Work Text:
“The patient in two received Narcan thirty minutes ago and is under observation for another three thirty. The last one is in peds, likely broken fibula, waiting on X-rays.”
“Got it,” Abbott replied, gazing around the ER. His face was pale, eyes low, maybe more tired than Robby had ever seen him. But Robby didn’t comment – his own exhaustion was likely obvious - only turned to walk toward the lockers; Abbot followed.
“Big plans for tomorrow?” Abbott asked.
Robby shook his head. “I’ll be here.”
“What?” Dana asked, the blond nurse standing in front her own locker, paused in pitching her purse over her shoulder.
“I’m working the day shift tomorrow. We’ve got three newbies coming in,” Robby said tightly. His locker opened to the left, so he saw the doctor and nurse exchange a look on his right. He threw on his coat, waiting for them to come out with what they were thinking, but they were both silent. “See you tomorrow,” he said, and gently closed his locker, walking away.
He hadn’t seen the look; as he walked through the exit without Dana beside or behind him, he knew she’d stayed behind to put to words what the look had meant. Robby took a deep breath.
It was true; Robby had not worked on the anniversary of his mentor, Dr. Adamson’s, death in 4 years.
For all they knew, it was just a coincidence. It’s not like he announced it each year. It wasn’t a coincidence, of course – he’d chosen not to work this day in the past and had chosen specifically to do so this year. It was beyond time for him to stop walking on eggshells about something that happened years ago.
But the look – knowing that it had occurred, even now knowing what their faces might have looked like at the time – pierced a tiny part of Robby’s exhaustion as he crossed the street to the garage, and made room for a tightness in his chest, a churning nausea rising in his stomach.
They doubted his ability to work on that day. It was obvious. He shook his head, scoffing to dismiss the idea. It was just another day. There was nothing magical or cursed about a day on a calendar; if anything it was random in terms of time and the cosmos….
Robby started his car. He would have a quiet night, get some good sleep, and make sure that the newbies had a smooth first day in the morning. That was the best way, in his experience, to get great residents in the ER like Langdon, Collins, and Mohan. He needed to be there to ensure that they really understood the culture that he has been carrying on with and from Dr. Adamson all these years.
And just because he hadn’t worked that day in a few years, didn’t mean he could keep being a baby about it.
Robby knew he was allowed to be upset about it; what happened during Covid-19 was traumatic for humanity around the world, particularly medical workers. It had been a shit show where the entire department had been unable to keep their heads above water; they’d drowned for months. Coming back from that had been a long, slow process for everyone. It was time for the last piece to fall into place: for Robby to get back to doing his best to save lives, even on inconvenient days like tomorrow.
His cell pinged on his drive home, but he ignored it until he parked in the apartment garage and made his way onto the elevator.
Thinking about doing a double
Abbott’s message was short and simple but the irritation it caused makes Robby scowl and shove his phone into his pocket. He hoped delicate treatment would stop after he worked a normal shift tomorrow.
It was just a day, he reminded himself, opening his apartment to the setting sun streaming through the windows of his living room – he needed to buy curtains, décor in general, but hadn’t gotten around to it in years.
He didn’t even think of that day often after so many years. The things that had happened that day seeped into his consciousness unbidden enough that the memories didn't feel as tender as they once did. Some of the hardest moments could appear randomly when he turned off a patient’s respirator or when he put on PPE…and he could acknowledge the memory and move on with his day.
Tomorrow would be easy. It would be another day in the ER. Langdon and Collins would be there, he knew, and both could be a relief on hard days. Dana would let him work like normal if he ignored her concern enough. It was likely that Abbott would be too exhausted to worry too much about Robby by morning. That was a comfort and a concern all in one.
Robby pulled some leftover from his fridge from his last day off – a carbonara from a nearby Italian place – and tossed it in the microwave for a minute. He poured himself a glass of water and his mind wandered to the scotch in the back of the glass cabinet. His phone pinged again in his pocket.
You’d be doing me a favor letting me pick up the extra shift :)
The smiley face made it a joke. Abbott was trying to take some of the edge off his offer, but it wasn’t working. Robby sure as hell knew that the statement wasn’t true; Abbott had been at the end of his rope in the ER and desperately needed a break. Somehow, he could never find just the right time or opportunity for a vacation and had been working himself to the bone for the last couple of years. Robby wasn’t sure what was going on in his life or in his head that made him pour himself into his work in such a reckless way. He wished he knew.
