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| Help Me, Please; Abby never reported Carter. PG-13 | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Nov 7 2004, 07:34 PM (1,433 Views) | |
| artemis024 | Nov 7 2004, 07:34 PM Post #1 |
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Nurse (-100 Posts)
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Okay, so i have posted this story before but since ERheadquarters has new fanfiction, i thought that i would post it again. This is the clean, PG-13 version. ~DMJ ______________________________________________________________________ Tag line: What would have happened if Abby Lockhart didn’t report John Carter about the drugs? His addictions continued. He never went to rehab. But someone does find out. (Oh, and Doug came home to Carol, not the other way around.) Read and see… Chapter 1: July 12, 2000, 5AM, My apartment (John Carter’s Point of View): My name is Dr. John Truman Carter III, M.D. I am a trauma room doctor at Cook County General Hospital in Chicago. The Windy City. I always thought it was a city of opportunity. CCGH was where I was a med-student. I am thirty years old and have been a doctor here for several years. I remember being a young boy and dreaming of having this career, mainly because of my brother. He died of leukemia when I was only eight years old. But some days, most days now, I wish I had chosen a different career. On Valentines Day this year I was stabbed twice in the back by a patient of my med student, Lucy Knight. The patient’s name was Paul Sobriki. It wasn’t his fault. He is schizophrenic and in a mental institution now. But he killed Lucy, and destroyed my life. No, that’s wrong. I destroyed my own life, and I am the reason Lucy is dead. I neglected to get a psych consult down for Sobriki. And because of that everything has gone to hell. Now I am a thirty-year-old doctor who has chronic back pains and a guilty conscience. I wake up every morning wishing that I were the one who died, not Lucy. Poor Lucy. She was such a bright girl. I look into the mirror. My eyes are not only sleep-deprived this morning, but sunken as well. I don’t look like myself anymore. My eyes are blank, my face is pale, and I look like a skeleton. I can’t believe this is me. What’s happened? Pain strikes my back. Just another thing that has gone wrong. I am self-prescribing my medicine now, and that is never something a doctor should do. But I am in so much pain. I have to. People would understand after all that I have been through. I had to learn how to walk again. I still don’t have a full range of motion. In the beginning I took the prescribed amounts from my doctor, but it wasn’t helping. I needed more. So I got my prescription boosted. But that still wasn’t enough. I wrote my own prescriptions. But I made one slip-up. I took the leftover fentynal from a trauma victim and once everyone was gone I injected it into my wrist. And then Nurse Abby Lockhart walked in. What was she doing in there? I think she saw me, but if she did, she never told anyone. So maybe she didn’t see it. Please, God, make her not see me. I remember wishing that. It’s been a few months since the incident and no one has confronted me of the drug use. Drug use? That makes me sound like a junkie. I am not a junkie. I use the medicine as medicine…not drugs. I use it for my pain, not pleasure. Sometimes I wish it was for pleasure, and that the whole Sobriki incident hadn’t happened. But I can’t change the past. Mark Greene is worried about me. I can tell by the looks he gives me. His eyes are so sympathetic, yet at the same time it seems as if he is trying to look into my soul. He kept on pestering me to see someone about the attack. I finally caved. He thinks I have a shrink to talk to. Gamma wanted me to quit form the hospital, but I can’t give up…not yet. The nurses are always telling me to smile more. I should probably practice that. I smile into the mirror. I try. Damn I look so fake. No wonder everyone is worried about me. I can’t even convince myself that I am okay. Okay. Now onto the scale. I lost a good amount of weight while I was recuperating from the attack and I have continued to steadily lose weight over the past few months. I guess it’s a side effect from the medicine. Plus I haven’t been nearly as hungry as I used to be. Before the stabbing I weighed around 185 pounds. And today…I step onto the scale…I weight 150 pounds. I can’t lose much more, mainly because I don’t have much to lose. But also I think people are noticing. I have been wearing extra layers of clothes to make me look larger than I am. I slip another sweater over my head. Good enough. Inside the medicine cabinet are the three bottles I need. The first is my antidepressant. Okay, I admit it I am a little depressed. But who wouldn’t be after all that I have gone through? I take one of those. Next is my Vicodine. There are only two tablets left. I should only take one, but my back is really hurting today. I take both. I don’t think the two tablets will even dent into the pain. So I go onto the third bottle. I study the labels. It is prescription medicine from one of my patients: Ms. Eva Mcyntire. She passed away a couple of days ago and I took her medicine. I am a thief. What’s happened to me? No, I am fine. I am the same man I always have been. It is a stronger dosage of Vicodine. I pop two of these into my mouth, and as I am about to leave, I grab the bottle in case I need more later today. The worst I have ever been was when I used heroin. I know that was wrong. I knew I had a problem then, so I stopped that. I don’t want to turn into my cousin, Chase. He is a true junkie. Or should I say he was a true junkie? Now he is a vegetable. He is so severely brain damaged that he needs to live in a nursing home, and it’s all because of the heroin. After the heroin, I switched to morphine. It’s not as bad. We give it to patients so I am okay with taking it. And I have almost stopped taking that. Only when the pain gets really bad will I take morphine. I can get the morphine in the supply room, but I have to be careful not to take it too often. I stick with the Vicodine and fentynal now. |
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Carter : You know, there are two kinds of doctors: the kind that get rid of their feelings, and the kind that hold on to them. If you're going to hold on to your feelings, you're going to get sick every once in a while. That's part of it. Helping people is more important than how we feel. Hell, I've been doing this eight years, and I still get sick. [Carter's drug addiction] Susan: Vicodin? Carter : Yeah. If you're going to abuse drugs, abuse a good one. Mark : You set the tone, Carter. | |
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| erfanfreak94 | Nov 7 2004, 08:35 PM Post #2 |
