would proceed from there.
By eight-fifteen the OR runner appeared in her lab with the first node from Dr. Gordon. The specimen came with exact directions as to where it had been resected and she made a note of that with a grease pencil on the textured side of the first of several waiting glass slides. She carefully put the specimen in a gel-like medium and placed it in a mold for quick freezing in the cryostat. She helped the process along with special fast-freeze spray, then within less than half a minute mounted the fully frozen specimen on the chuck and set up the microtome to her exact specifications.
After dusting the initial cut away from the blade with a painter’s brush, she made the next cut and got the full surface of the node on the microtome then pressed her labeled glass slide to pick it up. She used H&E stain for immediate results since the hematoxylin and eosin stains worked best for her purposes, then placed a coverslip.
Whisking the now stained slide to the lab microscope, she began her study, and soon her hope for a benign node was dashed. Within five minutes of receiving the first specimen, she had to report the bad news over the intercom that connected surgery to her little corner of the world. The protocol was not to get into histologic details with frozen sections, instead sticking to a “just the facts, ma’am” approach.
“Dr. Hilstead, this is Dr. Johnson reporting that the first lymph node is positive for metastatic cancer.” The words tangled in her throat, and she had to force them out, refusing to let her voice waver in the process.
“I see,” Jackson replied. “I’ll proceed to the next lymph node. Stand by.”
“I’ll be here.”
* * *
Jackson continued with abdominal lymph node dissection, and she dutifully and quickly made her cryosurgical cuts and examined each and every specimen under the microscope, tension mounting with each specimen. The head of histology poked her head in the door, wearing a sad expression. Word soon spread in the small laboratory section about Dr. Gordon. Charlotte worked on in silence. After three positive-for-cancer lymph nodes, her voice broke as she reported, “This one is also positive.”
A lab tech standing silently behind her in the tiny cryostat room moaned and left, grabbing a tissue on the way out. Dr. Gordon was well liked by his staff because he treated everyone decently, and in Charlotte’s case, taking her under his wing and mentoring her when she’d been a green-behind-the-ears pathologist. She owed so much to him, yet all she could do today was be the bearer of bad news on his behalf.
There was no hiding the fact her findings were tearing her up, and her favorite surgeon must have felt compelled to console her. “We’re almost done here, Charlotte. Just a few more, I promise.”
“Of course.” She recovered her composure, knowing the entire surgical team could hear her over the intercom. “I’ll be here, Doctor.”
And so it went until they found a benign node after six specimens.
* * *
Early afternoon, stowed away in the comfort of her dark office, studying yesterday afternoon’s surgical slides, Charlotte sipped chamomile tea. With her heart loaded down with emotions, feeling like a brick around her neck, it would be a long day that she’d just have to force herself through. She’d had plenty of experience willing herself through days at a time, beginning as a teenager and more recently two years ago after her surgery had been done and she’d had to deal with the reality of her decision. She’d stripped herself of part of her female identity and hadn’t yet figured out how to move forward. Derek’s reaction the first time they’d made love after surgery, his expression when he’d seen her, would forever be tattooed in her mind.
A light double tap on her closed door drew her out of the doldrums she’d been intent on wallowing in. “If it isn’t important, I’d rather be left alone.” She went the honest route, hoping the staff would understand, especially since they all seemed to already know about Dr. Gordon’s diagnosis.
The door opened, and Jackson, ignoring her request to be left alone, stepped inside. He was still in OR scrubs, his wavy hair mostly covered with the OR cap as he closed the door behind him. “I thought you could use a friend right about now.”
Not giving Charlotte a chance to respond, he walked to her desk, took one of her hands and, finding little resistance from her, pulled her to standing like a reluctant dance partner, then into his arms. He hugged her tightly and sincerely and the warmth washed over her like a comforting cloud, all soft and squishy, with every surface of her skin reacting to his embrace in goose bumps. Yes, she did need this, and Jackson had no idea how much it meant to her.
They stood together like that for several moments, her breathing in his scent and finding it surprisingly not sterile-smelling at all, even though he’d just come from surgery. She leaned into his solid body, enjoying it, knowing this was a man she could literally lean on. One of his hands wandered to her hair, as if unable to resist the opportunity to feel it. She liked that he was so obvious about it, and smiled against his shoulder.
Before standing in the dim light and holding each other became awkward, Jackson spoke. “Chemotherapy can work wonders these days. I’ve already got Marv Cohen working on Jim’s case, and I feel that already shifts the prognosis into a more positive direction.”
Who was he kidding, trying to cheer her up? He was talking to a pathologist. She was a doctor from the end-of-the-road department where patients wound up after all the great medical plans hadn’t panned out. The thing that hurt was that she knew Dr. Gordon himself had taught her to think that way. “We have to be realistic, Charlotte,” he’d say. How would he feel when he woke up and got the news?
With all her dreary thoughts, she appreciated Jackson’s desire to make her feel better. But this fight wasn’t about her, it was Jim Gordon’s to fight, and she promised she’d do everything in her power to help him. “I’ll read the slides first thing in the morning, and report directly to Marv, after you, of course, so he can come up with a magic potion and stop this mess.” No matter what, her mother had insisted to the very end, don’t lose hope. Becoming a pathologist had made her cynical.
“I’m sure you will.” His hands slid to either side of her face, fingers gently cupping her ears. Then he studied her eyes. She’d never been this close to him before, and loved looking up into his angled features and, in her opinion, handsome face, into those often world-weary eyes. Distracted by the thickness of his eyelashes, she didn’t see what was about to happen until his mouth lightly kissed hers. Surprising herself, she let him, relaxed and enjoyed the feel of his lips pressing on hers. This kind of comfort she could get used to really fast.
But wait. This couldn’t happen! It meant things, like getting close to another human being again. A man. Which could lead to, well, sex. Which wouldn’t happen because once Jackson found out about her surgery and the fact she’d stripped herself of many a man’s favorite playground, the breasts, he’d be like Derek. Not able to accept her as she was—still a woman, but scarred and different.
The pain from Derek’s walking away had sliced too deep.
She ended the kiss, not abruptly, just not allowing it to go any further. She prepared a quick cover, with a single thought planted in her head since yesterday. “Didn’t I see you with Yuri yesterday?” By his confused expression, it seemed like she had the perfect antidote to stop this kiss cold.
“You did. I was doing her a favor.”
Charlotte was very aware that even though they were no longer kissing, he hadn’t let her out of his arms. “A favor?” Did he really expect her to believe that line?
“She’s got a thing for Stan Arnold.”
“The head of the medical lab?” Trying to picture petite Yuri with tall, gangly Stan made Charlotte smile.
“He would be the one. Apparently she’s had a thing for him for years, and recently found out his wife had dumped him. So she cooked up this plan to make him jealous.”
“I don’t remember seeing Stan at the party yesterday.”