Having foregone with wearing your traditional medical uniform, doctor's jacket, dress pants, dress shoes, you decide to wear simple clothes. A red long sleeved shirt, the sleeves rolled up past your elbows, blue denim jeans, and and white sneakers. Perhaps too simple a thing to wear, but these clothes were common attire while you spent time overseas, most recently Beijing, China.
You arrive at the hospital, a black briefcase carried in one hand which contains various essentials and not-so-essential essentials, and in the other hand you hold a well-worn notepad, closed, with an ink pen clipped to the top.
Entering through the black steel-framed glass double doors, you make your way down the hallway. Familiar faces smile, wave, and give you the occasional welcome back greeting. Some of the younger nurses and assistants, on the other hand, most relatively new and not having seen you before, seem to undress you with their eyes. You've always found this humorous to some degree. You acknowledge that you're a handsome young man, and your "exotic accent" only adds to that. But you remain humble, almost painfully so, and only briefly acknowledge the fact that, yes, women find you attractive.
You had a serious relationship for over a year's time with a fellow doctor, though she has long since left for Paris. You both still remain in contact and you certainly consider her a close friend. But that was three years ago, and since that, you've been focused on your work. Some may say you're married to it. Two years ago, that's when your marriage to it became even more serious.
You find the chief nurse down the main hallway, a short way's from the front desk, and grab her attention. "Hey there, Greta."
Greta turns around and smiles brightly, hugging you like she always does. Greta is one of the older nurses in the hospital, in her mid 50's. She's a wonderful, nice, warm lady with a fantastic bedside manner. A lot of nurses become faded and jaded over time, desensitized to the needs of others, droning through a work day, just hoping you don't get thrown up on or have to clean urine or thrown food off of the floor. Not Greta.
"Dr. Visara, it's so great to see you again! How was your trip to Beijing?"
"Fruitful. Very fruitful. How is Samantha doing?"
Greta's smile fades from her face, and a soft sigh escapes her lips. "Not too well. She hasn't made any improvements, and the medicine doesn't seem to be helping. If you ask me, I think she's getting worse."
You frown slightly. "In what way?"
She crosses her arms under her chest, looking to the side. "She's becoming less responsive, which I didn't think was at all possible considering her situation. She's not getting enough sleep either. Her last last good night's sleep was two weeks ago, I think."
You look down the hallway before motioning towards it to Greta. "I'm going to my office. Could you have them bring Samantha in for me? I have a few things I need to tell her."
Greta looks back to you and nods, walking away. Before she does, you place your hand on her shoulder, and she stops in her tracks. "Greta?" You ask.
"Yes?"
"I've been doing everything humanly possible to make her get better. I have something I believe will be the key to drawing her out of her state. So please, don't worry. If it all works well, Samantha will move and speak for the first time since she came here. When she does, I'm sure she will want to thank you for your kindness and hard work."
Greta turns her head, appearing to smile just a bit after hearing your assurances. "I know you have been diligent with this, doctor. I have the upmost faith in that very dedication. I wish more doctors had that, especially that old Dr. Leaman." This causes you to laugh a bit. "You're a good man. A very good man, and a great doctor. I just hope you're right..."