Winning the Lottery - 15. Chapter 15 Trouble!

I’d been back home a week and was about to begin my third work day at the clinic. I was smiling as I wheeled my eighteen year old Toyota Solara into its reserved parking space. I took a lot of ribbing about that ‘old’ car, but I loved it. I still felt the old, familiar sense of freedom when I drove it. Behind me, my shadow, the Dea-Con security guys waited for the handover to the clinic’s guard.

Already parked in the lot was Master Sergeant (Ret) Bernie Reeves’ shiny new Ford F150 Lariat. Bernie was the clinic’s security guard. Retired after 30 years of army service, the last ten as a small firearms instructor, Bernie always arrived at the clinic first to make sure that there were no ‘scumbags’ around. Bernie insisted on carrying a side arm, his Glock 17, but Jason Applebaum (my partner in crime at the clinic) and I weren’t comfortable with the idea.

I parked, raised the convertible roof on my car—you never know when it’s going to rain in Hawaii—and balanced a tray of three Starbucks grande lattes as I swiped my key card to open the back door.

“That you, Dr. Gabe?” bellowed Bernie.

“Yes, sir!” I bellowed back.

Bernie, all six foot two, two hundred and twenty pounds of him appeared at the door. The man moved remarkably quietly for a guy of his size. He waived off the Dea-Con guys as he took over.

“Any lurking scumbags?” I joked.

“None today. You got my coffee?”

“Do bears shit in the woods?”

Bernie was a gentle giant, and it amused both of us to lapse into ‘tough’ talk first thing in the morning. A little silliness to start the day. I think Bernie missed Army camaraderie, and I gave him what I could.

“Applebaum’s late again,” he observed.

Jason generally arrived a few minutes after me. His timing depended on how cooperative his new son, Alfy, was. Sometimes mornings went smoothly. Other times it was a disaster. My first question to Jason was always, “How’s Alfy?” And Jason would beam as he told me of the latest triumph or challenge. Didn’t matter which, he was always proud as punch to talk about Alfy. He enjoyed what he called his ‘single parent mornings’—weekdays when his partner, Kelly, a popular morning radio host in Honolulu was working.

We heard the back door lock click open as Jason scanned his card. “I’m not late, am I?” he called out. It was a redundant question.

“How’s Alfy?” I responded. And off Jason went regaling us with his latest Alfy tale.

The three of us sipped our lattes while enjoying a guys’ ‘testosterone’ moment.

“Where’s the big guy today?” asked Bernie. (He meant Derrick.)

“Just lifting off for Los Angeles,” I said checking my watch.

The rest of the staff, a nurse clinician, two medical office assistants and a receptionist drifted in and the clinic was ready for its 10 am opening.

After Bernie opened the front doors, it took only took about five minutes for the receptionist to register the first patients and assign them to examining rooms. After that there would be a steady stream of patients all day until closing at 5 pm.

First patient: Emaciated 50 year old male with a persistent cough and a badly congested chest. Heart rhythm a little iffy. I sent him to our diagnostic center for a chest X-ray, an ECG and some basic bloodwork. Could be anything from a chest cold (most likely viral) to congestive heart failure. I’d know more when the initial test results came back.

Second patient: Young mother with eighteen month old distressed child. Sure enough, ear infection. A very common diagnosis in Hawaii where the heat and humidity were hell on ears. I sent her off with a prescription for antibiotics and told her to bring the child back for a follow up exam in one week.

Third patient: Thirty year old suspected drug user complaining of a sore back asking for Vicodan for the pain. I began to explain that I couldn’t prescribe narcotics. We did not prescribe them at this clinic...

Near as I can remember there was a gun, then I was falling backwards, and falling, and falling, and falling....

The next thing I was aware of was waking up in a sensory deprivation chamber. At least that’s what it seemed like. I was floating in a black void, blind, deaf and paralyzed. I was perfectly comfortable and content to be there. I didn’t question it.

The next time I ‘came to’ I was more aware. I was still blind and paralyzed, but I wasn’t deaf. I could hear beeping and scurrying sounds. And my shoulder ached. In fact, it throbbed with every beat of my heart, which is what I was focusing on more than the ambient sounds. Then my past intruded into my thoughts, and I felt a sense of dread.

