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Help Me, Please; Abby never reported Carter. PG-13
Topic Started: Nov 7 2004, 07:34 PM (1,436 Views)
Faith
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Hospital Chairperson (3,700+ posts)
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Intense!! I wanna know more
There was a rabbit, in a bowler hat cooking an omelette...
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countygeneral04
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Medical Student (100+ Posts)
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its great!!, i cant wait for more!!!
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artemis024
Nurse (-100 Posts)
[ * ]
Chapter 24: August. 31, 2000, 5PM, Hospital Room (Robert Romano’s Point of View):

I’m sick of this horsecrap. Benton has to get his head on straight and stop worrying about that drugged up Doctor Carter. I am watching them from outside the hospital room. For a while they were arguing but now they are silent and just staring at each other. Enter Rocket.

I storm in and shout, “What the hell is wrong with you, Peter? I said that I wanted you back in surgery!” He doesn’t move. “Dr. Benton—!”

The drug addict speaks, “Dr. Benton, I can’t talk like this.” His voice shakes as her whispers this.

“Pipe down, Carter—” I start to say but Peter interrupts, still facing away from me.

“Don’t speak to him like that. Please leave Dr. Romano.”

“Not unless you’re following right behind me. I gave you plenty of time to deal with this situation. And it seems to me that Dr. Carter is out of the woods. . . physically at least.”

Carter is whining again, “Dr. Benton, please . . .”

I sigh and rub my eyes. I need to get him out of the room somehow. I guess I could be nice to him. “Peter,” I say calmly, “Let’s just step outside so we can talk and let Dr. Carter rest for a few minutes.” I wait.

After a minute or two, Peter finally looks away from Carter and looks at me. But strangely I don’t think he’s looking at me, but instead, straight past my head . . . as if I’m not even there.

“Okay,” he says. To Carter he says, “I’ll be right outside if you need anything, okay man?” Carter just nods in response and somehow seems to squeeze himself in the fetal position even tighter than he already is.

I lead the other surgeon out to the hallway. As I gather my thoughts I notice that Benton is watching Carter through the door’s window. I never realized just how close these two are.

“Peter,” I get his attention and he looks away from the window. I am surprised that he keeps his eyes on me as I speak, “John is a very sick man. And I understand that you two are friends, but we really need you in surgery. You can’t do anything more to help him except get him professional help. And you need to get some sleep—”

“I can do more for him—”

“Like what!?” I am not yelling at him in anger. I merely want him to see that here is nothing left for him to do. He needs sleep. He isn’t thinking straight.

“He confessed to me.” Benton speaks these words quietly but his next sentence is said even quieter. “He admitted that he doesn’t want to live. He admitted to drugs. He won’t talk to anyone else, just me. I’m the only person who can help him right now. Let me do that for him.”

Suddenly I see Peter sway and he has to steady himself against the wall.

“Peter! Are you alright?” I rush next to him.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” But he was already sliding to the floor.

“Peter! Peter!” I shout down the hall, “I need a gurney!” A couple of nurses come running with a gurney. We pull Peter off the floor and lay him down.

Behind me I hear someone ask, “What happened to him?” It’s Carter.

“Get back in your room please,” I say as calmly as I can.

“No, I want to know what happened to Dr. Benton.”

“Nurse,” I say to the man next to me, “Please escort Dr. Carter back to his bed and put his restraints back on.”

“I don’t need to be restrained!” he shouts out.

To the nurse I say, “Do it.” To Carter I order, “Lay down for him. Be good and maybe you’ll get them off early.” I know this is not true since he was a danger to himself. It will be up to the psychiatrist to take them off. And now I’m off to fix-up doctor number two.

On the way to the ER floor Peter starts to wake up. He mumbles, “What’s going on?”

“You fainted. You haven’t been sleeping or eating enough. And I’m guessing that you are dehydrated too. So I am keeping you here overnight—”

“That’s not necessary, Robert.”

“I think it is. You fainted and we need to make sure it won’t happen again. Just think of it as a vacation. It’s a good chance for you to get some sleep, eat some decent food, all in all replenish your body.”

“But what about Carter?”

“They have capable doctors upstairs. And I’ll check on him every once and a while. Now rest up, Dr. Benton.”

I go upstairs to the psych floor and find that not only is Carter back in restraints but Dr. DeRaad is also in the room, sitting next to the bed. DeRaad is trying to make him talk but Carter has his head facing the other way and isn’t saying a word.