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Intern (250+ posts)
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I'm hooked! This is a good fic, and I really feel I'm inside Carter's head. He doesn't think he's a junkie, but he is. Update soon, I never read this at the old ERHQ. |
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"THE LETTER" Carter : It's good to miss him, it's missing him that keeps him here." Susan: "You should write for Hallmark." ![]() "BLOODLINE" Pratt: "I think it was just a bad day for the home team." | |
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| Sky's Fanatic | Nov 7 2004, 09:42 PM Post #3 |
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Spade Of The Sky
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I remember this story
continue soon I love it
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~Andy Griggs ROX~ ~I guess the problem with only listening to a patient for fifteen seconds is, sometimes you don't hear everything...and when you finally realize what they were trying to say, you might've lost them forever. ![]() All that you see or seem, is but a dream within a dream. - Edgar Allan Poe | |
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| JingMeiChen | Nov 9 2004, 06:02 PM Post #4 |
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Nurse (-100 Posts)
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This is great! I can't wait to see what happens to Carter. |
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"It's like when I see a bird, it's not me that's strange. It seems like rather, it's the bird that's strange. Why don't you sing? Where did you put your voice? Did you put it away before coming? However, it's only me." Hagio Sae, Orange Days | |
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| artemis024 | Nov 9 2004, 08:21 PM Post #5 |
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Nurse (-100 Posts)
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Chapter 2: Same day, NOON, Ambulance Bay (John Carter’s Point of View): It’s nice to have a break from all of the death and suffering, even if it is only for fifteen minutes. It’s enough time to have a cigarette or two if I need it. And this was one of the best cigarettes I have ever had. Marlboro sure knows how to make them. Gamma doesn’t approve of my smoking so I told her I quit. That was when I was still living with her after the attack. But late at night and at work I still would light up often. I have cut back though. A month ago I was going through two packs a day. Now it’s closer to one. I hear someone walking up behind me. “Isn’t it funny how so many doctors smoke? You’d think we of all people would know better.” I turned. It is Mark Greene. He gives me this speech every time he sees me smoking. Why can’t he mind his own damn business? I just say, “Yup,” and nod as he sits next to me. “I thought you told me you quit?” “I did, but you remember how hard it was for you?” “Yeah,” Mark chuckled to himself, “I couldn’t have been easy to deal with. But it feels so nice to be free of addiction.” I can feel myself tense up at that word “addiction.” Was Mark implying something? “No,” I tell myself, “stop being so paranoid.” “I bet,” I finally reply to Mark. “Are you feeling ok, Carter?” “Yeah,” I take a long drag, “Why do you ask?” “You just seem withdrawn…in pain.” “Nope, my back is fine…the meds are doing their magic.” And now for the fake grin. I smile at Mark. “I didn’t really mean your back, although that is good to hear. I meant, well,” Mark was never good at dealings with emotions, “If you ever need someone to talk to, I mean besides a shrink, I’m here.” “Thanks, Dr. Greene. That’s comforting.” I turn my attention back to my cigarette. Mark sighs. “What time are you on again?” he asks. “Five minutes.” “Ok, I’ll see you in there.” Mark stands up. “Yep. Bye.” |
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Carter : You know, there are two kinds of doctors: the kind that get rid of their feelings, and the kind that hold on to them. If you're going to hold on to your feelings, you're going to get sick every once in a while. That's part of it. Helping people is more important than how we feel. Hell, I've been doing this eight years, and I still get sick. [Carter's drug addiction] Susan: Vicodin? Carter : Yeah. If you're going to abuse drugs, abuse a good one. Mark : You set the tone, Carter. | |
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| artemis024 | Nov 10 2004, 04:35 PM Post #6 |
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Nurse (-100 Posts)
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Chapter 3: Same day, NOON, Ambulance Bay (Mark Greene’s Point of View): Something is wrong with Carter, and I can feel it. Why does he keep closing us out? I want to help him so bad, but I don’t know what to help with. I sit here talking to him about his smoking, but I can’t concentrate. I remember when he was a bright-eyed med-student. But everything changes. Mr. Sobriki destroyed his life. Carter now only has a negative outlook on life and the future. How can I help him? As I leave to go back into the hospital, I glance back at the young doctor. Something catches my eye, but I don’t get a good look. It was scars on Carter’s wrist. Scars? It takes me a minute to process this. Oh my goodness! Is Carter suicidal? How can he be? It must have been a shadow…or my imagination. I know Carter has been depressed lately, but after nearly losing his life a few months ago, wouldn’t he now want to live it to the fullest? I make my way into the staff lounge and to my locker. On the sofa, Carol and Doug sit, cuddling. I don’t turn around when I say, “Have you guys noticed anything odd about Carter? I mean, has he been acting different than before, or is it just me?” I turn and look at them. They had stopped cuddling and are now looking at the floor, as if they had done something wrong. “No,” Doug says as he looks at me, “It’s not you. I noticed it to. But I figured that it was just posttraumatic stress. After what you told me happened to him, I think any of us would act a little different.” “Yeah, I guess.” Carol speaks up, “Is he seeing anyone?” “He says he is,” I reply. “But you don’t believe him, do you?” Doug asks. “No.” I close my locker. “Could you keep an eye on him, though? I thought I saw some scars on his wrist…” Carol gasps, “You don’t think he—” “No, at least I hope not.” And with that I walk out of the lounge and onto my duties. Chapter 4: July 15, 2000, 3PM, Ambulance Bay (Mark Greene’s Point of View): Doug and Peter were outside playing basketball. It was drizzling, but that didn’t stop them. I watch as Carter leaves the hospital after just finishing his shift. I can barely hear their conversation. “Hey Carter,” Doug says, “You off?” “Yeah.” He puts his bag over his shoulder. “Come play ball. I bet I could win against you and Peter.” “It’s on, man,” Peter responds. But Carter says, “No thanks. My back is a little sore.” He lights a cigarette as he starts walking away. “Yeah, sure,” Doug says to him, “You wouldn’t be able to catch your breath anyway, Smokey.” “Fine, I’ll play,” Carter takes one last, long drag and then flicks the cigarette to the side. “That’s my boy,” Peter replies. It looks to me like Carter is having fun playing with them, although his back appeared to be hurting. I am still watching from inside the hospital. I am so glad that the young doctor is enjoying himself again; he actually looked happy. I have another memory of when this kind of competition was almost a daily event for us. Doug had done the right thing, inviting him to join. But the game started getting rough. I see Carter go for the ball as it comes down from a shot. Doug playfully shoves him out of the way, just hard enough to knock him to the ground. I hear Carter yelp as his back hits the pavement. Without thinking, I run out to the men and kneel next to Carter. “Peter get a gurney out here,” I order. “No,” Carter replies, “I’m ok, really.” He winces in pain. “No you’re not. At least let someone look at your back. You might have injured it again.” “No!” Carter says in a sterner voice. “I’m really sorry about that Carter,” says Doug, “Let me help you up.” He starts pulling Carter up by the elbow. Without intent, this action slid Carter’s watch down slightly. The young doctor shruggs off Doug’s help and responds, “I’m ok, I am.” He stands up on his own. “You people don’t have to treat me like glass. I’m not that fragile. I gotta run. Bye.” He puts his bag back on his shoulder and lights up another cigarette as he walks toward the El. Still at the basketball hoop, Doug says to me, “I saw them, I saw the scars.” “What scars?” Peter asks, completely in the dark. “I guess you should know,” I reply. I tell Peter about the scars on Carter’s wrist, and about what our idea is. “Suicidal? Carter?” Peter asks, “No way, man. Not Carter.” “The scars are there—” “And they could be from anything,” Peter interrupts. “I’m not going to argue with you, Peter,” I continue, “But now you know what we are talking about.” “Yeah, thanks. I think I will talk to him about it tomorrow.” Peter’s pager goes off. “I have to go.” “Peter, if you talk to him just…be gentle,” I advise. “Yeah, I know.” Peter gives us one of his crooked smiles before he goes back in the ER. “You know,” Doug says, “I don’t think ‘gentle’ is in Peter’s vocabulary.” “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I reply. there you go everyone. two chapters to please you DMJ |
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Carter : You know, there are two kinds of doctors: the kind that get rid of their feelings, and the kind that hold on to them. If you're going to hold on to your feelings, you're going to get sick every once in a while. That's part of it. Helping people is more important than how we feel. Hell, I've been doing this eight years, and I still get sick. [Carter's drug addiction] Susan: Vicodin? Carter : Yeah. If you're going to abuse drugs, abuse a good one. Mark : You set the tone, Carter. | |
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| artemis024 | Nov 11 2004, 07:15 PM Post #7 |
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Nurse (-100 Posts)
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Chapter 5: July 16, 2000, 5AM, Cafeteria (John Carter’s Point of View): I look down at my tray as I sit at a table. “How nutritious,” I mumble to myself. It is a carton of orange juice. That’s all. “At least I have my Vitamin C.” “Hey, Carter.” It is Peter with his own tray of food: a bagel with cream cheese, and a carton of skim milk. He sits across the table from me. “Is that all you're going to have?” “Yeah, I'm not really hungry” “I've noticed.” Peter picks up his bagel but quickly sets it back down and continues, “I think we need to talk, Carter.” “About what?” Butterflies are forming in my stomach, but I try to act normal. “About you. Something is wrong and you need to let us help. We can all see it. And we are all worried.” “You have nothing to worry about, Dr. Benton—” “Damn it Carter, we can all see that you are depressed!” Peter hisses, “You are always down, and you stopped eating a while ago. Either you are depressed or you have an eating disorder. What are you now? 160? 155?” I am staring at my tray when I respond, “145.” "Damn,” Peter mutters under his breath. “I need you to promise me something Carter. I need you to promise that you will start eating more. It is dangerous for someone your height to be this thin.” “Okay.” Peter quickly eats his bagel in silence. He stands up but before he leaves he continues, “And also promise me that if you get too depressed you won't do something stupid.” I look up. “What do you mean 'stupid'? Yeah I might be a little depressed. But what do you mean 'stupid'?” “I didn’t mean anything. I just want to make sure that you are safe.” I can tell that Peter is nervous. That rarely happens. “Safe? Do you.... Do you think that I'm suicidal? I can't believe you.” I am furious. I stand up. But before Peter can correct his words, I walk away and am out of the cafeteria. As I race my way through the ER, I accidentally knock into Dr. Dave Malluchi, who had been speaking with Doug, but I am more stunned than the two other doctors, I can tell. “You okay there, buddy?” Dave asks me. “Why is everyone asking me that?” I demand. What is wrong with everyone today? “Slow down Carter,” Doug adds. He is on one side of me while Dave is on the other. I frantically look around the ER for an exit. They have trapped me in, and I am not sure which way I am facing. Doug continues, “Why don’t you just go into the lounge and relax for a few minutes.” “I don’t need to relax! Why can’t everyone just leave me alone and let me do my work?!” From my outburst Kerry Weaver and Mark had come. Benton saw all of them around me apparently and joined in. I am surrounded. “Oh, this is great,” I say, “Who’s attending to the patients?” “What’s going on here?” Kerry asks. “Carter, go home for the rest of your shift and get some sleep.” “I don’t need sleep,” I respond to her, practically shouting. “I came here today to work, but you people won’t let me do that. You keep bombarding me with questions and advice. But if you really want me to leave I will.” I tried getting away, but I must have done something wrong. I vaguely recall rubbing my wrist. What do they think? Do they really think that I am suicidal? Before I know it, Mark, Doug, and Peter have me restrained. I call out, “Kerry, Dave, stop them.” But Mark calls out, “Malik, get a gurney and soft restraints!” They load me on it. Patients are watching as one of County Hospital’s doctors is tied up. I am so embarrassed. Peter