Turn My Grief To Grace

"bananas?"

As requested, here is a story about Amelia and Stephanie! Let me know your opinions. 

Stephanie Edwards

With the current state of planet earth, I am fairly unsurprised by hurricanes and tsunamis, earthquakes and the sorts. I do not blame the earth for its anguish. I often feel the need to spontaneously shake under the immense pressure. Life's stressors rub and grind against each other, until one rears it's head, slipping over the other, and causing a colossal disaster. It's science. I'm good at science. Exceptional really. 

Acts of God however, accompanied by human error or malice, are less comprehendible to me. Acts of a cruel God like the death of Derek Shepherd.  The natural disaster comes next. Dr Grey runs, leaving Amelia Shepherd all but alone. She doesn't break, okay maybe once, but she's resilient, maybe too much. I find myself longing for her to say something, anything other than a sick joke about the body of her brother buried six feet under in Seattle's most private cemetery. 

It seems as though disaster follows the attending, when next it is her marriage to fall victim to the iron fist of the father. In divergence from my predictions, Amelia Shepherd chooses to stay with me. On my couch.

"Are you coming to work today?" I ask the bundle of blue blankets.

"No."  A muffled reply resonates through fleecy fabric. "And neither are you."

"Huh?"

A mess of brunette peeps up at me and I laugh to myself. Never will I be able to see Amelia as the  world class professional she is. She'll always be world class, but the next time I see her scalpel deep in a brain, I shan't be able to erase the image of the doctor looking like a five-year-old on my old couch. There's a mixture of honour and confusion as to why Amelia has chosen me, perhaps it's because she knows she doesn't have to confide in me, in fact, it would be unprofesional if she did. It strikes me that Amelia is not a fan of divulging her personal life, unless of course she's making crude jokes. 

"I want to show you something." Amelia says, and she pats the couch, having pulled the collection of blankets further into her body to make room for me. Amelia is really quite small, and I'd even go as far as saying frail, but I know she isn't. That girl is riddled with calcium having eaten ALL of my yoghurts. 

I sit. "What do you want to show me?"

From somewhere, my attending produces two bananas. She begins to explain. 

"Edwards. I was told an anecdote years ago by a resident I only met twice. She was young. Younger than you, and I'd say more talented."

I scoff. "Gee thanks."

"But I didn't know her long enough before she died to get testament of her work ethic. Therefore, I'm judging that you work harder."

"Dr Shepherd.."

Amelia is un-phased by my interruption, not being pulled from the emotion of the story. 

"This doctor, she told me about the first time her attending really made her feel worthwhile, and it strikes me that, despite me crashing on your couch, I have never repeated the exercise I was taught, the exercise that should show you just how far I think you're going to go as a physician."

"Bananas?"

"We're going to learn whip stitches."

I gawk at the obscenities. 

"Dr Shepherd.."

"Amelia." She corrects. 

"Amelia." It feels funny to address the woman with her given name, although we probably should be at that point now, considering she's sat next to me in pyjamas, with exceptionally greasy hair and borrowing my sisters fluffy socks from last Christmas. Dr Shepherd isn't on my couch, it's plain old Amelia.