Out of no where Carter starts thrashing his arms and legs in the restraints and shouts out, “Where the hell is Dr. Benton!”

I enter the room and must have startled DeRaad because he jumps up from his seat and asks, “May I help you, Dr. Romano?”

“No.” I turn to Carter and say, “Peter won’t be able to sit with you for a while. It seems that he was up here so much that he wore himself out. He needs some rest. But I suggest you tell the shrinks up here whatever it is that you told Peter earlier.” And I walk out. I know I was harsh but I have better things to do than baby-sit this addict.
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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countygeneral04
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Medical Student (100+ Posts)
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its really good, i cant wait for more!!
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Coffeehouseintern
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Medical Student (100+ Posts)
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This is such a good Story! More soon please :)

Abby: It's not a gang, it's a club.
Carter: Not another stage-diving incident, I hope.
Abby: First rule of girls club is - you don't talk about girls club.
Carter: You're not going to tell me what you did?
Abby: Oh, you know, the usual, crank calls, pillow fights, lesbian experimentation.
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artemis024
Nurse (-100 Posts)
[ * ]
Hope you enjoy this chapter. I wrote it at 2 in the morning. Reviews are welcome.

Chapter 25: August. 31, 2000, 5:30PM, Hospital Room (John Carter’s Point of View):

I am so scared! But it’s not just that. I am so confused that I don’t know what’s going on in my head anymore. And now they took Dr. Benton away. He’s the only person who knows what’s going on. I heard that my parents are on their way, and my Gamma has been here since I arrived. I don’t want to see my family right now. And I especially don’t want Dr. DeRaad here asking me all these ridiculous questions! I have to get out of here somehow.

I test the strength of the restraints. To anyone else it probably looks like I am trying to escape, thrashing and kicking around.

DeRaad has been talking this whole time. Finally I shout at him, “Stop talking!”

He stops what he is saying but continues with, “Dr. Carter, all I’m trying to do is help you figure out why you tried to end your life—.”

“Fine. Fine!” I stop struggling. I can’t stand this anymore. I am not crazy! I am not crazy! I am not crazy! Just let me die!

“What did you say, John?” There is a concerned look on DeRaad’s face. Did I say that out loud? No, I couldn’t have. I chuckle to myself but quickly stop when I realize I probably look even crazier now. I am lost in my thoughts for a moment but then hear the shrink again.

“John? John? Dr. Carter? Are you okay?”

I try to look him in the face but the restraints won’t allow me to very well. I give up and simply say, “Isn’t that what you’re here to determine?”

“I am here to help you answer that question.”

“Okay, I’ll answer it.” I am sick of these silly insignificant questions. “I am okay. I’m doing pretty well right now. But I’d be doing a lot better if I didn’t have these restraints on.”

DeRaad ignores that last comment of mine and responds, “Well, if you are doing so well, why do you think you are here today?”

“You guys made a mistake obviously,” I plainly say.

“You think so? Because you seem to have some pretty serious cuts on your wrists and I think any doctor would agree that life can’t be that good when you do that to yourself.”

Now I have to bring out a little sarcasm to this conversation, “Well, I disagree and I’m a doctor—.”

“Dr. Carter, your jokes will not get you out of here any faster.”

Oh no, I have angered him.

“Ok,” I respond, “I was so freaking doped up that I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.”

“Is that the only reason?”

I’m getting pissed off again. “Why the hell do you people keep asking me these questions?! I told all this to Dr. Montgomery already. Wait, why isn’t she here?”

“Dr. Montgomery had another patient she needed to attend to so you’re stuck with me for now.” DeRaad clears his throat and continues, “Okay, Dr. Carter, would you like to talk about the drugs?”

I sigh and ask, “What about them?”

“What have you been taking?”

“Pain medicine.”

“What were you taking that for?”

I can’t believe this guy. “For when I was stabbed in the back.” I try to look at him again, “You remember that don’t you? The psych consult didn’t come down fast enough and Paul Sobricki stabbed me and Lucy with an eight inch knife—!”

“Doctor, please don’t get excited or I may be forced to sedate you.”

“Please do, I need a good buzz.” I meant this comment as a joke, but suddenly it sounded so good. I moan to myself, “Oh, Jesus.”

“What is it, John?”