and Doug are pushing me toward the elevator. I have given up thrashing, but now I hear Kerry shouting at Mark, “What the hell is all of this about? What do you think you are doing?” Dave was probably still standing there confused as always. Then I hear Mark respond, “He is suicidal. We need to get him some help before he blows.” That makes me snap. Right before I am wheeled into the elevator I shout out, “I am not suicidal! I never have been! You don’t know what you are talking about!” In the elevator Peter says to me, “Just calm down, man.” ‘Man’ is something Peter only says to someone he truly cares about. But I don’t want him to care about me right now. I want him to let me go. My back is throbbing from being thrown onto the gurney, so I stop moving. I close my eyes and breath deeply, trying not to think of the pain. “Are you okay there, Carter?” Doug asks me. I don’t respond. I simply take a deep breath and blow it out through my mouth. I hear Doug mumble to Peter, “At least he doesn’t need to be sedated.” “Yeah,” is the only response Peter gives. They put me in the psych ward. I don’t belong here. People like Paul Sobriki belong here, not me. Paul Sobriki: If only I had gotten him up here sooner, none of this would be happening. But like I said, I can’t change the past. So I cooperate. Within minutes a psychiatrist is with me, sitting beside my gurney. “My name is Dr. Montgomery. Can you tell me what happened today John?” she asks. I can’t see her very well because of the angle I am laying at, but she sounds young. “No, actually I can’t. But I can tell you what I think happened.” Stay calm, stay calm, I keep reminding myself. Act like nothing is wrong. “Okay, please do.” “First, is there anyone else in the room besides you and me?” “No, it’s just us. Would you like someone else here?” “No, no.” I take a deep breath. “I was in the cafeteria eating breakfast with Dr. Benton, and he accuses, no that’s not a good word for it, he believes that I am suicidal and tells me not to do anything rash. I am not suicidal, Doctor, nor have I ever been.” That was a lie, but she didn’t need to know that. Anyways, I’m not that bad…I just think about it sometimes. “I got a little too upset and stormed off, and in the ER I felt like I was ganged up on by all the doctors and practically tackled onto the gurney.” I close my eyes for a dramatic ending to my short story. “I know that you have had a hard few months—” “Everyone goes through tough times.” “Yes, but I know what happened to you. I think your co-workers are just a little concerned about you. How have you been feeling since the attack?” “I’ve had my ups and downs. But I think I am handling it pretty well now. I have to accept what happened. It’s in the past, and I can’t change it,” Wow that sounded convincing, even to me. “You look a little thin. How has your appetite been recently?” “It’s starting to come back. I’m not going to lie to you,” This whole conversation has been a lie so far. I continue, “I wasn’t eating much for a while, but I am again, slowly.” The doctor says to me, “Can I see your wrists?” “Sure,” I respond. I should do whatever she says. My track marks were almost healed and I had a story planned for them anyway. The doctor peers at my right wrist first. There are no marks on that one. After walking around to the other side of the bed, she takes off my watch and clears her throat. While she was inspecting my wrists I get a look of her. She is about thirty five, I’d say, and somewhat attractive, although she doesn’t look like my type. She says, “I see a couple of marks here, right around the vein. Can you tell me about them?” “Yeah, when I was healing from the attack I was given lots of time off, so once I felt up to it, I spent a week at my family’s cabin in Wisconsin. Sometime when I was up there I got a couple of spider bites. You’d never guess how much those things hurt. I have one on my leg too, if you want to see it.” That one was a real spider bite from the trip. Yes, I did go on a trip to Wisconsin. Spider bites really do look like track marks. I discovered that with Chase when he told me that one of his was a bite and I fell for it. I am a doctor and I fell for it. Perfect plan. “No, that’s okay.” She sighs, “Well, I’m glad to say that you seem okay to me. But you shouldn’t have gotten so upset downstairs.” “I know.” “I suggest you take a couple of days off from work. The ER can be a stressful place.” “You’re telling me.” I smile. “I’ll get a nurse to take these restraints off of you, and you will be free to go. But please promise me that if you need to talk, you won’t hesitate to come up here. There is always someone free in this ward, just for that.” “I will, and thank you, Doctor.” I say, and she left. Within fifteen minutes I am released from the psych ward and back down in the ER. I find Kerry and tell her, “I am going home for the day, orders of the psychiatrist I was forced to see in restraints. In fact, she said I should take a few days off from work and I think I will. You know, just to cool off from this whole incident.” “I am very sorry about all of this, John. Is there anyway that I can make this up to you?” “You didn’t do anything. Just let me cool down.” “Ok.” “I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you my plans.” I walk outside without hearing her response and I light another cigarette. tell me what you think DMJ |
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Carter : You know, there are two kinds of doctors: the kind that get rid of their feelings, and the kind that hold on to them. If you're going to hold on to your feelings, you're going to get sick every once in a while. That's part of it. Helping people is more important than how we feel. Hell, I've been doing this eight years, and I still get sick. [Carter's drug addiction] Susan: Vicodin? Carter : Yeah. If you're going to abuse drugs, abuse a good one. Mark : You set the tone, Carter. | |
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| Sky's Fanatic | Nov 11 2004, 09:08 PM Post #8 |
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Spade Of The Sky
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You know it's terific
please keep going i love it!
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~Andy Griggs ROX~ ~I guess the problem with only listening to a patient for fifteen seconds is, sometimes you don't hear everything...and when you finally realize what they were trying to say, you might've lost them forever. ![]() All that you see or seem, is but a dream within a dream. - Edgar Allan Poe | |
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| Carry4eva | Nov 12 2004, 02:26 PM Post #9 |
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Chief Resident (1,000+ posts)
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Oooooh! I love this! continue soon!!
