Page 13 of Clinically Bewitched
“You’re already crazy.”
“With you watching the clinic, I promise not to have a stress-induced stroke on the plane.”
She sighed. “Fine. I’ll keep an eye on the clinic.”
“That’s all I ask.”
She blew me a kiss, which I didn’t catch because that would be ridiculous, and then she was gone.
I stood in my bathroom, surrounded by my perfectly organized toiletries, and felt the familiar weight of anxiety settling in my chest.
This trip was a mistake. I knew it was a mistake. I couldn’t explain how I knew. It wasn’t based on data or evidence or any kind of logical reasoning, but I knew it the same way I knew when a surgery was going to be complicated before I even made the first incision.
Something was wrong. Something was off. The universe, if such a thing existed—which it didn’t, because I was a man of science—was trying to tell me something.
I should cancel. I should call the conference organizers right now and tell them I had a family emergency. Or a medical emergency. Or any kind of emergency that would justify backing out.
But I couldn’t.
Because if I canceled, I’d never hear the end of it. Gabriel would give me those disappointed looks. Fitz would make jokes about it for the next decade. Nathan would add it to his running list of “Times Julien Chickened Out.” Quinton would probably throw something at me. Hayden would just shake his head sadly, like I’d personally let him down.
And Winnie. God, Winnie would be the worst. She’d give me that look, the one that said she was disappointed but not surprised, and somehow that would be worse than all the others combined.
No. I couldn’t cancel. I was trapped by my own reputation and my colleagues’ expectations, and the fact that I’d already agreed to this ridiculous trip.
I finished packing my toiletries, zipped up my suitcase, and placed it by the door. Everything was ready. Everything was organized. Everything was perfect.
So why did I feel like I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life?
At 11:47 PM, I was still awake.
I’d tried everything. I’d read a medical journal. I’d reviewed my presentation notes. I’d reorganized my sock drawer—which hadn’t needed organizing but had made me feel slightly better.
Nothing worked.
I lay in bed, staring at my ceiling, feeling the anxiety coil tighter in my chest.
This was ridiculous. I was a neurosurgeon. I’d performed countless complex surgeries. I’d saved lives. I’d given presentations before, admittedly not a TED Talk, but still. This shouldn’t be causing me this much stress.
But it wasn’t the presentation that was bothering me. It was something else. Something I couldn’t name or quantify or explain.
“This is fine,” I muttered to the darkness. “Everything is fine. You’re going to Las Vegas, you’re going to give your talk, and you’re going to come home. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing ever happens to you because you don’t let things happen. You’re in control.”
The darkness didn’t respond, which was good, because if it had, I would have needed to check myself into my own clinic.
“It’s just a weekend,” I continued, because apparently I was the kind of person who talked to himself now. “Forty-eight hours. You can survive anything for forty-eight hours. You’ve done seventy-two-hour shifts. This is nothing.”
I rolled over, punched my pillow into submission, and closed my eyes.
“Nothing is going to go wrong,” I said firmly. “Nothing ever goes wrong when you plan properly. And you’ve planned properly. You always plan properly.”
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a small voice whispered that famous last words usually sounded something like that.
I told the voice to shut up.
“Everything is going to be fine,” I muttered one last time.
And then, because the universe apparently had a sense of humor, I finally fell asleep
