The Important Parts, Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Jude Mitchell had worked at NYU Medical Center for a little over four years. In that time, he had been punched twice, was baselessly sued once, and made a sum total of zero friends at work. Generally considered an arrogant ass by his coworkers, Jude was not bothered in the least by his reputation. He was there for his expertise in neurology, not for his winning charm. Jude knew he was brilliant and saw no problem telling others that.
His social life was just as satisfactory as his professional. He had some social acquaintances with whom he occasionally went out to dinner. His sex life was fulfilling-for the past year he had been seeing a cardiologist, Alec, at Mt. Sinai Hospital. Alec was blonde, brown-eyed, and sexy as hell. He was in his mid-thirties, but looked younger. Jude found that sexy, too. Alec worked as hard as Jude, well…almost as hard anyways. Alec once joked, “We work so well together because we work so much.” There was probably some truth in that statement, but Jude did care about Alec and the feeling was mutual. The relationship was casual, easy. Jude was happy that it was not a world-will-end-without-my-one-true-love sort of romance. Who had the time?
Not everything in Jude’s life had always been so perfect although Jude never dwelled upon it anymore. He had grown up in Boston, but no longer had any family. His parents and sister had died in a car accident some thirty years ago. Jude had not spoken to the uncle who had raised him for twenty years, not since he graduated high school. He had gone to Cambridge for undergrad and medical school. As he concentrated intensely on academics, few people seemed to remember him there. From there he took a job in a small town neurological wing in Indiana. It had been his to run eventually, but the finances for it ran dry, the hospital merged into another, and so he accepted the job at NYU.
Unfortunately, Jude could not remember a bit of it. His life was blank until about five years ago when he woke up in a hospital bed. Apparently, as he was traveling from Indiana to New York, he was in a major car accident on the interstate. His body, broken to bits, had barely survived. When he woke up, he could tell you every small detail about using neuronavigation technology and intraoperative MRI to remove brain tumors, but he could not tell you his name. He had severe retrograde amnesia due to massive brain trauma. His wallet had given the hospital enough information to know that he was Dr. Jude Mitchell, he had a social security number, and that he had insurance.
His physical incapacity during that first year rivaled the amnesia for what Jude hated most. His right leg sustained two fractures in his femur, his left ankle was broken in three places, all of his ribs were cracked, and his right arm was broken in several places. There were contusions and lacerations covering his body. Over the course of a few weeks following the accident, doctors inserted rods and plates in every place imaginable. The nurses called him Darth Vader because he was “more machine now than man”-although he suspected that in private they really called him that for his less-than-stellar attitude. If they did their job properly, perhaps he would not feel the need to yell at them from his bed.
Then the physical therapy began. His primary therapist, George, worked with Jude for nearly a year. George, as far as Jude knew, was pure evil. He would have made an excellent dictator of some small third-world country during the nineteenth century. George worked Jude mercilessly, ignoring any protests and unimpressed by complaints, even complaints said at the top of Jude’s lungs.
The therapy was excruciating and took longer than Jude’s patience could manage. The only part of Jude’s body that had not had some sort of fracture was his spine and for that Jude was grateful. However, Jude had required so much surgery that all his muscle mass was gone and with all the supportive rods and plates, physical therapy was a lengthy painful process. Jude could admit that he made things worse by making it a lengthy painful process for everyone else as well. The only thing he wanted was to go back to being a doctor and anything preventing it was intolerable. Medicine called to him even though he could not remember performing surgery on a single patient. Nonetheless, he knew what he was and he knew how to do it. Without memories, being a doctor was all he was.
His lack of memory had frustrated him greatly at first, particularly as it also kept him out of the operating room. He had a few memories come back from his distant past, but nothing whatsoever after high school. He remembered images of his parents, his sister, and someone he thought might be his uncle. He remembered walking up the steps of an enormous three-story marble building with six long pillars in the front, but he could not place the memory. His doctors told him that older memories were harder to disrupt than newer ones-‘Ribot’s Law’ they called it. Returning to Boston, then Indiana, he had hoped to jog his memories. While he recovered some in Boston, nothing in Indiana sparked anything. Hypnosis and psychotherapy did not help at all.
“Dr. Mitchell, you may have to accept that you may never recover your memories. Your injuries from the crash make it a miracle that you survived at all. That your physical therapy has been such a success is also a miracle. It may be too much to ask for a third.”
With a roll of his eyes, Jude wondered if he did get his third miracle, would sainthood await? “Look doctor, what are your credentials again? Is that a real school? I’m here due to good medical care and determination to heal. I like to be in control of my life. I don’t need you talking about supernatural intervention. I need scientific answers, not psycho-babble that I could get from watching Dr. Phil.”
But, good answers had not been forthcoming. He found himself having to prove to NYU and the New York Medical Board that he was still a competent surgeon. For a year, he dealt with testing and shadowing at all times before he was allowed in the operating room again. He supposed he should be grateful that the chief of staff had ever authorized him to operate again; Jude was not sure he would have done the same if it had been him.
For the last three years, he had been able to operate again on his own. He exalted in being in charge of the operating room. He gloried in delving into the brain. By publishing articles and performing nearly impossible surgeries, he built a reputation as being one of the region’s best neurosurgeons. He turned down all offers to speak at medical conferences as he did not want to take time away from his practice. Five years after his accident, his life revolved around surgery as it was supposed to.
Only in dreams were there whispers of another life that, as far as Jude knew, never existed.
A/N My apologies to the NY medical board and NYU hospital for suggesting that they would let someone who can’t remember his identity operate.