The truth hit me like a freight train. I was a fraud. Not a real doctor at all. I distinctly remember not studying enough. I wrote gibberish on exam papers. Clearly, the marking had been lax. If they’d looked at the answers, they’d have known I was merely doodling on the papers. And the oral exams—I gave nothing but nonsense answers.

I remember going through the motions. Talking to patients. Conferencing with care teams. Answering instructors’ questions. Spouting gibberish the whole time.

Why nobody called me on my big hoax, I’ll never know.

I remember getting my diploma. It was rolled up. When I opened it up, it was blank! As it should have been. Because I was a FRAUD!

But the worst thing of all, was that I persisted with my deceptions. Too embarrassed to come clean. Now I was working in a clinic. A clinic, for God’s sake! Totally faking it. I just hoped I hadn’t done any harm.

Now I’d been shockingly exposed. A patient had uncovered my deception. He outed me as a ‘fraud’ and shot me. The day of reckoning had arrived.

And the very people I’d been trying to please—pretending to be something I wasn’t, just to gain their favor—would, by now, know the truth. Oh sweet Jesus, they must be so disappointed and angry. How could I face them ever again?

I groaned out my anguish.

“Ah, Doctor Nichol, you’re waking up. Welcome back!”

“No!” (I meant, No! I’m not a doctor.) Dread felt like an anvil on my chest. I began to hyperventilate.

“Relax, Doctor Nichol, take your time,” said the voice. “You’re all patched up. You’re going to be okay. I’ll go get the surgeon. He’ll explain.”

She was obviously the recovery room nurse. I hadn’t opened my eyes yet, but I could envision the whole room. All the equipment: monitors, oxygen ports, curtains. I’d be lying on a rolling bed most likely covered in a blue thermal blanket. The metal, barred sides would be up so I couldn’t accidentally roll off.

It took a lot of effort to open my eyes. And I was correct. I was in the recovery suite. How did I know that? A mystery.

“Do you remember what happened?” asked the nurse brightly.

“Somebody shot me?”

“Yes, that’s right. In the left shoulder. The surgeon will be here shortly, he’ll explain everything.”

Oh boy, I was in big trouble. I was deeply ashamed. Because I’d deceived everyone. I’d have to live with that shame for the rest of my life! How could I face everyone? The Deacons? God, I’d loved that family so much! Derrick was my whole world. He’ll be disgusted with me now. After this, I’d have to face life alone. Like Buddha leaving his family compound to become a poor, wandering monk.

“Tell them I’m sorry!” I cried.

“Oh, now, there’s nothing to be sorry for, Doctor Nichol.”

“No! Don’t you understand? That’s all fake!”

“Um...try to rest. Relax. I’ll get the surgeon....”

“Gabriel? I’m Aaron Greenleaf. I’m the surgeon who patched up your shoulder.”

This was all wrong. He was treating me like an equal. He didn’t introduce himself as ‘doctor’ like he normally would to a patient.

I tried to correct his mistake. “I’m not a doctor.”

“You’re not?”

“No. It’s all faked. Now I have to come clean to the Deacons.”

“You faked being a doctor?”

“Yes! Everything. Don’t you see?”

“Acute ischemic psychosis,” said the doctor.

Stupid man thought that my brain had been deprived of oxygen and ‘false’ memories had taken over. He was dismissing me as a nut case. But I was one step ahead of him. I had a solution to this whole mess.

“I want to talk to Mr. Chen,” I said firmly.

“Who’s Mr. Chen?”

God, for a surgeon, this guy was really obtuse. A complete moron.

I explained patiently, enunciating as clearly as I could, so this nitwit would understand. “Mr. Chen is my old boss. He’ll give me my old job back. And I can probably get my old apartment back too. Gosh, I hope it’s still available. And I still have my car, so that’s okay.... I can’t face the Deacons!”

Dr. Greenleaf frowned at me. Then, of all the insulting things, he began to talk to me slowly, enunciating every syllable, as if I were the nitwit, not him. The arrogance of the man!

“One of your patients shot you in the shoulder. He was angry because you refused to prescribe narcotics. The bullet entered just below your clavicle on a slightly upward trajectory. It shattered the clavicle, then nicked your sub clavian artery before exiting just above the scapula. You were very lucky to be in a clinic with another doctor. Dr. Applebaum’s prompt treatment saved you from bleeding out. I went in, sutured the artery, cleaned out the bone fragments, and repaired the clavicle with a carbon fiber rod. Are you following me?”