“I am a drug addict, aren’t I?” I don’t want to believe it. It can’t be true. I’m Dr. John Truman Carter III, the son of the ER. I was practically raised there. Their perfect little boy. Not so perfect anymore, I guess.

I am brought back to reality as DeRaad says, “It seems that you have a physical addiction and most likely a psychological addiction as well. Did you ever take any illegal substances?”

“No . . . wait,” I try to remember, “Yes. I used heroin once, a while ago when the morphine wasn’t working. But I knew I couldn’t use that again.”

"Okay. And I see you were taking antidepressants as well. Were they helping you at all?”

All I can say is, “Doctor, you are aware of those papercuts on my wrists, right?” He just watches me. Okay, not a time for joking I guess. I continue, “I’m sorry. I guess think is just overwhelming. Yes, the antidepressants did help a little, but obviously not enough. And I felt like a fake person when I took them so I often didn’t take what I should have.” And then I took the pain meds I shouldn’t have.

“John, do you know what may have set off your depression?”

I know the answer, but I don’t want to say it. I try to think hard for another reason but there is none.

I respond, “Lucy’s death is my fault. I should have been paying attention to how she was dealing with her patient. Maybe I could have gotten you guys to come down faster. But I can’t change the past,” I keep hearing myself say this. “She’d dead and it’s because of me.” Oh, no. I feel the tears forming again. I try to laugh off the tears and say, “I can’t believe that I’m crying. I never cry.”

“It’s okay, John. You lost a close friend of yours. Maybe you have needed to cry for a while.”

I make a weak chuckle again as I try to stop the tears and say, “God, I need a smoke. You don’t think there’s anyway I could go out and have one, do you?”

“Sorry, John, but you know I can’t do that.” He jots something down in his chart and continues, “Maybe your stay here will help you quit.”

But I barely hear him say this because I am trying not to start crying again. It’s kind of funny how I am opening up so much after putting up such a fight about it.

DeRaad asks me, “John, is there something more you would like to tell me?”

I try to shake my head, though I am sure it looks like I am just rolling it back and forth on the pillow. I finally say, “I just can’t believe how bad it’s gotten. If you had said to me a year ago that I would become a drug addict, I would never have believed you.”

“But it’s an addiction that you can fight and we will help you here at the hospital. And your friends and family will support you—.”

“You don’t know my family.”

“I’m sure they will be glad to know you are okay and safe.”

“No, no.” That’s the last thing my family will feel. “I’m number two in my family now.”

I don’t think he heard me because he continues, “And you are an adult, John. As long as you take responsibility for your actions and seek help—.”

“That’s not what they will be worried about.” After all, I know my family better than DeRaad does.

“Okay, enlighten me then.” He leans back in his chair.

“I am the second addict in my family. I helped hide my cousin Chase’s addiction and tried to detox him myself. But he OD’d again and now he’s a vegetable.” I pause and think carefully of how to express myself. “My family will only care about the freaking press.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am a Carter . . .” He gives me a blank look so I continue, “As in the Carter’s, and the Carter Family Foundation.”

It takes him a moment and then I hear, “Ah, the one that gives donations to this hospital.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure they won’t be pleased to read about how young Dr. Carter, heir to the family fortune, is in a psych ward for an overdose and slit wrists.” I close my eyes and sigh, “This is just great.”

“Like I said,” DeRaad states, “I’m sure they will be happy to know that you are alive. Is there anything else that you would like to talk about?”

I keep my eyes closed and say, “ No.” I wish I could fall asleep right now, but I can’t.

“Okay, well, I’ll be back later.” I hear him leave but I don’t want to open my eyes just yet. I need to think . . .

It went too far and that’s all there is to it. I should have known the warning signs to my own addiction. But I was in so much pain! But, then again, was I taking the drugs for the physical pain or to get rid of the memories? Now I’m thankful that I can’t sleep. Whenever I do, I relive that awful Valentine’s night. I don’t want to think about that.

So how about something else. Like how I almost succeeded at suicide? Yet another thing I can’t believe. Did I want to die that bad? Yes. Do I still?

My thoughts are interrupted when I hear someone come in and ask, “Dr. Carter?”

I keep my eyes closed as I answer, “Yes?”

“You have a visitor.”

I hear a woman’s voice say, “I’m sorry.” I can’t place the voice so I am forced to open my eyes.

She repeats, “I’m sorry.”

