drawn so he can rest after such a draining shift.
The wait for your results is agonizing; another dose of Toradol is given by a new nurse with braids and a soft smile. Her badge reads: Emma.
“Hopefully this helps, and we can get you out of here soon.” She says kindly, “Your MRI results should be back any minute now, and a doctor will be in to discuss them.”
She leaves the room, pulling the curtains closed, but leaving the lights on. It reminds you of Jack, of all the ways he made sure you were okay without thinking twice about it. Your phone buzzes next to you, and you see a notification in MyChart.
New Test Result.
Without thinking twice, you open your phone and look at the findings.
Impression: Uterus and ovaries are unremarkable. No suspicious adnexal mass identified.
Findings: Pelvic MRI with and without contrast was performed.
No previous MRI for comparison. Anatomy unremarkable. No acute abnormality.
Your face falls as you stare at your screen. You hadn’t realized the hope you held on to at the idea of finally having an answer to the years of pain you’ve experienced. You take in a shaky breath and swallow down your disappointment, something you’ve taught yourself to do after being faced with it so frequently.
A knock at your door pulls your attention away from the results. You hesitate before looking up, still stuck in that word: unremarkable. You look up, surprised to see Jack there, still in his scrubs.
“How’re you doing?” He asks knowingly.
You bite your cheek and glance back down at your phone, “Results just came in…I’m unremarkable.”
Jack frowns and fully steps into the room, sitting in the chair next to your bed again, “Hey, look at me.”
When you don’t listen, he places a hand over yours and squeezes it.
You look at him, and he takes a moment to feel the devastation in your eyes, “This doesn’t erase your pain. What you’re going through is still real. There are still other tests, other ways to look at this, to see what’s going on.”
Then, “I’m not going to let you believe this doesn’t deserve care.”
You pause, not ready to comment on it. Instead, “I thought your shift ended at 7?”
He looks at you, deciding how to respond, “You know when all my shifts start and end?” A beat, “I told you I wanted to be here, I want to see this through.”
You inhale sharply and nod, looking down, “Thank you.”
You don’t realize your hand is still in his until he takes it away. You flex your fingers, wishing you didn’t already miss his touch.
“I’ve got all of your discharge paperwork, a few heat packs, and a script for enough Percocet to last you through the weekend.” He pauses, “And there’s a note excusing you from work until Tuesday so you can rest through the worst of it. And I put down the information for a friend of mine. She’s an endometriosis specialist.”
Your heart swells with emotion. You think for a second that maybe you can feel the entire process of your heartbeat, each valve opening, and your ventricles contracting as your breath catches. You’re still so taken aback by Jack’s dedication and kindness.
“I don’t know what to say.” You admit, looking up at him, “No one’s ever…taken this so seriously before.”
He clears his throat, and his hand rubs his thigh. You notice him putting all of his weight on one side.
“Chronic pain deserves to be believed. I know just how draining it can be.” He reveals.
You remember going out with the cath lab one night to a small dive bar on the other side of town that was hosting a karaoke night. Audrey, your best friend, dragged you along after weeks of begging. You told yourself then that it had nothing to do with the fact that Jack Abbot would be there.
It was that night that you had gotten slightly tipsier than anticipated and spent most of the evening in a booth next to Jack, Robby, and Audrey, talking about everything and nothing all at once.
It wasn’t until Jack got up to grab another beer that you noticed it. His prosthetic, and the careful, measured way that he walked.
“I completely forgot.” You whisper.
He smiles, “Wasn’t your job to remember, but I’m here if you ever want to talk about it.”
You nod and smile, “Thanks.”
“Text me when you get home? Otherwise, I’ll resort to a personal wellness check,” He asks, making sure all of your papers are in order.
“You know my number?” You smile
“I’m resourceful,” He responds, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down at you smugly.
You laugh and start to gather your things, and you hug him in thanks. His hands don’t know where to land for a moment before settling on your waist and giving you a gentle squeeze. You hold on for a moment longer than necessary, and Jack makes no move to pull away first.
You sigh with an exhausted smile and look up at him, ready to leave. He walks you to your car, and you drive home. After your shower, pajamas, and heating pad, you lie in bed looking through your discharge papers.
On the last page is something handwritten, a phone number. You immediately know it’s Jack’s.
Underneath it reads:
Rx: Dinner together (mandatory).
There’s a smiley face next to the note, and you smile to yourself as you pull out your phone to let him know you’re home and ask a question about your new prescription.