Blood Sugar(55)
Because of all this, I decided to open up to Gabrielle. While of course also trying to maintain professional boundaries. I thought she could handle it, just as Alisha believed I could handle the truth about her moving to Miami because of my influence. So I told Gabrielle that I could now personally relate to her anguish. That I too had been replaying my decisions over and over again, and trying not to blame myself for Jason’s death. I laid out all my feelings in hopes of bringing the conversation back to her, and focus on her belief that Derrick’s death was her fault, and convince her that it wasn’t and that she’s not alone in this journey. That we were now linked, both struggling with irrational guilt.
Gabrielle had made some strides in therapy, but she still hadn’t gone on a date since that lethal night. For an attractive girl in her early twenties who once enjoyed sex and boyfriends, this was an unhealthy choice of avoidance. But when I asked her about it, she gave me her usual answer.
“What’s the point? What guy could ever live up to a man I barely knew who literally died for me? Who sacrificed his life while saving mine? ‘Oh, thanks for the box of chocolates, Bob, but will you jump in front of a bullet for me? ’Cause Derrick did.’?”
Because she barely knew Derrick, it was easy for her to create in her mind a perfect hero without flaws. Similar to how as a child Jason had turned the absent Gertrude into the perfect mother. Derrick became a myth in Gabrielle’s memory. And the myth stunted her from connecting to anyone else romantically.
I said, “I think the work we need to do next is for you to stop comparing other men to Derrick. To reframe and try and judge each man on his own merits.” But the moment the words came out of my mouth, I felt the weight of that unrealistic task. Gabrielle, smart and quick as always, noticed that I felt it. She responded, “Right. So, you’ll just fall in love again and not compare whomever to Jason?”
And this was another problem with patients knowing too much about my life. They could throw things back in my face. I answered, measured, “In time, I will try.” And it occurred to me when Roman asked me about my marriage to Jason, I was flooded with memories both good and bad. I loved Jason, but he wasn’t perfect. No one is perfect. And an idea formed. A way to help Gabrielle.
I said, “You’re stuck because all you really know about Derrick is that he saved your life. Right now in your mind, he has no flaws. But what if you got to know him better, postmortem. Maybe reach out to his parents, or siblings. Did he have siblings?”
She said, “I have no idea. We didn’t even get to the ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’ part of the date.”
That reminded me of Jason and his alien-like lack of normal first-date questions. I had to hold in my smile. Some memories of him made me so happy. And then I would crash to the present and be miserable because he was now gone. And there would be no new memories made. I focused back on Gabrielle, with a plan of action. I told her to look into Derrick’s life. “Contact his family, some of his friends, or coworkers, or even an ex-girlfriend or two. Get to know him through them. I bet you’ll discover that while he might have been wonderful in many ways, and he was brave and selfless and he did save your life, he was a three-dimensional person. He must have had some negatives.”
This made sense to Gabrielle, and her writer brain immediately saw an article in the making. She would write about her journey to connect with people from Derrick’s life, as a catharsis, to try and fall out of love with a man she barely knew.
After she left my office, I felt a little less fury. Alisha was right: I was moving through my stages of grief. And working, seeing my patients, helping others, gave me a sense of purpose and peace during that horribly sad and lonely time. I was an inch closer to acceptance. But Homicide Detective Keith Jackson was not.
CHAPTER 37
EVIDENCE
My neighbors peeked out from windows and their front doors and walked to their driveways to make sure not to miss a detail of the commotion. They all could definitely hear me scream, “You can’t take that! It’s for my cat! He needs it!”
The man in the simple white jumpsuit holding the vial of insulin in a plastic bag ignored me and kept walking. Detective Jackson, who was overseeing the whole process, walked over to me and responded, “I’m sorry, we need to take it. It’s possible evidence now. Mr. Hollander did die from a low blood sugar. Caused by too much insulin.” I wanted to scream some more. You know he was a type 1 diabetic, you moron! I also wanted to pound Keith Jackson in his lengthy gut. My quick-twitch muscles took over, and without permission from my brain I actually started to lunge at the giant detective. Roman grabbed my arm, hard, and pulled me back. “Don’t,” he said. “It’s not worth it. And it’s not like you to be frantic.”
Detective Jackson looked down at me, with a mix of compassion and condescension, and said, “Don’t worry about the insulin, I’m sure Dr. Hamilton will be willing to write your cat another prescription.” I could see he was trying to get me riled up again. So I could be arrested immediately for assaulting a police officer, or become so flustered I would accidentally admit to something. But with Roman by my side to give me guidance, I refused to take the bait. I swallowed my pride and tried not to make eye contact with my staring and gossiping neighbors. Then I decided I had nothing to be ashamed about. I did not kill my husband. So I pulled my shoulders back and looked my neighbors right in the eyes. To let them know that I had nothing to hide.