Final Diagnosis: Not Crazy After All

Chapter One

The Turning Point

Over a century old, the monumental veterinary hospital and shelter stands, shabby but proud, in the center of the big city’s seedy heart. Outside the entrance, a single palm tree in a patch of grass and litter towers over the people and pets going in and out. A homeless man swears at the sea of cars with California license plates driving by on the busy street.

In one of the hospital’s sixteen outdated examination rooms, a frazzled single mom sits in the only chair. She shuts the door to the wild waiting room. It’s a zoo in there. She turns her puffy eyes to the hospital bill and the discharge instructions in her hand.

Her giddy young boy and girl peer out the cracked window of the other door to the back hall, where staff in scrubs and animal traffic flow to and from the forbidden-to-the-public treatment room.

No matter what, Chester’s E-collar stays on ‘til the stitches come out, the seasoned, mid-thirties veterinarian instructs as she sifts through x-rays on the scratched exam table.  

I’m so thankful we qualified for the payment plan, Dr. Swiss, the worried mother smiles at the freckle-faced vet with striking green eyes and wild, bleached hair, who probably could’ve been thought pretty, if there was time to think about such things. Chester’s an important member of our family.

How’s he doing, Dr. Swiss? the girl chimes in.

The intercom blares static and shrill chirps. The kids hold their hands over their ears.

The speaker in the ceiling blares, Dr. Price to the treatment room!

Dr. Swiss places the dog’s x-rays on the wall viewer. The bulb blinks out, but the plate and screws in the big dog’s right femur are clearly seen.

Cool, the boy marvels. Chester’s part robot now.

The booming broadcast repeats, Dr. Price to the treatment room! Stat!

I think exercise restriction is going to be the hardest part, Dr. Swiss offers sympathetically. No stairs—

The hall door rolls open. A tattooed technician, Monica, pink hair and scrubs, rushes in behind one-hundred-and-fifty pounds of hyper Labrador on the end of a leash. Despite the bulky plastic cone around Chester’s massive head, and the awkward, well-padded bandage around his right hind leg, the big galumph greets the kids with wet kisses and exuberant howls of joy.

Chester! the children squeal.

Harried Monica hands the leash to the woman and ushers the veterinarian into the hall.

I’ll do the discharge here, Sam, Monica directs. We need you in back. A hit-by-car poodle needs stabilizing. The new grad needs help with a fractious cat. Possible rat bait ingestion. There are five Rottie parvo pups in isolation waiting for intake instructions. A cat with a vaccine reaction is on its way here—

I’m not on emergency duty today, Sam asserts. Where’s Price?

No one knows, Monica informs her. He hasn’t shown up yet, and he’s not answering any of his phones. He does relief at so many clinics. Maybe he mixed up his days.

Price NEVER mixes up his days! He’s anal about his schedule!

Isn’t there anyone else? I’m completely backed up, Sam gripes.

Rosie, a gum-chewing receptionist, sashays down the hall. Dr. Swiss, your witness euthanasia has been waiting for thirty minutes—

Get lost, Monica cuts in. We’ve got lives at stake.

Red-faced Rosie scurries away.

Monica turns to Sam. The front staff overbooked dentals and it’s surgery day. All the other vets are new or have animals under anesthesia, she reports. You’re the senior—

The intercom shrieks, DR. LOGAN PRICE TO THE TREATMENT ROOM NOW!

Rhonda, the no-nonsense head technician, struts out the swinging treatment room door in her bright, white, comfy tennis shoes, spies Sam, and declares emphatically, You’re on emergency duty as of now, Sam. Gallagher’s orders.

Where is Gallagher? frustrated Sam asks.

Not on the premises, Rhonda responds curtly. He called in and said you’re on ER today. The front staff will shift your appointments to other docs.

Sam pokes her head into Chester’s exam room. Sorry. Monica will go over everything with you. I’ll call tonight. She runs down the hall toward the treatment room, muttering through gritted teeth, Another day in paradise.

Under the tilted wall clock above the door, Sam disappears inside. Time: 8:15 AM.

*  *  *

Outside the Veterinary Chief of Staff’s office door, Sam brushes fur off her lab coat and checks her watch: 8:15 PM. She raises her hand to knock.

There you are! Noah, the ever-smiling Hospital Administrator, calls out from the other end of the dreary corridor. You’ve been hard to pin down today. Lately.

With her best fake-smile, Sam drags her feet to the hub of hospital operations.

I just wanna go home.

Hey, Noah, she greets the wiry man in a sweater-vest and corduroys, her demeanor noticeably careful and distant.

I want to talk to you about the schedule, Noah says, genuinely friendly. You haven’t booked any shifts next month. Noah slides behind his desk. Colorful time slot patterns decorate a November calendar on his computer screen. Take a seat.

