The Second Stage

Perspectives

A plaque hangs on the wall and Dr. Bloom strides to it, as he does every day. He wipes the polished clear and gold surface, freeing it of dust, if there is any, which there isn't. This too, he does every day. The steady tick of a metronome paces his movements, his thoughts, his work; flow dictates how success is met in all things. This is his mantra: a productive and professional day is one with rhythm. The metronome ensured this, empty of melody only when his agenda was empty of tasks. His first surgery due in thirty minutes, he streams a playlist through his 7.1 surround sound: Kings of Leon mixed with U2 and a dash of Coldplay.

Once, several years ago, he mashed in more novel groups but found the Black Keyes too loud, the old tunes of the Beatles and Rolling Stones too rough around the edges, and the coastal twang of the Red Hot Chili Peppers too crunchy. So his playlist stays the same.

Dr. Bloom saunters the long way to pass the plaque again and squeezes to the business side of his mahogany desk. Behind him, his diploma from Johns Hopkins hangs at an angle of 0.6 degrees, to match the slight slope in the ceiling and floor. He leans back in his swiveling oak chair and snatches a stack of journals, shuffling through to find an article on a difficult topic to stimulate his mind.

The refrain for "Use Somebody" swings into its midpoint when the intercom topples Dr. Bloom from his seat.

"Dr. Bloom, there's been an incident. The nurse on the first ICU2 shift was found unconscious in the subbasement. Please call 8201 to advise."

Dr. Bloom spins toward the schedule posted on his corkboard, surrounded by his framed publications. His eyes scan the list until sticking to his target and confirming his fears. He throws the stack of magazines at the door, ensuring their trajectory comes nowhere near his plaque.

"Dammit, Meredith!"

#

The room Meredith awoke in was unlike the first two. The radiator rattled just outside the door and large, gray bricks comprised what could best be described as a feature wall behind her. Seafoam green linen stretched over the white sheets wrapped so tightly around her that she drew her own comparisons of mummification. This pimple off the ICU lacked a window and even the reminders and posters seemed dated, their bold solid-colored neo-futurism placing them somewhere in the early 1990s.

Hard soles clopped down the hallway and Dr. Bloom's voice floated over the waves of nurses and residents chattering. He laughed at something and like an echo, so did they. The shoes resumed and turned the corner to strut through the dented, scarred door frame. He stopped mid-stride, the sight of Meredith sitting awake knocking expression from him.

"Ah, good, you're up... finding yourself comfortable?" A trace of a smirk twitched half his face.

"Comfortable enough, I suppose." Meredith shrugged. "And I'll always be comfortable knowing our hospital's best rooms are at the disposal of those who truly need them."

Dr Bloom's lower eyelids raised at their inner margins before sinking into the bottomless abyss of mystery that is his professional demeanor. "We try to make all suites accommodating, Meredith."

"Of course." Meredith frowned as the radiator hissed and blew a puff of steam from its nozzle.

A pause stretched their conversation at the center, as Dr. Bloom was considering throwing that speech into this awkwardness. Why did he bother contemplating it at all? He was going to tell his story.

"You remember how I got here, right? Because there's a lesson in it."

There had been a lesson for each of the fourteen other times he offered this tale of impossible underdoggery, and had Dr. Bloom described flatulence on his first iteration, it would be the serenading of a goddess by the fifteenth. That the lesson changed with each repetition illustrated the point, which was that the lesson had nothing to do with it. Here were the basics: