Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
“I shouldn’t have said what I said. It was a long, tiring week, and I acted like a brat. But I promise that the patient’s best interest was always at the forefront of my mind. That’s what we’re about, isn’t it? The patients?”
I wave my hand at his door like the wards filled with sick people are outside, my heart sinking when my hand drifts past priceless paintings and collectible antiques on the way.
Defeated, I slump low before vying for another semi-paid position. “Will you at least consider deferring my residency to the general hospital? Their surgical roster won’t be as demanding as Myasnikov Private, but I’m sure I will get an occasional sit-in when the time comes to defer my studies to a specialist position.”
My eyes snap up from my hands when Dr. Sidorov replies, “And lose an upcoming neurosurgeon prodigy? Don’t be absurd.”
I couldn’t be more shocked if he had slapped me.
“I… He…” I whisper my next set of words. “I called Dr. Abdulov a pig.”
He checks a document before correcting, “An uncaring, arrogant, chauvinistic pig.”
Since I have no defense, I remain quiet.
It is for the best. I may have missed his praise if I had tried to plead innocent.
“And you were right.” Shock zips through me when he grins. “He is a pig.” I haven’t gotten over my first lot of disbelief when I’m hit with another dose. “Your diagnosis was also correct. Tests proved Mrs. Ivanov has a severe B12 deficiency. She was given her first dose of serum hours ago, and her prognosis has already drastically improved. We removed the ventilator and lowered the sedatives keeping her under. She woke two hours ago.”
My mouth falls open, but other than that, it refuses to adhere to any other prompts my brain is giving. I knew her diagnosis could be unearthed without a scalpel. I’m just a novice at being told I was right by anyone, much less a supervisor.
Even when they’re proven wrong, they rarely admit it.
“Her surgery?”
That’s it. That is all I can get out—two measly words.
“Was canceled this morning. Her B12 levels were so low she will be rostered for bi-weekly serum injections…” His words trail off when an emotion I didn’t mean to show leaps onto my face. “Do you disagree with my medical plan?”
“Umm…” Please excuse my idiocy. The genuine interest in his tone has left me a little dumbfounded. “I don’t disagree with it. I just want to make sure the dosage level isn’t too excessive. An overdose of B12 can be as dangerous as a deficiency. What was the level identified in her MMA test?”
“We conducted the homocysteine test. It was…”—again, he checks a document in front of him—“thirty-eight.”
“Thirty-eight picomoles per liter?”
I sound shocked. Rightfully so. Those levels are dangerously low and are most likely the cause of Mrs. Ivanov’s numerous neurological episodes. It would have made it seem as if she were having a stroke, or worse, it could have caused a stroke.
When you’re deficient in B12, it causes an increase in homocysteine. Too much homocysteine causes inflammation of the blood vessels and oxidative stress—both significant contributors to strokes.
“Was an MRI conducted?”
When Dr. Sidorov nods, I hold my breath, waiting for him to elaborate. “It showed increased blood flow, but no dangerous clots were sighted.”
I exhale deeply, relieved. “That’s wonderful. I’m so grateful.”
“As was Mr. Ivanov.”
His words pique my attention as my heart rate soars. I don’t know if it is a good or bad surge. It may be a bit of both. The “Mister” part of his comment instantly conjured up murky brown eyes and a devastatingly cut jaw, but it also proves a relationship between the patient I assessed and the man who kept me awake half the night.
I can only hope it is a blood relation and not one founded by law, or my limbs will be weighed down with guilt instead of untapped sexual exhaustion.
My focus shifts back to Dr. Sidorov when he says, “You were mentioned multiple times while he endorsed a check to fund the new wing slated for completion by the end of the year. The praise was so inspiring that it felt right to offer you this now instead of waiting for your residency to end.”
When he nudges his head to the multipage document, I lift it from the desk. My eyes aren’t as misted now, so the font is legible.
“You’re offering me a promotion?” Before he can answer, my eyes bulge out of my head. The wages cited must be annually instead of monthly like my residency contract because the digits are excessive. “I think someone made an error. This amount can’t be right.”
Dr. Sidorov laughs when I twist the contract around to face him. “It is as stated and will be backdated to the day you began your third year.”