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Dr. Michelle's POV

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You would think that the hardest thing about being a doctor that treats cancer, or an oncologist, would be the emotional connection to your patients.

And based off of this thought you would think I was about to say that you were wrong, but you aren't.

Because your emotional connection with your patients really is the hardest part of being an oncologist.

I have worked here, at this hospital, for the past 7 years. In those 7 years I have nearly quit 20 times. First, when Jessie, a 1 year old little girl, died in her mother's arms right in front of me, after fighting brain cancer since the moment she was born.

Next, came Jack, a spunky 15 year old boy with lung cancer, who hit playfully on all the female nurses and doctors. I had told him repeatedly that I was not interested in him, because I had a wife and because I was twice his age. He always responded by telling me 'that doesn't change the fact that you are beautiful and I will give it a chance. Plus, I don't have many other options looking like this,' he would laugh and gesture to the tubes sticking in and out of his chest and nostrils.

Jack died the day before his 16th birthday, and the day after he started 'dating' Amy, a 15 year old girl who also had lung cancer.

There were many times after that, in which I had considered quitting, but after the 6th death, I had come up with a solution. Emotionally distancing myself from my patients.

I wasn't the only one doing it, either. In fact, most oncologists use this tactic. As an oncologist, you get used to death, and you get used to believing, or at least trying to believe, that the patients are just that, patients.

Not humans.

Not children.

Just patients.

Just people you know one day, and the next they are gone.

And it is not a big deal. It can't be a big deal. Because if it was a big deal, I think I would snap.

*****

I wake up in my empty bed. My wife and I haven't been sleeping in the same bed for months now.

When people picture couples like ours, they picture rebellion or they picture love, despite the circumstances. However, this all has not been true for almost a year now.

My wife, who once was my best friend, not just my partner, has stopped talking to me.

She has stopped sleeping next to me.

She has stopped coming home for days at a time.

And when she does come home, she stumbles through the front door, more drunk than a sailor at sea. More drunk than my father ever was, before he came home and beat my mother, with me, a little girl, clinging to her leg.

And so another morning I have to get up, not knowing if my wife will be in the kitchen or drunk on the streets.

I sit up and slip on my fuzzy slippers. My silk blue pajamas cling desperately to my sweaty skin, like a moth would cling to a flash of light.

I make my way to the bathroom, and open the cabinet where my toothbrush lies. I promptly unscrew the cap of my nearly empty toothpaste and squeeze the small amount of toothpaste onto the brush.

I need to remind Becky to buy more.

Oh.

For a second I forgot that Becky, my wife, has been too drunk to function properly, let alone go to any store other than the one that sells liquor, down the street.

I spit out the toothpaste and rinse the excess out of my mouth. Then I lift my head up to stare at my reflection in the mirror. My caramel skin is smooth and free of problems. My hair, on the other hand, is frizzy, or rather more frizzy than it usually is. It lays in discontempt on my head, with strands sticking out here and there. My lips are cracked and my nose is stuffed.

I turn to the shower and turn the faucet. Slowly I strip myself of my clothes and dump them onto the floor in a pile. The water is astonishingly hot and the steam rises quickly, making my breaths slow greatly.

I let the hot water wash away all my worry for my wife. I let it burn my skin, and I let the steam slow my heart until it nearly stops. I let it wrinkle my fingertips and wait until cold water starts to spill out of the shower head, before turning it off.

Once I step out of the shower, I allow the water to drip off my soaking body onto the bathroom floor, knowing full well that it ruins the beautiful tile my salary paid for.

Only after I am practically dry, do I wrap a warm, fluffy towel around me, and a small one around my head, in an attempt to calm down the mess upon my head.

I run to my bedroom and straight to the huge closet. My black top and skinny jeans are soon clenched in my fist. My hand digs through my drawer until I find a sports bra that works. Quickly, I slip it onto my cool body and settle it above the gash under my left breast.

The gash I got when I was a child.

I change into the rest of my clothes and wander aimlessly out of the closet and into the kitchen down the hall of our penthouse.

My eyes, still half closed, wander past the stranger in the stool with a bottle of vodka in their right hand. They wander straight to the box of cereal.

Then it snaps in my head.

I turn to see the strange woman staring back at me. Her red hair is like fire, and her brown eyes are beautiful, but different then they were the last time I saw her. Her pale skin is blistered with calluses.

Perhaps legally she is my wife, but to me, at least now, she is a stranger. A stranger with hair covered in branches and day-old trash. A stranger who smells a bit too much like alcohol. And some other scent. One I am not familiar with.

"Michelle!" the woman slurs, cheerfully.

"Becky, are you alright?" I respond, automatically concerned for her.

"I'm good!" She slurs, and waves her hand as if to dismiss such an absurd accusation of her current manor. "You look stressed here try some of this. It's wonderful!"

I look into her hand, the one not holding the vodka, and see a needle.

"What is it?" I ask unnecessarily. I can take a wild guess and assume what it is, and it is nothing good.

"Just try it. It's good I promise!" She slurs back, barely audible.

I take the vial from her hands, and look closer at the liquid inside. "Tell me!" I shout at my wife, who nearly falls backwards off her chair.

"Her ins, stupid!" She shouts back. Her ins, of course is not a thing, but I can take a quick guess and assume what she meant.

Heroin.

A deadly drug.

Not a toy to be played with.

Especially not by Becky.

I snap immediately, and run, with the vial still pressed in my hand, to the window. I throw the window open and, without thinking, dump the vial of heroin out of it, onto the empty, eery streets below.

I turn back to my wife, in horror at the fact that she, a 2nd grade teacher, could be abusing a deadly drug.

"Go to bed. We'll talk when I get home tonight." I say, my voice quivers.

She stands up, and staggers off to the general direction of our bedroom, the alcohol bottle still tightly gripped in her hand.

And I am left, standing in shock, once again by myself, before I head out the door to the car.

*****

"Good morning Dr. Michelle!" Bryant says from his desk. Bryant is my assistant, an awfully chirpy young man, who's positivity I simply can't stand some days.

"Good morning, Bryant." I grumble, then walk past him to my office.

However, Bryant can't take a hint, and follows me into the office. "Today you have an appointment with Sarah, followed by an appointment with Aubrey, followed by..." he drones off. In my head, I am muting him.

After Bryant leaves, I sit through another distant meeting with Sarah's parents, who I comfort without it really being in my heart.

Then they leave.

And I am left to do paperwork.

An hour seems to pass.

Then another one.

Finally Bryant pokes his head in the door. "Aubrey is here with her mother."

I straighten up and plaster on the familiar fake smile that is so easy for me to fake now.

"Hey Aubrey!" I say kindly. She nods in my direction, clearly disappointed in being here.

"Hey, Dr. Michelle." Maria says to me. "We came here to talk about.."

"I know what you came here to talk about," I interrupt her, "and I will not support you Maria. You have the ultimate choice here, but I think it is healthy for Aubrey to go to school and interact with kids her age."

Maria glares at me, and Aubrey nods her head in satisfaction. "But what about.."

"What about nothing." I interrupt again. "It won't harm her in any way to go to school."

Maria grumbles some foul language under her breath, but reluctantly nods her head. "If anything is to happen to her," Maria threatens under her breath, as they are leaving, "I will hold you personally accountable."

Her voice has a certain menace in it. Something that scares me greatly coming from the quiet, sad woman I am used to seeing.

But I dismiss it.

The door shuts behind her and I am, once again, by myself.

I sigh, and slowly ruffle through the mountain of paperwork on my desk, taking my time.

If it takes me all night to finish it all, then so be it.

As long as I don't have to go back to the monstrosity currently asleep at home.