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![]() Oprah: What do you know for sure? Nicole: Give and you'll receive. The more you give, the more you'll get back. Julianne: It's easier to be happy than it is to be sad Meryl : What do I know for sure? I know I will never, EVER loose the weight from the first baby...EVER! 15 pounds! And I...hold it against him! | |
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| artemis024 | Nov 12 2004, 04:36 PM Post #10 |
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Nurse (-100 Posts)
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here are the next couple of chapters Chapter 6: July 16, 2000, 8AM, Doctor’s Lounge (Kerry Weaver’s Point of View): “This is inexcusable!” I shout at the three men. “What possessed you to kidnap Carter?” “We thought he needed our help—” Mark says. “But there are better ways of helping someone than tackling them. That’s what he told the doctor upstairs: that you tackled him.” “I’m sorry, Kerry,” he continues. “Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to Carter! All three of you need to! You are very lucky that he just walked away. You are so very lucky that he went home to cool down. You do remember that Carter is a very powerful man in this city. He could have pressed charges if he wanted to. Not against the hospital, against you clowns! If he snaps his fingers he could have you executed,” Okay, so that was a large exaggeration and they all knew it, but I am making a good point. They could all get in a lot of trouble for this incident. “I know just as well as you that Carter has not been himself recently, but the doctor said he is fine. He experienced a traumatic attack. Do you understand? He was attacked. You, Peter and Mark, worked on his almost deceased body. You have to understand that he needs time to cope with this.” “But we saw the scars on his wrist and we were concerned—” “That’s what communication is for! Try talking to him next time. And listen if he says he is okay. They were spider bites for Christ’s sake!” Now it is time for me to storm out. I walk to the admit desk and call Carter’s house. “Hi, John, this is Kerry.” “Hello,” he responds. “I just wanted to apologize for the incident this morning.” “It’s okay, Kerry. They were just looking out for me. Listen I am coming back to work on the 18th at my regular shift, okay?” “Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll have someone cover for you until then.” “Goodbye.” “Bye.” And I hung up the phone. Chapter 7: July 18, 2000, 10AM, Admit Desk (Doug Ross’s Point of View): I see Carter sitting outside the hospital on a bench, taking another one of his cigarette breaks. He is always taking a cigarette break. When I started working here again and saw him smoke, I was quite stunned. Don’t get me wrong; anyone can smoke if they choose to. I used to smoke when I was younger, but I never thought Carter would make that choice. It seems like he is out there more often than in the hospital. I just hope that cancer doesn’t run in his family, or….well, you get the idea. I figure now is as good of a time as any to apologize. I walk out to the bench and sit down next to him. “Please,” Carter says, “I don’t need another lecture from you about smoking, and you can tell Mark to knock it off too, and everyone else telling me I’m too thin, or too depressed, or, or that I am too suicidal. Even I didn’t realize that one.” “But you realized the others?” “Well,” he pauses, “Yeah, I noticed.” Now I am a little concerned but I decide to brush it off. He has been through a lot recently, and he knows that we are worried about him, and he says he understands why. Carter continues, “Next people are going to start to complain about my drinking.” “Should we be worried about your drinking?” I ask, “I am your friend and you can ask me for help if you need it—” Carter waves away this thought, “This is what I mean,” he takes a drag from his cigarette, “I don’t need people to be worried about anything. I know I haven’t been myself recently, and I am trying to work on that, honestly. People are just over reacting, and you all need to understand that I simply need some time.” He flicks away the butt of the cigarette; he had smoked it to the filter. Carter starts walking into the hospital and I follow him. He is limping and I can tell that he is in a lot of pain. “Is your back bothering you, Carter?” I ask. “No, I’m fine,” and he keeps walking. I never got the chance to apologize. Well, that’s not true. I could have started out by apologizing. I had a hundred chances. At the admit desk, while Carter is talking to Randi, I interrupt. I say, “Hey Carter, I really need to talk to you,” We are walking down the hallway now. He seems rushed. “Um, yeah. Can I meet you in the lounge in a couple minutes?” he asks as he stops in the middle of the hall. “Yeah, that works,” but I am not even sure if Carter hears me, since he ducked into the bathroom quite quickly. I look at my watch. Damn, I have a meeting in five minutes. What I need to say, I can tell him in the bathroom. So I walk in and quickly say, “Carter I just wanted to apologize for what happened the other day—” I had been looking at the floor as I said that, but when I look up, I see Carter standing by the sinks with a syringe going into his wrist. DMJ |
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Carter : You know, there are two kinds of doctors: the kind that get rid of their feelings, and the kind that hold on to them. If you're going to hold on to your feelings, you're going to get sick every once in a while. That's part of it. Helping people is more important than how we feel. Hell, I've been doing this eight years, and I still get sick. [Carter's drug addiction] Susan: Vicodin? Carter : Yeah. If you're going to abuse drugs, abuse a good one. Mark : You set the tone, Carter. | |
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| artemis024 | Nov 14 2004, 11:51 AM Post #11 |
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Nurse (-100 Posts)