“That’s not why he shot me.”

“No? Why do you think he shot you?”

“Because I’m a fraud. I remember now.... He figured out what nobody else had. Yes, that’s right...he yelled, ‘You’re a fucking fraud!’ then he shot me.”

“Ahhh,” was all the stupid man said.

“I need to talk to Mr. Chen!” I said.

He ignored my demand. He asked, “Are you in pain?”

“No.”

“That’s because the local anaesthetic we injected hasn’t worn off yet. You’ll let us know the minute you feel pain. What’s the rule when treating pain?”

Jesus Christ Almighty, wasn’t this guy supposed to be a doctor? I explained patiently, “You mitigate pain before it gets bad. It’s much harder to treat when it’s out of control...”

The asshole smirked at me. He actually smirked at me!

I drifted off to sleep again.

Then I vaguely remember my bed being wheeled along the corridor, up in the elevator, and arriving at the medical ward.

Waking up was like swimming upward through molasses. This time my shoulder ached like hell. I think I groaned. I could sense light in the room. I forced my eyes open a crack.

A face appeared in my vision. Oh my God, no! MacKenzie Deacon.

“Gabriel?”

“I’m sorry!” I tried to scream it out, but it came out more like a croak. I burst into tears. I was so terribly, deeply ashamed of lying to them all. Shame, I learned, is as much a physical sensation as it is mental. It grips your guts like a boa constrictor.

I heard the doctor say to her, “He’s suffering from acute ischemic psychosis. It’s not uncommon in patients whose brain has been deprived of blood. The guy that shot him called him a fraud, just before he fired the gun, planting the suggestion in Gabe’s mind. At the moment, he truly believes he’s faked his whole doctor persona.”

“What should we do?” asked MacKenzie.

“Let’s talk outside,” answered the doctor.

I fell back to sleep, then Mr. Chen arrived. I explained the situation to him. He was very understanding and promised me I could have my old job back. And the apartment was available too. Phew.

The next time I came awake, I felt more alert. But before I opened my eyes, I heard a voice I knew well. Derrick! “Gabe, honey, can you hear me?”

“Mmmsoooooorrrrrreeeee!”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Gabe. Would you like some water?”

I kept my eyes screwed shut, but nodded ‘yes’ for some water.

“Can you open your eyes, honey? I’ll put the straw into your mouth. Just take a little sip, okay?”

I opened my eyes to see his face hovering over mine. He looked very sad, or maybe angry, but he was trying to smile, and tears were running down his cheeks.

I managed to sip some water through the straw. “I’m so sorry!”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Gabe. Honestly.”

“But... I....”

“Yes, the doctor explained all that. But Gabe, listen to me. I love you unconditionally. You hear me? It doesn’t matter if there’s a title in front of your name, or a string of letters after it. I love you, Gabriel Nichol, because you’re the most beautiful, wonderful, kind, loving person I’ve ever met.... When I heard you’d been...uh...hurt I was so scared. So terribly scared of losing you. And now I’m just so happy you’re alive.... Do you understand?”

It was all a little confusing. I tried to indicate that by shrugging my shoulders. “Argghhhhh!” I exclaimed as a shooting pain hit me in the left shoulder. I felt instantly nauseous and a broke into a cold sweat. “Fuck! Morphine!” I said through gritted teeth.

Derrick did something. I knew he was activating the morphine dispenser tied to my IV. I lay very still, trying to keep the pain at bay, while waiting for it to kick in. I drifted back to sleep.

I woke up again. Derrick was still with me. He was holding my right hand in both of his. It felt so damn good. So warm and cozy. I smelled flowers, and when I looked for the source of the scent I saw several beautiful flower arrangements. That was strange...people should be vilifying me, not sending me flowers.

Derrick was saying soothing things to me, repeating that he loved me unconditionally, that everyone in the family—Cass, Mom and Dad, Gramps, Gram, the Foroughis, Don—loved me unconditionally. James and Monique send their love too.

“I know I’ve let you all down terribly, but don’t worry,” I said. “Mr. Chen said I could have my old job back.”

“Mr. Chen? When did he say that?”