And I understand.
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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Faith
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Hospital Chairperson (3,700+ posts)
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Hmmm.. who is it??! I'm curious
There was a rabbit, in a bowler hat cooking an omelette...
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countygeneral04
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Medical Student (100+ Posts)
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think its gamma....
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sam&luka4eva
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Intern (250+ posts)
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I bet its abby
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They will always be just a memory away...
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countygeneral04
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Medical Student (100+ Posts)
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yeah, but y would abbey say that?, gamma would, for letting him do that??? i dunno though, could be..
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Akkalabeth
Nurse (-100 Posts)
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OMG!!!! i want moooooooooooreeeeeeeee!! :lol:
and i think it's abby!!!
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abby's angel
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Resident (500+ posts)
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I think it's Abby for not reporting him OR stopping him before... Remember when Carter told her "If you hadn't stopped me when you did, I'd probably be dead by now"? ;) But I could be wrong...
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¤~ If I cried me a river of all my confessions
Would I drown in my shallow regret?

-"Black", Sarah McLachlan.
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artemis024
Nurse (-100 Posts)
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Ok, so you don’t know who’s point of view this is in . . . but I do!!

Chapter 26: August. 31, 2000, 5:30PM, Hospital Room

His eyes are closed as I enter the hospital room.

“I’m sorry,” is all I can think to say.

His eyes open and his expression changes from confusion, to anger . . . to surrender.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat.

He looks like he can’t think of what to say. He opens his mouth but stops. I want to run out of the room, crying. This could have all been avoided, but because of me this wonderful doctor had to go through all this pain. My thoughts are silenced as he speaks.

“Why,” his voice cracks as he tried to make out the words, “Why are you here?” I can tell he’s on the verge of crying. I wish we could just hug and cry together and that everything would go back to normal. But unfortunately life doesn’t work like that . . . at least not our lives.

I finally respond to his question, “Just to tell you what I’ve already said. I didn’t think this would happen. I didn’t know how bad it was.”

“Neither did I,” is all he manages to say. He rolls his head to the side. That’s about all he can do, being restrained. God he looks so pitiful. It’s as if he’s a criminal, shackled to his prison bed. No, it’s worse than that. He is a criminal, and he’s his own victim. I don’t know if I should let him be or if I should stay and talk more. I decide on the latter.

I walk over to the side of his bed so that we are facing each other again. “Dr. Carter, if there was a way for me to change what happened, trust me, I would but—.”

“Just stop it!” he suddenly yells at me. “You are only here because you feel guilty and you want me to forgive you. Well, fine, you’re forgiven. Are you happy now?”

“No, that doesn’t make me happy. I made a mistake and since you came in a few days ago I have been trying to convince myself that it wouldn’t have made a difference if I had told anyone what I saw!”

“Abby—”

“No, listen!” I know I am yelling and I really don’t care anymore. “And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that if I had told Dr. Greene or Dr. Weaver about it they would have found a way to stop you . . . and help you. But they didn’t know until it was too late.” I taste salt in the corner of my mouth but I don’t care that I am crying.

“Nothing you could have done would have made any difference!” he shouts. He rolls his head back to the center of the pillow. “I did this to myself. I’m the only one to blame. Plus, another doctor knew. He confronted me and I ignored him. He told Mark and Kerry. They confronted me and I left. And I guess everyone knows now, huh?”

“I don’t know about everyone, but a lot of people do know by now. There was no way to hide it.”

Again it looks like Carter is about to start crying, but somehow he holds back. I don’t know how he can be that strong at a time like this. I still feel hot tears running down my face as he repeats, “I did this to myself . . . ,” It’s as if he is trying to convince himself more than he is trying to convince me. “. . . and it’s something I’ll have to live with, not you. And I suggest that you don’t let them know that you saw me injecting the fentynal in May. I don’t want you to be punished for something I did.”

He sounds so weak. Even though, or maybe because, I didn’t help him before, I wish I could help him now. But I am not a psychiatrist. There is nothing for me to do for him.

I walk toward the door and say back to him, “I hope I see you around, Dr. Carter,” but he has already fallen asleep. As I leave the room I think to myself, “Maybe now he will be able to get some temporary peace of mind.”
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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Faith
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Hospital Chairperson (3,700+ posts)
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Moooooooooore (I´m sorry I´m whining but it´s your fault, you´re such a good writer)
There was a rabbit, in a bowler hat cooking an omelette...
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countygeneral04
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Medical Student (100+ Posts)
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too good, geez! ur killin me, what happens?
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