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Chapter 8: July 18, 2000, 10:15AM, Men’s Bathroom (John Carter’s Point of View): Finally I got away from him. I thought he would never stop talking to me. Sneaking into the washroom was the best idea I’ve had in years. Unfortunately I will have to talk to him in a few minutes, and by then I will be high. That could be good or bad. I won’t inject it. But my back is hurting so bad! It’s just a little morphine. I won’t shoot as much as I planned. The bottle of morphine is sitting on the counter-top, and I draw some medicine. Right as I stick myself with the needle and begin to push the meds, I hear Doug’s voice. “Carter I just wanted to apologize for what happened the other day.” I hadn’t even heard him walk in. But now we stand in the bathroom staring at each other. I continue to inject the morphine, glancing down for an instant. I am scared out of my mind, but I try to act as calm as possible. “You should leave,” I tell him, but I don’t think he heard me. He responds by asking, “My that’s a strange looking spider. But this does explain a lot. What…what…um…what is going on in here?” He looks at me curiously, almost stunned. “This doesn’t concern you. I think you should leave,” I repeat. He licks his lips and mumbles, “Uh-huh. You think I should leave?” “Yes, yes I do.” My mind is racing. I don’t know what I should do. Doug steps toward me and picks up the bottle. He examines the label and then sets it back down on the counter next to the used syringe. He gives me a piercing stare in my eyes and says, “Here I thought you were trying to tell me you had a drinking problem. But it turns out it’s a drug problem.” “I don’t have a drug problem—” “Ok, then what the hell is this?” He gives me a glimpse of a half-smile, but it disappears, as if he doesn’t exactly know what to do now. I continue, “It’s…it’s hard to explain.” “I don’t think we have anything more to discuss.” He walks to the door. “Wait!” I need to stop him; “You aren’t going to tell anyone about this, are you?” I chuckle a little, and he can tell the desperation in my voice, I know it. “About what? That nasty new spider bite you have on your wrist? No, that’s up to you. But if someone asks me about this, I’m not going to lie either. Just don’t ask me to dress the bite.” He leaves the bathroom and I stand there alone. I take the bottle of morphine and slip it in my lab coat pocket. As I am leaving the bathroom, I toss the syringe in the garbage. I was stupid, so very stupid. Why did I inject myself in the open? I could have easily gone into one of the stalls, and all of this would have been avoided. But I think to myself, why am I upset? I should let the morphine run through my system and not inject myself again. If they want to drug test me, it will come back positive anyway. They know I am on pain medicine for my back. Doug won’t say anything. Will he? |
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Carter : You know, there are two kinds of doctors: the kind that get rid of their feelings, and the kind that hold on to them. If you're going to hold on to your feelings, you're going to get sick every once in a while. That's part of it. Helping people is more important than how we feel. Hell, I've been doing this eight years, and I still get sick. [Carter's drug addiction] Susan: Vicodin? Carter : Yeah. If you're going to abuse drugs, abuse a good one. Mark : You set the tone, Carter. | |
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| Sky's Fanatic | Nov 14 2004, 08:25 PM Post #12 |
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Spade Of The Sky
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LOVE IT LOVE IT LOVE IT
post more soon please |
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~Andy Griggs ROX~ ~I guess the problem with only listening to a patient for fifteen seconds is, sometimes you don't hear everything...and when you finally realize what they were trying to say, you might've lost them forever. ![]() All that you see or seem, is but a dream within a dream. - Edgar Allan Poe | |
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| artemis024 | Nov 14 2004, 11:49 PM Post #13 |
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Nurse (-100 Posts)
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so here are 4 more chapters....the last 2 are short so i added them onto this set Chapter 9: July 30, 2000, 7PM, Carter’s Apartment (Doug Ross’s Point of View): For the past few days Carter has been calling in to work sick. He claims to have the stomach flu, but I don’t believe him one bit. I hate being his fucking babysitter. He didn’t ask me to help, but he needs it. Someone needs to help him, and since I know what’s wrong, I figure he would let me help before he would let anyone else. That’s a laugh. He won’t let me help either, I know it. He’s too stubborn, plus I don’t think he sees the problem he has. I am standing outside of his apartment building now, and I buzz up to his room. It takes him a long time to answer. “Who is it?” “It’s Doug Ross. Can I come up? I need to talk to you.” “Um…yeah. You know, how about I come down to see you?” He is down in a couple of minutes. I am shocked by his appearance. I have never seen him dressed so informally. It isn’t even that he is informal, just messy. He is wearing an undershirt and wrinkled trousers. His face is unshaven and his hair is greasy. You’d never guess that this man is the heir to millions of dollars. He lights a cigarette and as he does this I get a glance at his wrist. There are two infected track marks, not to mention the mark from a couple weeks ago when I caught him. That one is almost healed. I say, “You should really talk to your Super about those damn spiders. They are eating you alive.” “I don’t want to talk about this. I think you should leave.” “You know,” I say, “That seems to be your theme song. You always want people to leave, to stop bothering you, to ignore your problems. Well, this isn’t a problem that I can ignore.” He pretends that he isn’t listening, but I know he is. “This decision of yours, to be a drug addict,” he looks at me now, and I continue, “it affects all the patients you see. They depend on you to help them, but you are too high on crap to do anything for them.” “First of all!” He is screaming at me but I don’t think he realizes it. “I am not a drug addict! I take medicine for my back! Prescribed medicine!” “Is that morphine of yours prescribed?!” He grits his teeth as he says, “I only take what I need.” “That’s sad, that you need the drugs. I feel sorry for you.” I start to walk away, but Carter grabs my shirt collar and pulls me back. I have never known Carter to be a violent person, ever. I am genuinely shocked by this and am unsure of what to do, so I do nothing. He powerfully says to me, “You need to learn to mind your own business, Dr. Ross. If I need help, ever, I will find it. I don’t need people assuming things about me. I am not a drug addict!” He shoves me back. I am fuming now. I came to offer my assistance in Carter’s recovery, but that offer is no longer on the table. “If I see you get high, or know that you are high, or even suspect that you might have been shooting up, I will not hesitate to report you to Weaver and Greene. Don’t test me.” I walk away and can feel his eyes follow me. Chapter 10: August 12, 2000, 5PM, Admit Desk (Doug Ross’s Point of View): I should have reported Carter when I first caught him. Why did I give him a chance to come clean on his own? Of course I could still report him, but he is starting to act like himself again. Maybe he never had a problem and I was over reacting. Maybe he is all better now. Everyone goes through a few bad times in his or her life. Maybe this was one of his bad times and now that the phase has passed, he will be okay. Why am I making excuses for Carter? I should be thinking of ways to help him not ways to ignore his addiction. Okay, he’s coming in. What was I