The man wasn’t exactly forthcoming about his personal life or feelings. As much as Robby relied on Abbott, loved him like a brother really, their conversations tended to revolve around work.
The irritation faded a bit at how firm Abbott was being about his offer. Robby sighed and pulled his food from the microwave, then responded,
No can do. You’ll just have to enjoy a day at the beach
He took a big pull of his water and sat down at the table with his meal. His thoughts rattled more than they normally did, bouncing from Covid PPE protocols to Abbott’s increasingly exhausted demeanor to the look he’d exchanged with Dana while Robby was leaving today, and the stupid offer to take his shift tomorrow.
Sometimes he wished everyone would just say what they’re thinking aloud all the time.
He wished he could say what he was thinking. He used to, a long time ago.
He remembered doing that with his father on road trips, saying everything that came to his mind, and listening to every stray thought his father had with rapt attention. It had seemed normal back then, though he’d realized later that no one else in his family talked that way; his siblings all hinted, his mother only shared what she’d heard from someone else about someone else, always third party information about third parties. And none of his friends had talked like that; they’d only shared their thoughts on sports, women, their studies, future jobs or plans or hopes. Open conversations about feelings were suddenly rare as soon as he realized he should be grateful for them: when his father died.
After that, the only other person Robby talked that way with had been his mentor, Dr. Adamson. They’d worked closely together for decades, toiling away in the ER where Dr. Adamson ran the show and taught Robby everything he knew, everything about medicine and people and himself. When Robby’s father had died, he’d realized that Dr. Adamson was the only person who really understood him and cared about him as a person.
When Dr. Adamson died, he realized that was it. It was just himself in his own head.
Robby knew hypothetically that there were people in his life who cared about him and loved him, even knew a lot about him and would want to learn more. The idea made sense in theory. It was just that…in practice, it didn’t quite click in his brain as truth.
He felt about the idea of people caring about him the same way he’d felt about T.S. Elliot being a famous poet as an undergrad; this is the truth, but it doesn’t make any sense to me.
He’d been in close intimate relationships and friendships from childhood all the way up to today, but he still felt quite sure, if he really thought about it, dug down into the dark hole in his chest that appeared when he stopped working for more than an hour, that each and every one of those relationships had been and still was utilitarian at it’s core.
If he disappeared off the face of the earth tomorrow, of course people would wonder and worry where he went.
But the biggest mark his absence would make in their lives would be the missing set of hands in the ER, one less dinner partner, one less person to help with homework or moving or personal problems.
The fact that two people in his life had seen him as a person had been encouraging – for years, Robby thought he might find more people like that. He spilled his guts one too many times to a date or new friend and knew now that he’d had his share. He knew now he should have been grateful to have had two people. Two more than some, maybe.
His thoughts had become too maudlin, and he tossed the remaining pasta onto the counter. The scotch was calling to him, signaling that he should avoid it. It had been easy to fall into the habit of having a few drinks after a hard shift when he’d been in his 20’s and 30’s but the damage added up.
Maybe tonight, though, was a good night for an exception.
He cleaned his plate, dried it, and put it back into the cupboard, then realized how dark it had become while he’d been moping at the table. He wandered into his bedroom and turned on the small lamps on his end tables, a warm comforting light, and his phone pinged again.
He frowned, hoping it was anyone but Abbott again, but no luck.
You know I burn. Seriously let me know by 6. You know I have nothing going on tomorrow
Why was he being so persistent? Robby wanted to throw the damn phone, but plugged it into the charger and crossed into the master bath for a shower.
He needed a distraction from this creeping feeling he was having. The exhaustion he normally felt between two shift was gone, and the tightness and nausea were growing into what he reluctantly realized was dread.
It wasn’t fair, he thought as he washed his hair, thinking of the look between Abbott and Dana.
Nothing is fair. Stop thinking about it.
Sometimes, he thought it was better to have no one. He wished he didn’t know any of his coworkers, had no friends, no family, and could just start from scratch. He dreamed of walking into work with no baggage and working a shift treating illness and injury without anyone around him looking at him with understanding or pity or care. He wondered if everyone treating him like a doctor instead of a person would make him forget too. What a relief it would be to be a normal person doing his damn job.