Jude Mitchell had worked at NYU Medical Center for a little over four years. In that time, he had been punched twice, was baselessly sued once, and made a sum total of zero friends at work. Generally considered an arrogant ass by his coworkers, Jude was not bothered in the least by his reputation. He was there for his expertise in neurology, not for his winning charm. Jude knew he was brilliant and saw no problem telling others that.
His social life was just as satisfactory as his professional. He had some social acquaintances with whom he occasionally went out to dinner. His sex life was fulfilling-for the past year he had been seeing a cardiologist, Alec, at Mt. Sinai Hospital. Alec was blonde, brown-eyed, and sexy as hell. He was in his mid-thirties, but looked younger. Jude found that sexy, too. Alec worked as hard as Jude, well…almost as hard anyways. Alec once joked, “We work so well together because we work so much.” There was probably some truth in that statement, but Jude did care about Alec and the feeling was mutual. The relationship was casual, easy. Jude was happy that it was not a world-will-end-without-my-one-true-love sort of romance. Who had the time?
Not everything in Jude’s life had always been so perfect although Jude never dwelled upon it anymore. He had grown up in Boston, but no longer had any family. His parents and sister had died in a car accident some thirty years ago. Jude had not spoken to the uncle who had raised him for twenty years, not since he graduated high school. He had gone to Cambridge for undergrad and medical school. As he concentrated intensely on academics, few people seemed to remember him there. From there he took a job in a small town neurological wing in Indiana. It had been his to run eventually, but the finances for it ran dry, the hospital merged into another, and so he accepted the job at NYU.
Unfortunately, Jude could not remember a bit of it. His life was blank until about five years ago when he woke up in a hospital bed. Apparently, as he was traveling from Indiana to New York, he was in a major car accident on the interstate. His body, broken to bits, had barely survived. When he woke up, he could tell you every small detail about using neuronavigation technology and intraoperative MRI to remove brain tumors, but he could not tell you his name. He had severe retrograde amnesia due to massive brain trauma. His wallet had given the hospital enough information to know that he was Dr. Jude Mitchell, he had a social security number, and that he had insurance.
His physical incapacity during that first year rivaled the amnesia for what Jude hated most. His right leg sustained two fractures in his femur, his left ankle was broken in three places, all of his ribs were cracked, and his right arm was broken in several places. There were contusions and lacerations covering his body. Over the course of a few weeks following the accident, doctors inserted rods and plates in every place imaginable. The nurses called him Darth Vader because he was “more machine now than man”-although he suspected that in private they really called him that for his less-than-stellar attitude. If they did their job properly, perhaps he would not feel the need to yell at them from his bed.
Then the physical therapy began. His primary therapist, George, worked with Jude for nearly a year. George, as far as Jude knew, was pure evil. He would have made an excellent dictator of some small third-world country during the nineteenth century. George worked Jude mercilessly, ignoring any protests and unimpressed by complaints, even complaints said at the top of Jude’s lungs.
The therapy was excruciating and took longer than Jude’s patience could manage. The only part of Jude’s body that had not had some sort of fracture was his spine and for that Jude was grateful. However, Jude had required so much surgery that all his muscle mass was gone and with all the supportive rods and plates, physical therapy was a lengthy painful process. Jude could admit that he made things worse by making it a lengthy painful process for everyone else as well. The only thing he wanted was to go back to being a doctor and anything preventing it was intolerable. Medicine called to him even though he could not remember performing surgery on a single patient. Nonetheless, he knew what he was and he knew how to do it. Without memories, being a doctor was all he was.
His lack of memory had frustrated him greatly at first, particularly as it also kept him out of the operating room. He had a few memories come back from his distant past, but nothing whatsoever after high school. He remembered images of his parents, his sister, and someone he thought might be his uncle. He remembered walking up the steps of an enormous three-story marble building with six long pillars in the front, but he could not place the memory. His doctors told him that older memories were harder to disrupt than newer ones-‘Ribot’s Law’ they called it. Returning to Boston, then Indiana, he had hoped to jog his memories. While he recovered some in Boston, nothing in Indiana sparked anything. Hypnosis and psychotherapy did not help at all.
“Dr. Mitchell, you may have to accept that you may never recover your memories. Your injuries from the crash make it a miracle that you survived at all. That your physical therapy has been such a success is also a miracle. It may be too much to ask for a third.”
With a roll of his eyes, Jude wondered if he did get his third miracle, would sainthood await? “Look doctor, what are your credentials again? Is that a real school? I’m here due to good medical care and determination to heal. I like to be in control of my life. I don’t need you talking about supernatural intervention. I need scientific answers, not psycho-babble that I could get from watching Dr. Phil.”
But, good answers had not been forthcoming. He found himself having to prove to NYU and the New York Medical Board that he was still a competent surgeon. For a year, he dealt with testing and shadowing at all times before he was allowed in the operating room again. He supposed he should be grateful that the chief of staff had ever authorized him to operate again; Jude was not sure he would have done the same if it had been him.
For the last three years, he had been able to operate again on his own. He exalted in being in charge of the operating room. He gloried in delving into the brain. By publishing articles and performing nearly impossible surgeries, he built a reputation as being one of the region’s best neurosurgeons. He turned down all offers to speak at medical conferences as he did not want to take time away from his practice. Five years after his accident, his life revolved around surgery as it was supposed to.
Only in dreams were there whispers of another life that, as far as Jude knew, never existed.
A/N My apologies to the NY medical board and NYU hospital for suggesting that they would let someone who can’t remember his identity operate.