talking about that Carter is getting better? Today he looks almost as bad as the night I stopped by his apartment. Granted he is wearing clean clothes and they aren’t too badly wrinkled, but he is unshaven again, and he doesn’t look anything like the old Carter, the Carter I knew years back when he was in medical school. From across the ER I hear Weaver shout, “What’s wrong with you Carter? You’re ten minutes late and you look like hell! Get in the lounge and clean yourself up or go home!” I think this is the first time Weaver and I shared the same thought. Carter does not give a verbal response but does as he is told. I follow him into the lounge. When I enter, Carter is already at his locker and I see him popping a pill in his mouth. I clear my throat and Carter turns to me. I say, “I want to know what you think you’re doing?” He turns back around and continues tidying up. Just as I am about to walk up to him, Carter responds, “Regarding what?” “Regarding the pill I just saw you take. Carter I won’t hesitate to report you—” He looks at me again and tosses me a prescription bottle. I look at the label and sure enough it says, “Dr. Jonathan Truman Carter III.” “Next time,” he says to me, “You shouldn’t assume the worst.” “With you it’s hard not to.” I toss back the bottle. “What else did you take today?” “Only what I needed to.” He twists around and winces from the pain. It is so bad that he needs to hold himself up against the locker. I rush to him and put his arm around my shoulder. We slowly make our way to the sofa and I sit him down, where he proceeds to take another one of his pills. I take the bottle away from him now and sit down next to him. “You have to stop this John.” I don’t think I have ever called him by his first name before, but it seems appropriate. “The bottle says to take one every four to six hours—” “Or as needed. And I needed it.” I look at him and he continues with, “I didn’t mean that. I don’t need it. But it helps me get rid of the pain.” “Because you are high!” As I shout this, Weaver comes in. She says, “You two aren’t getting paid to sit here and talk. There are patients out there that need to be seen!” “Yes ma’am.” Carter says as he stands up. He tries to walk away but has a hard time hiding his limp. “Carter,” Weaver’s voice is softer now, and since I am still sitting on the couch I can barely hear her, “Are you okay?” “Yes, I am fine.” Carter gives me a dirty look before he leaves the lounge. “What was all that about?” Weaver asks me. I was still watching the door close and didn’t hear her. “Huh?” “Doug, if you need to tell me something, I think you should now. What’s going on between you and Carter?” I almost tell her, but instead say, “It’s just a little spat that we need to settle.” And I smile at her as I stand up and leave the lounge. Chapter 11: August 12, 2000, 5:10PM, Exam Room 1 (John Carter’s Point of View): **SHORT CHAPTER ALERT** Why does he keep bothering me about this? I’m only taking the medicine because I’m in pain, and it’s masses of pain today. I should be able to take painkillers if I need them. Why do I keep saying that word, “need”? I mean I do need them, but only to take away the pain. I am not addicted. I’m not. Doug is out of his mind. What does he know about getting attacked anyway? He has never been in this kind of pain. He has no place to talk. He doesn’t know what I am going through. I am doing the right thing. Yeah I started using morphine again, but only because it’s the only thing that works. Chapter 12: August. 12, 2000, 11:08PM, Hallway (Doug Ross’s Point of View): I give up. I need to tell Weaver or Mark as soon as I see them next. They need to know that one of their doctors has a drug addiction. Unfortunately both of them are gone until midnight and I am off at 11:30. So until then I guess I’ll just find an empty room and work on charts. I walk into Exam Room 3 and sit down at the table. I hear a groan come from behind me. I jump up and spin around, thinking that it is a hurt patient, but in the back of my mind I am afraid that the same thing will happen to me like it happened to Carter: being attacked. But to my surprise, I see Carter lying in the fetal position on the floor. He has vomited all over himself and is shaking badly. I check his heart rate. It is weak, and his breathing is shallow. My God. His lips are tinted blue. He is having a morphine overdose. Sure enough there on the floor next to him sit the bottle and a syringe. I slip them into my lab coat. I run into the hall and shout out, “I need some help here!” Chuny, Malik, and Dave Malluchi come running. I go back to Carter and ask him, “How much did you take?” “I don’t know,” he spits out. “John, was it only morphine, or did you take more?” “My bag in my locker…” and he trails off. The nurse and doctor are in the room with me and I quickly say to them, “Treat him for a morphine overdose.” “Where are you going?” Chuny asks. I am almost out of the room but reply, “To see what else he took.” Dave shouts, “Was it a suicide attempt?” But I don’t answer. I am already running down the hall. In the lounge, luckily Carter’s locker is unlocked. I open his bag. It’s a Goddamn pharmacy. Okay, so I am exaggerating. But there are two kinds of antidepressants and three bottles of painkillers. And two of the latter aren’t even prescribed to Carter. **Dun! Dun! DUN! What will happen now? Was it a suicide attempt? Will Carter die? Will he finally admit to his drug addiction? Wait and see** |
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Carter : You know, there are two kinds of doctors: the kind that get rid of their feelings, and the kind that hold on to them. If you're going to hold on to your feelings, you're going to get sick every once in a while. That's part of it. Helping people is more important than how we feel. Hell, I've been doing this eight years, and I still get sick. [Carter's drug addiction] Susan: Vicodin? Carter : Yeah. If you're going to abuse drugs, abuse a good one. Mark : You set the tone, Carter. | |
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| artemis024 | Nov 16 2004, 01:42 PM Post #14 |
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Nurse (-100 Posts)
