Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 86102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Protecting myself from future hurt isn’t some tiny consideration. I’ve done the whole fresh start thing. I don’t want to do that again. I like it here, even with the limitations of a rural practice. I don’t want some ugly ending.”
“And yet you’re trying to end things.”
“I don’t want…” He twisted his mouth right as his phone vibrated. “Damn it. That’s my phone alarm. I’ve got to get to the clinic. I don’t want to end things. I don’t. But I also refuse to be something that contributes to poor health for you.”
“Go.” I rubbed my temples. “But we’re not done talking. If neither of us wants to end things, there has to be an answer.”
“I hope so.” His face was heartbreakingly sad, eyes liquid. The hopeless sag to his features made it clear he didn’t believe me. He collected his things, and I didn’t stop him, despite a bone-deep certainty that he wouldn’t be taking my call later. He was so damn sure he was doing the right thing, while I was convinced there was a way for me to have it all. Somehow. Someway. This wasn’t done. It couldn’t be.
Thirty-Two
Quinn
Not done. All day at the clinic, Adam’s words and his stony expression hung heavily in my mind, like a picture frame too weighty for its hook. One wrong move and everything would come tumbling down, me included. He thought we weren’t done, but I simply didn’t see any other path forward. He was running himself into the ground, and that wasn’t likely to change. And yes, he had a point that I was trying to protect myself from getting any more attached. This already hurt so damn much. Another few months and my heart and the rest of me might not survive the fall. As it was, our talk had left every tender place inside me bruised and cracked.
Even with my hurt, there was still the usual parade of emergencies to manage and patients to see. I was damn lucky though, and most of the patients were of the routine variety, so my wandering brain wasn’t truly put to the test.
“So I should use my monitor more often?” Mrs. Rose was one of our regular patients, someone who saw the PA for preventative care as well as coming in for more urgent needs. That morning she’d had an alarmingly high blood sugar reading, and her worried husband had made her come in to discuss steps to avoid a more serious event that would warrant hospitalization or other intervention.
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “Testing your blood sugar more regularly will give you more data to work with.”
“You younger doctors sure like your data.” She tilted her head, gray hair bouncing.
“Data is power.” On that, I was certain, but again, my thoughts drifted to Adam. What data did I have? None of our experiences thus far supported my worries about him ending things when he became too busy. He was the one who’d brought me to his birthday and the one who’d easily called me his boyfriend. All the data said he wanted to make me a priority. But on the other hand, I did have anecdotal evidence that stress and long days seemed to bring on the headaches for Adam. Hell. No easy answers, and I needed to focus on Mrs. Rose. “Without data, we’re guessing at medication tweaks. If you test more often, we can see which medications are making a difference and in what amounts.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I’ll do that.” She nodded emphatically. I needed some of her certainty. I wished I had concrete numbers, some way to predict the future for Adam and me, hard data to guide me forward rather than guesswork.
She folded her hands primly in her lap, way more patient than I deserved that day.
“Good. It’ll help the endocrinologist too if you’ve got more numbers to share.” My mind might be racing, but I tried to keep my focus on Mrs. Rose. “We’re happy to help you here in the clinic, but I do want you to see the specialist too.”
Diabetes was a tricky beast. Some cases could be managed through a general practitioner, like hers at diagnosis, but with more erratic numbers, having input from a specialist would help tremendously. I’d tweaked her insulin dose as a stopgap measure, but I’d rest easier once she saw the specialist.
“I’ll follow up on the referral. Promise. This was scary enough. I’ll test more frequently too. Not going to let you down, Doctor.”
“It’s not me you need to worry about it. Do this for yourself and your family. And for what it’s worth, I believe in you. I trust you to make the changes.”
Oh. Trust. Did I trust Adam to make changes to support his health? I trusted my patients all the time, but did I trust my boyfriend the same way? Maybe that was part of it. I was so sure he’d burn himself out, so I hadn’t been open to the idea that he might make changes. And I was absolutely positive he wouldn’t choose me if he did have to cut back in some areas. But why? Why couldn’t I trust him? I exhaled hard. That truly was the question and not one I had a ready answer for.