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"Don't you think this conversation is a little one-sided? As I recall, you weren't exactly supportive of my educational choices either. I wanted to put myself through school so I wouldn't feel pressured to follow in your footsteps. I waited on tables, parked cars and even worked as an evening janitor at the university in order to put myself through school. Granted, I didn't have the same Ivy League education you had, but I earned my way through my own efforts, and I'm proud of that. And I distinctly remember how horrified you were when I announced I wanted to go into emergency medicine. You called it barbaric, and said I'd wash out in a week." Smiling smugly, Kel added, "Well, I'm still here." Shaking his head, Brent argued, "You still don't understand what this is about, do you?" "I presume you're going to enlighten me." The father sighed in frustration. "You've been so blasted determined to escape from what you perceived to be my shadow, you've been running at full throttle most of your life. You thought my occupation was boring, so you chose the most exciting one you could imagine, emergency medicine." Kel pondered this thought while he took a sip of his scotch. "But don't you see?" Brent asked. "You're still acting like this is some bizarre competition between us. It's not, you know." Mercifully, the waiter appeared to take their order. Kel had little appetite, but knew he was expected to follow the ritual. Without looking at the menu, he mechanically recited the desired items. His anxiety was mounting with each passing moment. Concealed by the linen tablecloth, he was clenching and unclenching his fists. "Dad, I simply wanted to be my own man. That's a normal desire." "That's true, if not taken to extremes. But you never know when to draw the line. Everything is all or nothing, black or white," his father chided. When you decided to become a doctor, you couldn't settle for just any specialty. You had to outdo me and prove you were better than your old man. And what could be more dramatically different than a field that deals with life and death issues every minute?" His father's words cut him with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. An uncomfortable feeling in his stomach was making its presence known. Kel replied, "You've never accepted the fact that we're totally different people with different interests. Maybe sitting around talking to people all day long is your cup of tea, but it isn't mine. I thrive on the excitement of the emergency room." "What is it precisely that you find so appealing? Is it the power you wield of being the head of the department, or saving people's lives?" Kel's famous temper flared. "Saving people's lives, of course!" |
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"And you don't think I help save people's lives?" Brent shot back. "You may have looked down upon my profession and the scheduled hours I kept, but they allowed me the luxury of being able to raise a family and participate in a healthy social life. On the other hand, you'd rather work like a maniac to the exclusion of all else. You're forty-two years old and you have no life to speak of. You're not able to sustain relationships, and your time is essentially confined to the hospital and your apartment." Color began to drain from the younger man's face. He was furious that his father would dare to presume to lecture him, particularly in a public setting. Undeterred, Brent continued. "Even though we rarely get together, we do work in the same hospital. I know you're working yourself into an early grave. Your long hours and avoidance of vacations are legendary. But it's taking its toll on you. You look exhausted. You're pale, you've lost weight and you look like you're not sleeping well." Incredulous, Kel warned, "This is none of your business." "You're my son. That makes it my business." A war waged within Kel. He was angry with his father for pursuing this line of conversation, and with Dixie for insisting he schedule this stupid meeting. Most of all, he was angry with himself for allowing events to unfold as they had. After all these years, he should have known better than to discuss certain topics with his father. It was a foregone conclusion he would always lose these heated debates. The throbbing in his temple worsened. "Dad, you have no right to make judgments about how I choose to live my life." Brent leaned back in the leather-upholstered chair. "Then answer me this question. Did you succeed?" Kel was thoroughly confused. "Succeed in what?" "Did you prove to yourself you're not me?" "I don't understand." "Obviously you thought I was so terrible that you went through extraordinary measures to avoid being like me. In personality, temperament, interests, profession, you've tried to be my opposite in every way. But you're a grown man now. You've established yourself." Brent's tone softened and he gently placed his hand on Kel's forearm. "Son, if you're still running away from something, do you even know where you're running to?" Suddenly Kel felt the room was closing in on him. Overwhelmed by nausea, he bolted from the table and raced to the men's room. Standing over the toilet, he proceeded to lose what little he had eaten earlier in the day. A few minutes later, he splashed his face with cold water to revive himself. He caught his reflection in the mirror. For the first time, he didn't see the cocky, self-assured head of emergency services at Rampart. He saw an insecure little boy wanting to be anyone but his father. |