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Chapter 13: August. 13, 2000, 12:02AM, Admit Desk (Mark Greene’s Point of View): “Where are all of the doctors?” I ask Randi . “Luka is in the lounge, Dave just left, Kerry called and said she will be fifteen minutes late…um…and Doug and Carter are in Exam Room 3. Doug said he might need your help when you come in and to send you to the exam room.” “I thought Carter was helping him. Who’s the patient?” I am skimming through a couple of charts. “Carter.” I nearly drop the papers I am looking at. “What happened?!” “You’ll have to talk to Doug about that. I don’t know all of the details.” I am running down the hall and shout back, “Thanks Randi!” When I get to the exam room, Doug is just about to leave the room and I almost run into him. “What happened? Is Carter okay? Was it his back?” We are standing in the hall now and I can tell that I have bombarded Doug with questions. “Slow down. Carter is doing much better. And it was involving his back, but it’s not anything like you think. I found him on the floor in there—” “What?” I need to find out if the young doctor is all right. I walk into the room. Carter is fighting with the nurse over his chart. Chuny is trying to get him back into bed, but Carter pulls out his IV and bandages his arm. “Carter!” I shout. I didn’t mean to shout it, but I am starting to get angry. “What the hell is going on?” I ask, “Doug tells me that he found you in here of the floor. I need to know right now what is going on with you.” Carter looks up at me and his face is coated in a shock to see me. It was like I had fired him. He was at a loss of words. Chapter 14: August. 12, 2000, 11:54PM, Exam Room 3 (John Carter’s Point of View): I wake up laying on the gurney. What’s happened? My stomach is killing me and my head is spinning. I remember being in the exam room. I was giving myself another dosage of morphine. Was that it? Did I give myself too much? No, I took as much as I normally do. But I did take some extra pills. Damn it. I can’t believe this is happening. Now Doug will really think that I have a problem. And now he will be forced to tell Weaver and Mark what he saw. I can’t let him do that. I have to get rid of the chart first. Maybe I can convince him, as well, that I…I don’t know what I can convince him. I am a doctor and know what can and can’t be taken together. But why should I have to convince him of anything? The morphine was prescribed to me. Granted the doctor who prescribed it didn’t know that I have Vicodin as well, but the bottle still has my name on it. “Welcome back, Carter,” I hear Chuny say to me. “Yeah, hi. Listen,” Okay now it’s time for some smooth talking, “I think I am feeling a lot better. Thanks for your help.” I stand up and take my chart. I start taking pages out of the clipboard. “Hey, hey!” Chuny says, “I know you are a doctor here, but you can’t destroy your records!” I don’t answer and I am already getting dressed before I realize that there is an IV in my arm. "Damn it,” I mutter and slowly pull out the needle. “Carter!” Chuny shouts at me. She is pissed at me now. “Get back in that bed and wait until Dr. Ross comes to release you!” “I am a doctor, and I am releasing myself!” “Carter!” It’s Mark and Doug is standing behind him with his arms crossed. “What the hell is going on? Doug tells me that he found you in here of the floor. I need to know right now what is going on with you.” I am stunned. I don’t know what to say. But I need to say something before Doug tells him. I need to get out of the hospital. Finally the words of a coward come to me. “I guess I fainted. Doug must have found me. I don’t remember all that much, but I am feeling better. But I think it is best if I go home and rest for a day or two.” Now it’s Doug’s turn to talk. “I think it is best if you stay here for observation.” “I agree,” says Mark. “No, really, I am going to go home. Dr. Ross, can I speak with you in the lounge?” I walk out and hope that Doug is following me. He is. When we get to the lounge he shouts at me, “What the hell do you think you are doing?!” “What do you mean?” “You have a drug problem—” “I am extremely offended at all of this. You keep accusing me of drug abuse, but you have yet to prove any of it!” I am fuming now. He has no right to call me an addict. “Who do you think you are?!” “You know what, Carter,” He steps closer to me, “Even if you aren’t an addict, you still had an overdose. And you need to stay under hospital care for a little while longer.” I wasn’t listening anymore. “If you tell anyone of your theories, I …I…” “You’ll what? Quit? Sue me for emotional damage? There isn’t anything you can do except get help or get high!” “Stop talking!” I slam my locker closed. “Fine, if you don’t want my help, you can rot for all I care!” And that was the end of it. Doug left the lounge and I sit down on the sofa. “How can this be happening to me?” Chapter 15: August. 13, 2000, 1AM, Lounge (Kerry Weaver’s Point of View): “Are you sure about this Doug?” I ask. Doug, Mark, and I are sitting around the table in the lounge. I can’t believe what I am hearing. “These are some pretty serious accusations.” “I believe him,” Mark replies. “It makes so much sense, Kerry. I saw the scars on his wrist a long time ago, hence the psych consult. But they weren’t scars at all. He called them spider bites. They were from the needles he was…is using.” “But it’s Carter. He would never abuse medicine,” I am trying to convince myself more than the two other doctors. “This is why we didn’t realize what was happening to him. Whenever a thought popped into one of our heads we brushed it off because it is Carter. We have to stop thinking like that, Kerry. He needs help and he won’t get it for himself. It’s up to us.” I turn to Doug and ask, “You are sure of what you saw?” “I saw him inject the morphine into his wrist. I read the label so I know what it was. I was the one who found him after his morphine overdose. He didn’t faint; it was an overdose, Kerry, an overdose. I tried helping him myself. I know I should have told both of you sooner, but I wanted to be sure I was right.” “Okay,” I rubbed my temples, but it didn’t stop the pounding headache of reality, “I will talk to him—.” “Do you think you should do that? It might make him feel cornered since you are administration,” Mark replied. “What do you propose we do then? Doug already tried and it didn’t work.” “Let me try. He and I used to be close.” “Fine. But whatever you do, do it today. I don’t want to wait any longer.” |
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Carter : You know, there are two kinds of doctors: the kind that get rid of their feelings, and the kind that hold on to them. If you're going to hold on to your feelings, you're going to get sick every once in a while. That's part of it. Helping people is more important than how we feel. Hell, I've been doing this eight years, and I still get sick. [Carter's drug addiction] Susan: Vicodin? Carter : Yeah. If you're going to abuse drugs, abuse a good one. Mark : You set the tone, Carter. | |
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| Sky's Fanatic | Nov 16 2004, 09:48 PM Post #15 |
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Spade Of The Sky
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great job post soon please
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~Andy Griggs ROX~ ~I guess the problem with only listening to a patient for fifteen seconds is, sometimes you don't hear everything...and when you finally realize what they were trying to say, you might've lost them forever. ![]() All that you see or seem, is but a dream within a dream. - Edgar Allan Poe | |
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continue soon I love it



9:50 AM Jul 11