Hot Docs On Call: New York City Nights. Tina Beckett
was where the weight of responsibility became heavy. It was one thing when you worked under someone and they made the final decisions. Tessa was rapidly coming to a time in her career where she would make those choices. As much as she might wish it were different, to have it any other way would be a cop-out. Brian was basically handing this case to her. She should be ecstatic. Instead, she was swamped by indecision. But she’d better snap out of it or she may as well hang up her scrubs right now. So she stiffened her spine.
“I concur with what you just said. His daughter flew in to see him pretty soon after surgery, and she’s got medical power of attorney in the event that anything happens, if I understood her correctly.”
The daughter whose name was Tessa. The memories of Mr. Phillips protecting his modesty seemed bittersweet now.
“Good,” Brian said. “DNR order?”
The tightness in her chest grew. DNR… Do Not Resuscitate. “I don’t know. I was hoping the section was all he’d need.”
“I’ll need you to check on that. Talk to the daughter.”
She knew that Brian didn’t mean to sound brusque. It was part of remaining objective enough to do what was best for the patient. And she should be grateful that he was guiding her through the necessary steps, because right now her head was spinning. She’d lost other patients, especially when she’d done her trauma rotation. But there was something about this one…
Maybe because she and Clay had worked side by side on him—as if by joining forces they could double their healing power. But there was an inferno raging within Mr. Phillips’s body that would take a miracle to put out.
“I’ll talk to her.”
“I was going to go down with you, but the fewer people in the room when he hears the news, the better.” He studied her across the desk. “Are you up to this?”
Was she? This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation. And she could probably say the word and Brian would go down in her place and handle everything. She wouldn’t ever have to see Mr. Phillips again. But sometimes caring about a patient meant having to relay difficult news and muddling through it the best you could. And if she was ever going to be able to do this job on her own, she was going to have to take the bad with the good. Walking with the patient, working together to make the very best choices, brought its own rewards—even if that reward was in bringing honor and dignity as they made end-of-life care decisions.
But they weren’t there yet. The team would meet and come to a joint recommendation. That was, depending on what Mr. Phillips wanted to do.
“I’m up to it.” She stood. “I’ll let you know what the feeling is from Mr. Phillips and his daughter.”
“Call me if you need me.” He glanced back at the screen, where those bright spots seemed to glitter an unspoken accusation at her. “And, Tessa, I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to see this any more than you did. Sometimes these things just don’t follow any pattern.”
Maybe they did, though, in this case. The tumor hadn’t been all that deep, and she’d gotten down to clean margins. But somehow those cancer cells had ventured outside that dark circle and burrowed deep inside Mr. Phillips’s body. She wondered if Clay knew yet.
Probably not. He was an orthopedist. That’s where his efforts would be concentrated. No need to even contact him with the news. Besides, he could pull the results up just as easily as she could, if he wanted to.
“Thanks. I’ll let you know how things go.” With that, she left his office. About halfway down the hallway she stopped and leaned against the wall, drawing a couple of deep breaths and trying to organize her thoughts. No sooner had she done that and gotten on the elevator that her time with Clay in this same space filled her head and made tears spring to her eyes.
The back-and-forth innuendos and laughter seemed crude now.
You’re being ridiculous. This is part of being a doctor. If you can’t handle it, you’d better get out now.
Someday she would take a patient’s diagnosis in stride, as Brian did. As Clay probably did. But today was not that day. Not with the anniversary of her mother’s death still clinging to her thoughts.
The elevator stopped one floor down and opened, leaving her staring at the glare from the brightly waxed linoleum tiles. It took the elevator doors marching back toward each other to make her reach out to stop them. She stepped off and glanced at the board that listed the patients and room numbers. Mr. Phillips was still in room five, down to the left.
When she arrived she heard laughter coming from inside. Giving a quick knock and forcing a spring to her step to avoid looking like a funeral director, she entered the room.
Someone was sitting in a chair next to the head of the bed, a grin on his face that was as big as Mr. Phillips’s. Two pairs of eyes swung toward her. But it wasn’t the man’s daughter who sat there. It was Clay.
He kept smiling, but a subtle shift took place as his eyes met hers. She made her own lips curl, although it took an enormous force of the will to get those muscles to tighten.
She glanced around the room, hoping his daughter might be there. But she wasn’t. Just Mr. Phillips and Clay.
“What are you two talking about?” she asked. Her voice was light enough, but it had an artificial timbre to it that reminded her of those sweetener packets she used in her coffee.
Mr. Phillips’s eyes crinkled around the corners. “Just comparing notes.”
“Guy notes.” Clay’s gaze never left her face.
He knew. She could see it in the slight movements in the muscle at his cheek, in the firming of his glance.
And it was Clay who provided the opening she needed. “I was telling Mr. Phillips his break is healing just the way we like to see. Do you have news on that spot you removed?” He stood and motioned her to take the chair so she could be closer.
“I do. Do you want your daughter to be here?”
Just like that, the crinkles disappeared, dying a terrible death. “That bad, huh?”
Tessa could have taken the chart and studied it as if there was something important written there and avoided meeting Mr. Phillips’s gaze altogether, but she wouldn’t do that to him. She owed it to him to be direct and honest, without taking away all hope. “Your scan showed some areas that we need to look into.”
“Where?”
“Your liver. Your lungs.”
The man’s breath exited in a soft sigh. “Cancer?”
“We need to do so some more—”
“Tessa.” That single word came from Clay.
Mr. Phillips looked from one to the other. “I’ve been around the block a couple of times. Something’s eventually going to get me. Why not this? I’ve outlived most of my friends. My brothers and sisters. My wife. So just give it to me straight.”
Swallowing, she nodded. “Yes. We’re pretty sure it’s cancer that has spread from your leg. We’re going to get a treatment team together and see what we come up with.”
He looked at her for a minute or two. “You do your talking. But if it doesn’t look like an easy fix, I’m going to have to turn you down. I can’t do that to my daughter and son, and she’s traveled a long way to see me already. At least I’ll have time to say my goodbyes.”
Mr. Phillips’s wife had died almost ten years ago of a massive stroke. She’d been dead before she’d hit the ground.
Tessa wasn’t sure which was worse for those who were left behind. Watching your loved one wither away before your eyes or having them snatched in an instant.
“Do you want me to speak with your daughter?”
“She’ll