It was that, or the other extreme that he imagined in the shower; the idea of knowing that someone – even one person in his life – really knew him and cared about him first and foremost in the world, like his dad or Dr. Adamson….
That’s where the thought always ended; as he ended his shower, Robby chuckled darkly at his own ennui. One thought always led to another – I wish I had a person in my life who cared about me most – and then – who cares?
Robby had a good life. A good job, good friends, a good apartment. He was literally doing good in the world. He had nothing to complain about except this stupid internal hole that sat idle in his chest. Simple loneliness, he guessed. Therapy suggested maybe some kind of attachment disorder, but he had never been patient enough to fix something that felt inevitable.
It was 9pm by the time he pulled on a pair of sweats and looked around his dimly lit bedroom. The comfortably decorated bed usually looked inviting between shifts; he knew he had to be up by 6am to get ready and be back at the ER by 7, but the idea of even sitting down seemed impossible. The dread creeping through his core had blossomed into electric anxiety while he’d dressed without him noticing the change.
None of this mattered. Tonight was a normal night. He’d had a normal day at work where he’d done a good job, done what he could to help, made it home without a problem, and now he was having a normal night at home. He’d eaten and had some water and needed to relax so that he could sleep.
Doctor’s orders – calm down and relax so you can sleep.
He thought about leaving the building and going for a run. The idea of going out into public surrounded by strangers and dodging cars at crosswalks seemed awful. His building had a gym. There might be people there, but he would feel so much better if he burned some of this anxiety off. He grabbed his keys and made his way to the second floor.
As he exited the elevator, he realized he’d forgotten his headphones, but turning back meant getting closer again to the bottle of scotch in the cabinet. The scotch would calm him. It might make him sink into the couch and realize that none of his worries mattered as much as he thought, that he was being silly.
Or it might make him realize that no one would give a shit if he binged himself into tomorrow and texted Abbott at 5:55 to stay in the ER.
The gym was empty, and he ran two miles too fast considering how infrequently he ran at all. Legs trembling, dripping sweat, he wandered back up into his apartment and felt like maybe punching something would make him feel better.
The thought came and went; the answers he found as a teenager seemed dramatic to his adult self.
He rinsed quickly in the shower again and pulled on fresh sweats. He pulled out a small glass and poured himself two fingers of scotch, which went down easy. A relief. He poured himself two more and sat on the couch. He hadn’t turned on the lights in the living room, but the lights of Pittsburg lit the room dimly.
He turned on the television to a random channel and let the voices drone over him, barely a distraction from his thoughts as he sipped his second drink. This was a good idea, he thought.
He always thought that around the second drink.
A third is ok, maybe. Don’t drink a fourth.
Very reasonable, he agreed.
He wondered if Abbott had texted again after not receiving a reply.
He stood, still holding his half empty glass, and realized that he felt much better already.
He stopped, mind calculating….
Alcohol was not a solution. Of course. If alcohol was helping with anxiety, one probably required some kind of as-needed anxiety medication. Or therapy, or meditation or some shit.
He gazed at the scotch, knowing it was always a bad idea, then downed the remainder.
When he made it into his bedroom, the phone was flashing with a new text. It was from Janey, Jake’s mom, and he smiled at the thought of her.
Jake can’t stop talking about Pittfest tomorrow with Leah! :)
Robby grinned, licked his lips, sighed, responded,
I’m sure they’ll have a great time
He waited a moment, but Janey didn’t respond. He flipped back to his messages, saw Abbott’s still there unanswered, and put the phone back down.
Robby could be utilized. There was nothing wrong with being helpful. His entire career was built on the fact that he could help other people; he was good at it and he liked doing it. He wanted to show everyone around him how to do it better every day. The fact that this extended to his personal life made sense. He wanted to give up his ticket to PittFest so that Jake could impress a girl he really liked. That made sense to him. He wanted Janey to be happy that he was helping her son be happy. He wanted to lift up his residents so that they could all run an ER when they were ready, the way Dr. Adamson did when he had been a resident years ago.
Happy, grateful, at the reminder that he 100% chose this life, and he really had nothing to complain about, Robby washed out his glass and walked back into his bedroom. He flopped down onto his bed and pulled the thick comforter over himself, turned off the lights and gazed at the blank wall in front of him. The alcohol had certainly dimmed the sharp, tight sickness in his core, but it was still there. It was ok that it was there. It was worth it.