Chapter 4: The Doctor's Disdain

Chapter 4: The Doctor's Disdain

The hospital air hit Marie with the force of a physical blow, a chaotic symphony of shrill alarms, frantic shouts, and the low, constant hum of human misery. Yet, for the first time in weeks, it didn’t penetrate her defenses. She felt strangely insulated, wrapped in the memory of Kai’s cashmere sweater and the phantom weight of his body on hers. The deep, grounding calm he had instilled in her lingered, a shield against the coming storm. She had told him she could handle this, and as she pushed through the double doors into the Emergency Room, she believed it.

Her shoulders were back, the chronic tension Kai had kneaded out of them still absent. The knot on her wrist, hidden beneath her watch, was a silent, pulsing reminder of the power she could surrender to at home, which paradoxically gave her the strength to command her own space here. Today, Dr. Alistair Finch would be just another workplace hazard to be navigated, not the soul-crushing monster of her exhausted imagination.

The first few hours of her shift passed in a blur of controlled competence. She triaged patients with swift efficiency, started IVs on the first try, and calmed a terrified child having an asthma attack. She felt good. She felt capable.

Then, the paramedics rolled in an elderly woman, frail and bird-like on the gurney. Her name was Eleanor Vance, and her eyes were wide with a cloudy confusion.

“Eighty-two-year-old female, history of hypertension and arrhythmia,” the paramedic rattled off. “Found by her son after a fall. She’s complaining of dizziness, says the room is spinning. Vitals are stable but her pressure’s on the low side, one-oh-five over sixty.”

Marie thanked them, her mind already working. She gently took Mrs. Vance’s hand, her touch both reassuring and diagnostic. “Hello, Eleanor. My name is Marie, I’m going to be your nurse. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I… I don’t know,” the woman whispered, her voice thin as paper. “One minute I was watering my begonias, the next the whole world turned into a carousel.”

While Marie got Eleanor settled into a bay, she did a quick but thorough review of her chart and the long list of medications her son had brought in a plastic bag. As she cross-referenced the pills with the chart, a warning bell chimed in her head. A beta-blocker for the arrhythmia, a diuretic for the hypertension, and a newly prescribed anti-vertigo medication from a different doctor. A potentially dangerous cocktail.

Just then, Dr. Finch sauntered into the bay, his white coat pristine, his expression already etched with its customary sneer. He barely glanced at the patient, his eyes skimming the chart on the computer screen.

“Classic vertigo,” he announced without examining the woman. “Let’s get a liter of saline in her, probably just dehydrated. And let’s get a consult from ENT. Simple.” He started to turn away, already bored.

This was it. Marie took a steadying breath, channeling the morning’s quiet confidence. “Dr. Finch?”

He stopped, turning back with an air of profound irritation. “What is it, Nurse?”

“I just reviewed Mrs. Vance’s medications,” Marie said, keeping her tone even and professional. “She’s on metoprolol and hydrochlorothiazide. Her pressure is already 105 over 60. Pushing a full liter of fluid might not be the issue, and I’m concerned about her electrolyte balance with the diuretic. I think we should check her potassium and magnesium levels and maybe hold off on the fluid bolus until we see the results.”

She spoke clearly and concisely, right at the patient’s bedside. It was textbook patient advocacy. It was her job.

Finch’s face, which was already sour, curdled into a mask of pure condescension. He looked over his spectacles at Marie as if she were a piece of gum he’d found on his shoe. Then, to her horror, he turned to the confused and frightened patient.

He placed a patronizing hand on Eleanor’s arm. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Eleanor. We won’t let the nurse get carried away with her big ideas. Sometimes they read a pamphlet or two and think they’ve been to medical school.”

The humiliation was a hot flash that spread from Marie’s chest to her cheeks. Her professionalism was a shield, but his words were acid, eating right through it. The other nurses in the pod had fallen silent, their heads bent over their work, pretending not to hear.

Finch turned his venomous gaze back to Marie. “Your job,” he said, his voice low and menacing, “is to follow my orders. Your job is not to practice medicine without a license. Now, are you going to hang the saline, or do I need to report you for gross insubordination?”

Cornered. Powerless. Every ounce of the calm Kai had given her evaporated, replaced by a cold, seething rage. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw the IV bag at his smirking face. Instead, she unclenched her fists, her training taking over.

“Yes, Doctor,” she said, her voice a clipped, brittle thing. She turned, grabbed the bag of normal saline, and with practiced, angry movements, spiked the bag and connected the tubing to Eleanor’s IV. The patient looked from Finch to Marie, her brow furrowed with anxiety, now uncertain of the care she was receiving. Marie had tried to protect her, and in return, Finch had made her the villain.

The rest of the shift was a nightmare. Marie moved on autopilot, her mind replaying the humiliating scene over and over. She felt the eyes of her colleagues on her, some sympathetic, others wary, not wanting to be caught in Finch’s crossfire. The feeling of powerlessness was a thick, choking sludge in her throat.

Just as she was clocking out, her body screaming with a familiar, stress-induced exhaustion, her shift supervisor, a kind but weary woman named Carol, called her into her small, cluttered office. An official-looking form was sitting on the desk between them.

“Marie, I’m so sorry,” Carol began, her eyes apologetic. “Dr. Finch filed a formal complaint.”

Carol picked up the paper and read from it, her voice flat. “‘Nurse Marie Dubois demonstrated a dangerous level of insubordination in front of a patient. She aggressively questioned a direct physician’s order, causing the patient significant distress and alarm. Her conduct was unprofessional and emotional, undermining the physician-led care team and creating a hostile work environment.’”

The words were lies. Each one a deliberate, poisoned dart aimed at the heart of her career. Emotional. Aggressive. Hostile. The classic weapons wielded against any competent woman who dared to have an opinion.

“Carol, that’s not what happened,” Marie said, her voice shaking with a fury she could no longer contain.

“I know,” Carol said softly. “I’ve seen how he operates. But my hands are tied. He’s an attending. I have to put this in your file. You can write a rebuttal, and I strongly suggest you do.”

Marie took the offered copy of the report. The flimsy paper felt as heavy as a tombstone in her hand. This was it. The proof. The tangible result of her trying to ‘handle it’ herself. She had failed. The system was designed to protect men like Finch, and she had walked right into his trap. The unraveling she had felt the night before was nothing compared to this. That was despair born of exhaustion. This was rage born of injustice and impotence.

She walked to the deserted locker room, the report clutched in her hand. She stared at the black-and-white lies, at her name printed next to words like ‘insubordination’ and ‘emotional.’ The sanctuary Kai had built for her felt a million miles away. He had offered to give her ammunition. But what good was ammunition when your enemy owned the entire battlefield? She sank onto the bench, her head in her hands, the paper crumpled in her fist. She hadn't just been undermined. She had been targeted. And she was utterly, terrifyingly alone in the fight.