A Rush of Blood to the Head

When He Died, So Did I

Now in a small, dimly lit diner, not unlike Doc Magoo's, the three had regrouped and took a load off. Crammed into one side of the booth was Mark and Doug, while John sat alone on the other.

The waitress gave them each a glass of water, which John thoroughly enjoyed. Food was the last thing on his mind. The sight of the other customer's dishes made him queasy. The smells, the sounds of chewing was debilitating. Just as he was about to get up and go for some fresh air, Doug spoke up.

"Hey. Do you think this 'fish and chips' actually has fish in it?"

"If it does, I would stick with the chips," Mark replied. Looking up from his provided menu, he caught sight of a green-looking John Carter, giving every impression that he would throw up right then and there. "You okay?"

John shook his head, staring at the floor in disgust. "What do you think?"

"I think you should eat something, Carter," Mark urged. "How about some soup?"

"I'm actually not hungry," John pushed the menu away from his sights. "I'm exhausted, I have a splitting headache and I feel sick to my stomach. There's no way I'm eating."

"If you don't–"

"What, I'll die?" With a humourless chuckle, he said, "I'm dead in ten years, anyway. What's the point? Besides, I feel better when I don't eat."

"It's ketosis. Your brain is using ketone bodies for energy, and you have a slower metabolism. So, you have more energy that isn't getting wasted," Taking notice of the occasional jerk of John's head prompted a question. "How long has that been going on for?"

"What?"

Mark pointed to his own skull. "The head thing."

"Oh, I don't know. Might've been after I hit it."

Nearly choking on his water, Doug went into a coughing fit. In between his mild hacking, he asked, "When did that happen?"

"Back at the hospital — I'm not even sure it did. Think I blacked it out. I got sick and felt weak. I collapsed. I didn't pass out, but a few hours later, I noticed a sore spot on my temple. No blood, just tender."

"Why didn't you say something?" Mark demanded.

Suddenly, John felt like he was a teen trying to explain how his uptight dad's new, fancy car got wrecked, and in the midst of it, he completely forgot how to speak.

"Carter, you know better than to leave a head trauma untreated, minor or not."

"Well, at least it was me and not a patient," John said, nervously laughing. After observing Mark's displeasure, he shifted awkwardly at his side of the booth. "Sorry."

Mark clasped his hands and rested them on the table and leaned over. "Don't be sorry. Just talk to us. We're not the enemy here."
"It's not like I can tell. You're always angry with me."

"I'm not angry. None of us are," Mark gestured to Doug. "It's just frustrating, watching you do this to yourself with no regard for your health. You're an amazing, smart guy who I know for a fact could do great things if you'd just take things slow and not be so tough on yourself."

"Doesn't self-loathing and long hours come with the job?" he asked in jest. John then shrugged. "Look, Dennis died, I stopped caring about myself. Nothing will change that. No amount of talking me into drinking clear liquids for the next week, just so I might function enough to hand you a syringe of Haldol or to look over charts."

"We could try it Doug's way; it involves a sedative, a G-tube and a six-pack of protein shakes."

Knowing Doug Ross as he did, he had no doubt he would do it. "Tomato basil?" he offered and struggled not to gag.