Sam stands rigid in the doorway.

Noah meets her eyes and leans back. Let’s start again, he suggests, folding his hands in his lap. How are you, Sam? You look wretched, and you’re clearly avoiding me.

How am I? My guts don’t behave. I barely sleep. I’m tired all the time. I always seem to have a weird skin rash somewhere. This has been going on for a year, and I’m getting worse. To top it off, it feels like there’s a machine gun pounding inside my skull 24/7.

Probably true on both counts, Sam responds half-heartedly.

Haven’t you noticed something has changed inside of me, Noah? Isn’t it obvious I’m not myself? I used to be a cool cucumber with a sense of humor. Now I’m an anxiety-ridden woman with a black brain fog. I could swear that some insidious disease is robbing me of my brain and body, but I have no idea what it is. Something’s drastically shifted inside of me. I ain’t doin’ right.

Lighten up, I’m joking, Noah chortles. You look fantastic and you’re exceeding all of your assigned financial targets.

Woohoo. Good for me, she smirks, puckering her cheeks.

Right before your eyes, Noah, my physical and mental health have deteriorated to the point where the monumental tasks of working and simply existing seem impossible at times. Yet I still look normal on the outside, don’t I?

Listen, Noah advises. I know you do relief at other hospitals, and you’re rotating through day and night shifts, but we need you here too. What did your doctor say?

Sore subject.

Sam rolls her eyes. The MD did a blood panel to humor me. Her diagnosis is that I’m a stressed, single, childless, professional woman of a certain age, and I need a vacation.

Looks like I’m going to have to find another doc or figure this out for myself. I’ve got to understand what’s the stress of life and what’s a medical condition. How hard can it be if I laser-focus?

So you’re going on holiday next month, Noah surmises. We can work around that. I’m glad your labs were clean.

I used to love the hectic pace here. The banter. Especially after I paid off my student loan. The praise from happy clients offset the beatings from cases gone bad. I exercise daily. I have friends and interests outside of vet med, but there’s something very, very, very wrong with me.

Sam turns to leave. I’ll get back to you about the schedule tomorrow, she vows. I’m still royally pissed about Price not showing up today. It’s been brutal, to put it politely.

I’m afraid I’m losing my mind. I do wish I could talk to you about this, Noah, but I can’t. For obvious, professional reasons. I truly fear for my competence. My livelihood. Everything I’ve worked my ass off to get. Hey God, I need your help.

I’m sure Logan has a valid explanation. His reputation is impeccable, Noah remarks. He’ll thank you for stepping in.

It’s part of my job, Sam grins. And I gotta report to the Chief before I go, so do you mind if I scoot?

Okay, Noah nods. Tomorrow, then. You know where to find me.

Sam nods, beelines down the hall to the Chief’s office, and knocks.

Come in, a deep, male voice with a thick Irish accent commands from the other side of the door.

Inside, the imposing Dr. Gallagher, all six-and-a-half brawny feet of him topped with a tousled mop of red curls, sits behind his desk. The intense frown on his stern face isn’t a good sign. His usually pressed shirt is rumpled and unbuttoned at the collar, and his signature necktie nowhere to be seen. His lab coat lies on the floor.

You wanted to see me, Dr. Gallagher? Sam smiles nervously.

Gallagher waves her in with his beefy, prizefighter arms.

He looks awful. Like he was up all night.

Sam closes the door behind her and takes the empty seat before the desk. She nestles in amid the great veterinarian’s treasures accumulated over thirty years of practice — diplomas and awards, veterinary textbooks, photographs with exotic patients, ancient black doctor’s bag, manuscripts to edit, boxes of new products, dusty collars and leashes, an empty aquarium, piles of medical charts, and yesterday’s lunch.

Gallagher’s the kind of vet I want to be someday. He does everything well. Medicine and surgery. A rare jack-of-all-trades in a field growing more specialized by the day. He can be a gruff tyrant at times, but beneath that hard Chief of Staff exterior, he’s a softhearted man who loves vet med and knows the business well. He was born to do this job.

Thanks for taking over for Logan today, Gallagher offers, his expression unreadable. There was no way around it.

No problem, Sam remarks cautiously.

Something’s very wrong here. I hope he didn’t fire Price. I know Price has been more explosive these past few months. His outbursts are definitely out of character. Today was the first time he just didn’t show up without calling in. I know that’s plain irresponsible and unprofessional for a relief vet, but shit. Gallagher can’t fire him. We’re short-staffed.

How did it go today? Gallagher asks.

We got slammed, Sam replies. As usual.

Silence. Gallagher stares intensely at Sam. He finally takes a