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******************************* From : "satchie51" <satchie51@hotmail.com> Subject : Shattered Date : Sat, 23 Nov 2002 20:54:00 -0000 Kel sat in his darkened apartment, contemplating the evening's events. Past experience conditioned him not to expect a cordial relationship with his father. The best he could hope to achieve was a peaceful coexistence, and the best way to accomplish that objective was simple avoidance. Yes, dear old Dad managed to undermine that plan. Kel erroneously assumed when he moved to Los Angeles, there would be adequate physical and emotional distance to discourage contact from his father. He planned to make perfunctory phone calls on special occasions, and perhaps travel home to Boston during the Christmas holidays. But his father ruined that brilliant theory. Inexplicably, six years ago he closed his posh private practice and joined the staff at Rampart. Justifiably, Kel was furious when he heard the news from the hospital administrator. His father didn't even have the decency to notify him personally, which he deemed unforgivable. Through hard work and perseverance, Dr. Kelly Brackett had finally attained the level of professional success he sought. He was held in high esteem as the director of emergency services of Rampart General Hospital, and he was supremely confident in his abilities. Unfortunately, his father's arrival signaled the return of his long and imposing shadow. It seemed there was no escape. Since that time, they both performed an exotic dance around the hospital each day. Kel would arrive early in the emergency room and immerse himself in the department's activities, pretending nothing had changed. Brent Brackett would appear later in the morning and wordlessly take the elevator to his ninth floor office. Occasionally the two men would pass each other in the corridors. They would awkwardly acknowledge each other with a nod of the head or a mumbled hello, and then abruptly break off eye contact. As a token of atonement for missed father/son quality time, Kel would arrange dinner at Mannie's once a month, although he frequently found an excuse to miss the appointments. Simply being in the older man's presence was humbling and painful. It was hard to believe there was ever a brief period in his life when he looked up to his father and desperately sought his approval. But over the years, the senior Dr. Brackett couldn't resist the temptation to mold his son into his own image. He became critical of Kel's brooding, intense nature, and began to psychoanalyze his every act. If there was some behavior or shortcoming his son possessed, there had to be a hidden psychological reason behind it. Therefore, it became his mission to eradicate the offending conduct. Brent did not anticipate Kel's reaction. Instead of meekly complying to accommodate his father's grand scheme, his headstrong son rebelled. He was determined to do the exact opposite of what was demanded of him. The relationship rapidly deteriorated, and they never recaptured the emotional intimacy they once shared. Tonight's disastrous attempt at dinner only reinforced Kel's growing sense of anxiety about the situation. How long could he continue this absurd charade? |
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He walked over to the sliding patio door and placed his palm against the cool glass. It was a moonless night. Somehow it seemed appropriate for his increasingly dark mood. The more he thought about his father's words, the angrier he became. In a blind moment of rage, Kel slammed his hand against the door, shattering the glass onto the balcony. Stunned, he stared at the blood dripping from his arm. Several seconds elapsed before the significance of his action sunk in. He was bleeding. The calm, cool-headedness of his profession eluded him. Kel was emotionally dazed by the destructive act he had just committed. He wrapped his arm in a kitchen towel as he fumbled through his medical bag. After superficially cleaning his wounds, he applied some 4x4s as pressure dressings and wrapped his arm with gauze. In disbelief, he sat on his couch and buried his face in his hands. He lost track of how long he lingered there, when a loud knock interrupted his trance. "Police! Is everything okay?" |
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Kel was totally confused. What were the police doing at his apartment? He slowly roused himself and answered the door. "Yes, how can I help you?" The policeman took in the physician's disheveled appearance. "Your neighbor called in a disturbance. She heard the sound of broken glass and thought you were being robbed." Glancing at the bloodstained bandages, the officer inquired, "Were you injured in the attack?" Confusion was quickly replaced by mortification as Kel realized his careless deed had attracted unwanted attention. "No, there was no robbery. It…it was an accident." The seasoned officer was dubious. Noting the location of the bandages, he wondered if this was a self-inflicted injury or perhaps a suicide attempt. "Why don't I take you to a hospital to have that looked at?" "No, that's okay," Kel assured him. "I'm a doctor. I'll take care of it." The blood continued to splatter on the floor as they spoke. "Sir, with all due respect, you look like you could use a little help with that. I'm sure it would only take a few minutes." Reluctantly nodding his consent, he followed the officer to his patrol car. He dreaded the inevitable barrage of questions he would be subjected to at Rampart. * * * * * Now that the initial shock had worn off, Kel was becoming increasingly anxious. His demeanor did not improve when the police officer insisted on accompanying him into the emergency department. Dr. Morton was the first person to notice his boss' presence. "Dr. Brackett! What happened?" he asked as he guided his mentor into a treatment room. "I had a little accident at home. It's nothing, really." The officer surreptitiously motioned to speak to the intern. Mike said, "Okay. Well, have a seat and I'll grab some blank forms from Carol. I'll be right back." Soon Mike returned, paperwork in hand. He efficiently took Kel's vital signs and frowned at his findings. "Hmm. Your blood pressure is really high. Has it been elevated lately?" "No," Kel wearily replied. "Then there has to be a reason for the sudden increase. Is it reasonable to assume it's related to the injury to your hand?" A pronounced silence was his answer. "How exactly did this happen?" Mike probed. After taking a deep breath, Kel barked, "I cut myself. Isn't it obvious?" "On purpose?" "Of course not! Do I look like an idiot? The glass door shattered!" Mike countered, "By itself?" Kel glared at his subordinate. How dare he presume to press this issue and humiliate him further. He had given his account, and that should end these ridiculous questions. Sensing they were at an impasse, Mike began unwrapping the blood soaked bandages. "These cuts look pretty nasty. There doesn't appear to be any vascular damage, but most of them are deep enough to require stitches." "Yeah, I figured as much." |
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