“I don’t know. He came to visit me. Here....”

“Gabe, Mr. Chen hasn’t come to the hospital. One of us has been here the whole time. Nobody’s seen him. Could you have dreamed about Mr. Chen when you were coming around from the anaesthetic?”

When Derrick said that, I knew that it was possible that I could have dreamed about Mr. Chen. But it had seemed so real at the time.... It was all so confusing.

After that, the Deacons came in, one by one, and all gave me the same message: That they loved me unconditionally. I thought that was very nice of them, of not a little naive. I’d deceived them, and had taken advantage of them, and they were willing to forgive me, just like that. It seemed to me, that being so naive, they might fall victim to the next person who came along to take advantage of them. Someone needed to rescue these people from themselves. But that wasn’t my job. Doctors don’t rescue.....

Wait a minute? Me a doctor? Somehow that seemed familiar. Maybe I was just imagining the ‘feeling.’

And that was the thin edge of the wedge to my mental recovery. The best way I can describe it is to evoke the analogy of a ‘split’ personality.’ At first, I was 99% fraud and 1% doctor. Then, as time went on, that percentage began to change until I was mostly a doctor and only a little bit of a fraud.

Meanwhile, I underwent a battery of ‘head’ tests, both physical and psychological. I had a psychiatrist working with me daily who, in addition to cognitive therapy, tested me thoroughly on my medical knowledge, which, thank God, was unimpaired.

Unfortunately, the “fraud” nightmares persisted, especially in the early morning, before I awoke, and I’d wake up with a feeling of dread, still in a dissociative state. It would take me a few minutes to realize it was just a ‘bad’ dream.

The consensus from both my physicians and family was that I should not return to work for at least six weeks, possibly eight. The psychiatrist put me on a low dose of Rispiridone, a common antipsychotic, and that helped hold the dreams away. I was loath to take it long-term and hoped to wean off it quickly.

Don had doctors from the mainland lining up to come to Hawaii to adequately staff the clinic during my recovery. He’d arranged for counselling for the staff who’d suffered severe trauma themselves. Bernie had shot and killed my attacker when he’d fired at Bernie, luckily missing. With the police investigation and subsequent publicity the whole clinic was in disarray for some time, but was gradually getting back to normal, with increased security provisions.

Derrick announced that he was taking a leave of absence from work to stay home with me. I insisted that wasn’t necessary, and he became adamant, almost angry, and dug his heels in. Gotta say, I loved the ‘assertive’ side of Derrick. Very sexy.

He arranged my recovery schedule for me. A physiotherapist came to the house every morning. The security guys chauffeured Derrick and I to any medical appointments I needed. Derrick also acted as ‘gatekeeper,’ especially in the early days, allowing only infrequent visitors so I didn’t tire.

If you’re a ‘shut in,’ as I was in those first few weeks, there’s no better place than a beach compound in Hawaii to pass the idle days. As I regained strength in my shoulder, the pool was a godsend for resistance exercises. Later I swam in the ocean for a more robust workout.

Once I was feeling a little stronger, each one of the Deacons came forward with an apology. The dear, sweet people all felt guilty for putting me under too much pressure, ergo, precipitating my psychotic episode.

Gramps came forward first. Feeling guilty about setting conditions when he’d first given me that one million dollars, he said he regretted expressing distrust. The fact that I still had my old Solara was proof positive, to him, that he’d put me under strain. “Gabe, my boy,” he declared, “If you want a Lambourghini, well, go get yourself one! In fact I’ll buy you one!”

Douglas had been too distant, not supportive enough.

MacKenzie had poorly explained ‘unconditional love’ and had put too much pressure on me with the ‘building the house’ analogy.

Cass came to me in tears, apologizing for hurling insults at me during “The Monkey Incident.” “Gabe, honestly, I’m so sorry, this was all my fault! I never, ever thought you were stupid or those other awful things I said. Please forgive me!”

According to James, it was all his fault for being mean to me as a kid.

I graciously reassured all and sundry that they had nothing to do with what happened. It was not uncommon, I explained, for medical students to dream about not being prepared for exams. Medical school is wonderful, but also stressful. Those sorts of dreams are to be expected. Unfortunately, when my brain was deprived of oxygen I had a particularly vivid, realistic and persistent dream exacerbated by the effect of the anaesthetic.

