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Summary
She was sort of a little bit thrilled by it, thrilled by his choosing her, thrilled by the STEMI timing, thrilled by the way the department worked so smoothly sometimes she felt like a cog in a machine.
And she liked to think she was a cog in a machine because it meant she was useful and purposeful and something needed or even wanted her there. She thought of Eleanor in The Haunting of Hill House, who said, placidly, she remembered because the word was so pleasing and so sad, “I’ve never been wanted anywhere.” She felt very much like Eleanor, haunted by ghosts, reaching out her hand in the darkness and waking up alone. And her intense wanting was a wound she was sure people could see, bleeding down her forehead, a primal warning sign to back away slowly so no one else would get hurt. What about me, she wanted to beg, what about my wound, but she knew that, too, was a childish fantasy. That it would be more work than anyone was willing to put in to get past the walls she put up in the form of busyness and delight and surface-level vulnerability so they couldn’t see the depth of her hurt and grief lurking inside.