Page 12 of Theta

“But he didn't understand the whole enjoyment piece?"

"There was more to our relationship than that," I mutter. "He wasn't a bad guy."

"You just said he turned out to be a world-class jackass."

Why do I feel pissed off by this line of conversation? Embarrassment? I've done a lot of work in therapy in my life, dealing with the anger I feel. Anger is a secondary emotion, Dr. Albright tells me. Anger is a byproduct, usually of pain, fear, shame, guilt, or embarrassment, or a combination thereof.

Why am I getting pissy with Killian?

Because he's right.

I dated Jocko for far too long, well after I knew he was, objectively, a tool.

"We don't have to talk about this," Killian says. "I'm sorry if I was out of line."

I'm taken aback by the ease with which he apologized—my dad has apologized to me a few times, usually for a case of mistaken blame. But no other male in my life has ever apologized. I don't mean Cal, or the "uncles"—I only see them for a month or two in the summers, rarely enough for a situation to arise that would require apologies. I mean the people I live and work with daily. Boyfriends, coworkers, bosses.

"You weren't out of line," I answer, after a moment. "Jocko was—"

He snickers, cutting me off. "Wait, wait, wait. You dated a guy named Jocko? Like Willink?"

I snort. "Well, obviously he wasn't Jocko Willink, but yes."

"I'm shocked that a guy named Jocko would turn out to be a jackass. Shocked, I tell you."

"Sounds a bit prejudiced, Killian. A bit judgmental."

"What?" he protests. "It's a douchey name."

"Some might argue Killian is a douchey name."

"Can we start this over?" Killian says, sounding annoyed. "I only meant to convey that I don't understand what there is to not understand about what you said regarding needing the challenging aspect of emergency medicine."

"He was…" I trail off, sigh. "Jocko was complicated, okay? And to be clear, I'm only using past tense because I'm not dating him anymore. He’s still alive and well, last I heard."

A chuckle greets this. "Thanks for clarifying."

“He was sensitive. Which was weird for me, because on the surface he's this big, brawny, confident alpha male sort of guy. But under that, he was sensitive. He wasn't…tough. He didn't—he wasn't a fighter. Blood made him faint. So he just couldn’t mentally or emotionally wrap his brain around how, when I’m in the zone, treating patients, there's an objectivity that's necessary. I don’t always see John or Jane Smith, the person, with a life and feelings and friends. I see that later, when I'm checking in on my patients. But when it's the frenzy of trying to keep someone alive, it's a puzzle. It's…a problem to be solved. That's how my brain works—it solves problems."

"Hmm, interesting way to look at it," Killian says.

"Is that sarcasm?" I ask. "I genuinely can't tell."

"No! Not at all," he answers. "Say more."

"Um, I…well—if I’ve got an MVC victim with an open skull fracture and a GCS of four, an open femur fracture, multiple severe lacerations and contusions, and free fluid in the belly, the problem is which to treat first and then what to do for treatment. If I’ve got a GSW victim, it's a more straightforward question of stopping the bleeding—but straightforward does not mean easy."

"Clearly."

"There's an objectivity that's necessary, initially, at least. Jocko never understood that. Sometimes, the ER is so fast-paced that the patients just come through in a non-stop train, and I can't remember names or faces. It's not John Smith, it's the MVC patient. It’s not Jenny Johnson, it’s the third- and fourth-degree burns from a kitchen fire. Even if I use the patient's name—which I try to, y'know? If they're conscious, that is—I won’t remember the name once I'm home. It just doesn't stay in the brain. But the medicine? I remember that. I remember the dosage of meds, I remember what I did and in what order. Ask me about my GSW from my last shift and I'll tell you it was a single .45 slug that entered the torso at an oblique angle from low on the left side, ricocheted off the rib cage, ricocheted again off the hipbone, tore through the intestines and stomach, and wreaked absolute havoc on the vic's insides. I remember how many bullet fragments were extracted—seven. I remember how many bone fragments were extracted—nineteen. I remember how many clamps we used. I remember which meds I gave him. I know he had dark hair, and I think he was Asian. Young—early twenties. A little overweight. I remember this stuff. But I can't picture his face and I don’t remember his name. Not because I didn't or don’t care: I do—a fucking lot. But he lost too much blood before he got to us. His insides were too wrecked. We couldn’t save him, and he died. I remember his time of death—six-oh-six p.m. But I can't see his face and I don't know his name because about thirty seconds after he passed, another bus showed up with a construction worker who fell fifty feet onto a piece of rebar. The last patient is out of your mind because now this patient needs every last ounce of your focus."

Killian is quiet again. "Didn't follow all the lingo, but I get the picture." Another pause. "And Jocko thought this meant you were…what? Coldhearted? Some sort of emotionless automaton?"

"In short, yes. But in giving him the benefit of the doubt, I think it was more about him not being able to fathom how I can do the job at all, because he absolutely could not. That's not shade at him, though, it's just reality. It's not a job most people can do. And even among those of us who can and do do the job, there's a very high burnout and suicide rate because it's fucking hard and it takes a hell of a toll." I find myself laughing. "But ironically, that's not even why I broke up with him, or why I said he turned out to be a world-class jackass."

There's a brief pause. "Oh."

"He was possessive and insecure."