Don’t Fall for the Doctor by Lacey Bolt
Chapter 2
“Explain yourself.” The chief cardiologist’s stern voice removed the last hint of a smile from Dr. Michael Tobers’ face.
Dr. Evans, the chief cardiologist, threw a magazine on top of the large mahogany desk. Michael stared at his own image on the open pages. A lump formed in his throat, but he forced himself to lean back in the chair and stretch out his legs.
He did nothing wrong. He covered all his bases before the article came out. Sure, he forgot to check with HR until after it was too late to stop the article. But thanks to that meeting last week, he knew he was in the clear.
The vein popping out of Dr. Evans’s forehead suggested otherwise. One of the nurses warned him about Dr. Evans’s temper months ago, during his first shift at the hospital. He hadn’t believed the rumors about his rigid adherence to any and all rules until now.
“I checked with HR first, and they said there was nothing in my contract prohibiting this.” He crossed and then uncrossed his arms before forcing a laugh through his lips. “They could have picked a better tagline, but . . .” He shrugged, letting the words fade away. He maintained steady eye contact, refusing to let the chief see that his intimidating tactics were working.
Michael’s ears started to ring, a warning of what was to come. He scratched his ear, but the noise continued. The tightness in his chest was building. His heart began to beat faster than it had during his three-mile run that morning, and now the walls in the room felt suffocatingly close.
“Anything else? I have patients to see. Oh, and I noticed that no one cleaned up the vomit in the exam room from my first patient.” His voice took on a higher pitch than usual. He fought the urge to get up and run out of the office. If the chief didn’t back down soon, annoying him would be the least of Michael’s problems.
A few seconds passed as the chief glared at Michael. Finally, the chief broke eye contact and let his hands fall to his side. Dr. Evans turned around to face the large windows of his office and spoke, but the words were too hard to understand over the ringing in his ears and the sound of his heartbeat.
Michael cleared his throat and stood up, cutting Dr. Evans off. “Mind if I take this with me?” He grabbed the magazine where it still lay on the large desk and walked out the door, ignoring the sounds still coming from the chief.
The closest stairway was down the hall and through the door on the left. Michael ignored the people in the hall. He ran around them until he reached the heavy door of the stairwell and raced down several steps to a landing, far away from the cardiology clinic.
The cement floor was cold as he sat. What else had the therapist said? Focus on something solid to touch, and count breaths slowly. Breathe in slowly, breathe out slowly. This will pass.
He placed all his attention on his breath.
There was no air in the stairway. No oxygen was going into his lungs. Focusing on his breath was pointless. His chest was too tight, and if something didn’t happen soon, he would pass out.
His vision clouded, and he could barely see his hands in front of his face. Was this really a panic attack or something more? This was unbelievable. After all those years of medical training, he should know the difference between a heart attack and a panic attack. But his chest hurt so badly.
He moved his hand from his chest to the cold concrete floor and focused on breathing through his nose. Slow and steady . . . in and out . . .
Finally, Michael’s vision started to clear, and the muted noises from the hospital began to reach his ears. A door slammed a few floors above, and two people spoke on the stairwell in quiet voices. A second door slam was followed by silence as the owners of the voices left the stairway.
Michael pulled his phone from his pocket. That was too close. Nothing like this had happened in months, not since he had lost a patient in the operating room.
Gary.
The case had been complicated, and he knew the odds were against him, but Gary’s wife said Michael was their last hope. Their last chance for a long life together. They knew the chances of surviving the surgery were slim, but they still wanted the procedure.
Michael had done the same procedure earlier that year for a patient who was in worse health. That patient survived and was now thriving. The medical association gave him an award for his success with that case, and he wrote two separate academic articles about the procedure.
But Gary hadn’t survived. Michael spent a week coping with one anxiety attack after another last year until his therapist helped him get things under control again.
A little run-in with his boss shouldn’t be enough to upset him. Not like this.
No one died. No one suffered.
His boss was just mad that he was featured in a local magazine that people probably didn’t even read.
Whatever his boss thought, his record spoke for itself. He was an unstoppable cardiologist—one of the best in the region. People traveled hours to see him. They came to him when other cardiologists gave up hope.
Would the patients still trust him if they knew that he had anxiety attacks?
I am one of the best. Michael repeated the words with each measured inhale. If only he actually believed that.
Michael pulled out his cell phone, wiped the sweat off his hands, and selected a name from his contacts.
“Bill, call me back. I almost got chewed out by hospital administration; they aren’t happy about that article. Never should have done it. But you talked me into it, and you need to help me out of this mess. Call me when you are out of surgery.”