And Derrick. Well, Derrick was the king, the reigning Absolute Monarch, of guilt. Apparently, my psychosis was the direct result of him focussing too much on his job and not enough on me. His three day absences left me feeling alone and unsupported.

Can you fucking believe it?

That’s when I got hot under the collar. No way in hell was he punishing himself for what happened to me. He responded by saying that I was cute when I got mad, hot in fact. That led to him giving me a spectacular blowjob as I was still forced to lie still so I didn’t hurt my shoulder. I came so hard my whole body tensed, which caused a bolt of shoulder pain—but it was worth it.

As my health improved I simply assumed that I’d return to the clinic when I was ready. I felt some trepidation—well, a lot of trepidation—about going back there, but I thought that, like falling off a horse, you just have to get back in the saddle and try again. Unfortunately, the closer the time came to going back, the worse my anxiety became.

I could tell Derrick was brooding about something as well. We were both dancing around our respective subjects, afraid to put voice to our thoughts.

Finally, Derrick, who had evidently been putting a lot of thought into the situation, sat me on the couch for another ‘talk.’ He did the nuzzling and neck kissing thing again, which turned me to putty in his hands.

“Gabe, honey, can we be honest with each other?”

“Mmmm...of course, my sweetest.”

“Well, I know you don’t want me to feel guilty for not being here when you were hurt...but it’s more than just that. I was away when Cass was kidnapped, then away when you were shot. And I guess I’ve developed a phobia about going away.... I’m not sure I want to go back to work, a least not working for a big airline.... You know, going away for days at a time. I love flying, but I’m just not sure how to go about it anymore.”

“God, it’s like we’re on the same wavelength. I’m not feeling comfortable about going back to the clinic. I like practicing medicine, and I’m proud of the clinic, in general terms, but the thought of actually facing a patient in an examining room there creeps me out. But I’ve spent the last nearly eight years...well, I just feel I should go back. On the other hand, a near death experience really forces one to re-evaluate priorities.”

“Yes, we’re definitely on the same wavelength. The question is: what are we going to do about it?”

“The thing about it,” I said, “Is that neither one of us really has to work. It’s just that we both love our professions. And we both worked hard to get where we are today.”

“And Hawaii?” Derrick asked. “Is it absolutely necessary for us to stay here, or can we take a break? Maybe live somewhere else for a year?”

“You’ve been giving this some thought....”

“A little. How about I throw out an idea, just to get us started?” His hand had drifted to my cock and was gently massaging it through my shorts.

“Well, if you keep massaging me like that I’ll agree to anything. But seriously, I’d love to hear your idea.”

“Maybe we could go to Africa, or someplace, for a year. I could get a job flying aid supplies or maybe work as a flying instructor, I’d love that, and you could work in a clinic. Maybe you could sign up for “Doctors Without Borders.”

“That’s a great suggestion, hon. Can I think about it, at least overnight. All I can think about at the moment is how good your hand feels down there.”

We retired to the bedroom for a great session of lovemaking and a good night of sleep.

I woke up early the next morning and while my beautiful man lay gently breathing beside me, I gave the subject some thought. Truth was, I didn’t feel comfortable about going to a war zone, or any third-world country. There was no way I wanted to put either of us in any sort of danger. I wondered about doing something in the continental US. I definitely didn’t want ‘inner city,’ but maybe we could work on a Native American reservation, or even a small town that needed a doctor. We could take Derrick’s Cessna with us and he could do charters, or work as an instructor. The downside of that, from my perspective, was that we may end up doing more of a disservice, than actually helping in the long run. It seemed unfair to ‘parachute’ into a place, develop a base of patients and clients, then just bugger off after a year.

After all the work and effort Don had gone through to help set up the clinic, I wondered if he would be hurt if I took some time away. So it was with some trepidation that I phoned him and stumbled through an explanation.

“Gabe, I totally get it!” he responded. “What about just doing some locums in the lower 50? It would be a piece of cake to set something up. There are probably a lot of physicians working in small towns that either need a break or need to take some continuing education courses. What do you think?”

“Good suggestion, Don. I’ll talk to Derrick. I’m not sure that works in with his desire to fly, or teach flying, but your suggestion is a good starting point. And thank you for your understanding!”

To be continued....