HPI

Oct 30, 2007 01:14

Carson would freely admit it to anyone who asked.  In fact, he would often volunteer the information if they didn’t.

He wasn’t supposed to be in America.

He should have stayed in Edinburgh, where he understood the system, worked only eighty hours a week and got paid what he deserved for it.

It was the inevitable follow-up question that he tended to have trouble answering.

To answer that one Carson needed to be really, really drunk or really, really tired.

Preferably both.

To most people, Carson would cite the greater degree of penetrating trauma in America.  Or he would mention the chance to work in cutting edge facilities.  Occasionally he told people that he was looking for an adventure.

They were all lies.

Carson was actually in America because he had been a twit over a pair of beautiful blue eyes.

“Dr Beckett?”

A pair of beautiful blue eyes that happened to be attached to the brain of a complete moron.  Unfortunately Carson had only managed to work this out three weeks after he accepted the America job.  Exactly one week after the close of applications for surgical registrar positions in the UK.

By the time he’d realised his mistake it was too late.  He could have stayed in the UK, even in Scotland.  But he wouldn’t have been able to work as a surgeon.

Carson figured that if he had to spend a year treading water, then he should at least do it with a scalpel in his hand.

“Dr Beckett?”

So if he went to General Hospital in the United States of America with his heart in his mouth and the sound of his colleague’s laughter ringing in his ears.

It was hard some days to summon a smile.  Especially in hour ninety-two of a hundred hour week in a go-nowhere job in a bewildering country.

He’d learnt to sleep with his eyes open.  It was better than going back to his awful apartment that cost a fortune and was home to two hairy malcontents.

“Dr. Beckett?!”

Carson wondered if either of the hairy malcontents had bothered to do the dishes this week.  And buy cockroach traps.  Or figure out that the two of them; dirty dishes and cockroaches, might be causally related.

“Dr Beckett!!”

Carson blinked and finally registered the little brunette standing in front of him.  She had a white coat, a stethoscope and a pair of flashing brown eyes.  Her coat indicated that she was a medico, but he didn’t recognise her face.

He’d have remembered if he’d seen that particular face before.

“Sorry, love,” he muttered.  “Half-asleep.  What can I do for you?”

“Are you the neurosurgical resident?”

“Aye I am.”

“Can I talk to you about a patient?”

Carson looked the women up and down, desperately looking for an ID badge, or a name.

“Of course you can, love,” he said.

“Mrs. Smyth,” the woman said briskly.  “I was reviewing her notes, and I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I asked you a few questions about her care?”

The penny finally dropped in Carson’s head.  “Oh,” he said.  “You’re a medical student.”  He wasn’t sure why he felt a little disappointed.

The woman looked vaguely embarrassed.  “Yes.  I’m sorry.  My name is Janet Frasier.”

“What year are you?”

“Final year.”

“Oh good.”  Carson normally didn’t enjoy teaching too much, mainly because he always felt that the students were laughing at him.  But there was something very beguiling about this tiny woman.  “What did you want to know?”

She looked surprised.  “Well I’m not sure where to start.”

“You’ve read the notes right?  Present her to me.”

“Um, ok,” she paused, and he could see her thinking.  “Mrs Smyth is a 64 year old woman in hospital post-removal of a meningioma along the sphenoid ridge.”

“Good.”

“This is her fourth day in hospital.  Her vitals are stable, but her progress has been delayed by a bout of SIADH.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Which is actually what I want to talk to you about.”

“SIADH?”

“Yes.  I’m just a little curious as to why you’ve made that diagnosis.”

“You don’t agree with it?”

The young woman suddenly looked terrified.  “No, no.  I mean I would never dream of second-guessing your diagnostic decisions Dr. Beckett.  I’m just trying to understand what’s happening.”

In the long held traditions of medical training, Carson let her dangle for a few minutes before rescuing her. “Well, they aren’t my diagnostic decisions, I’m only the resident.  I also don’t mind medical students questioning, because that’s what you’re supposed to do.  And my name is Carson.”

The medical student looked slightly relieved, but still tense.  “I’m glad you feel that way, Dr. Beckett.”

“What can I say, I’m a rare fellow.  And my name is Carson.  Now.  What are you confused about, Miss Frasier?”

“Her sodium is a little low,” she handed Carson a copy of a lab report, before looking up shyly at him.  “And if I am to call you Carson, you’d better call me Janet.”

“I suppose I’d better, Janet.  A low sodium can be normal in SIADH.  It’s a dilutional effect.”

“Really?”

“Yes.  If you think about it, too much ADH gives you water retention, right?”

She nodded.  “Yes I understand that.  Sorry.  I was just reading about cerebral salt wasting last night, and I was wondering if maybe this lady... Anyway.  Sorry to bother you.”

“Not at all, Janet.  It’s good to see you trying to learn.”

She held out a slim hand and he shook it.  “Thank you for your time, Dr. B-Carson.”

“You’re most welcome.”

She smiled slightly, and Carson was surprised at how seductive he found it.  He watched her walk a way, his brain more switched on than it had been in months, and he suddenly felt interested in life again.

Maybe America wasn’t going to be a complete loss after all.

Four hours later, once again sleeping with his eyes open, a page summoned him to the bedside of Mrs Smyth.   The nurse looked up worriedly as he entered the ward, handing him a page of lab reports as he reviewed his obviously confused patient.

“She just suddenly went off,” the nurse said worriedly.

Carson looked at the patient and wondered.  Then he looked at her sodium and made a decision.

“Start her on 3% sodium, one litre over the next hour, and call me when the bag’s through.”

“What about the SIADH?”

Carson made a decision to hunt down young Janet Frasier.  He had a feeling that being a twit over a pair of intelligent brown eyes wasn’t going to be as detrimental to his career as the last pair had been.

“I think we had the diagnosis wrong.”

carson beckett, janet frasier, fic

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