Chapter Ten

The first day of the conference took place in the enormous and tastefully decorated lobby on the 8^th floor. No fewer than 100 delegates ranging from students, healthcare practitioners, well renowned researchers and entrepreneurs had come from all over the country. Several of the attendees were students and faculty members from sister institutions outside the country.

It began at nine in the morning with an opening statement by the chairperson, which lasted exactly ten minutes. This was followed by a forty minute presentation highlighting the challenges faced by the healthcare profession in diagnosing lung cancer at the earliest possible stage as well as the opportunities it presented, from both a scientific and business perspective. Thereafter, five minutes were allowed for questions. A keynote speech was then given by the Minister of State for Health, which lasted thirty minutes. The rest of the day consisted of presentations on the incidence, prevalence, morbidity and mortality rates of Lung cancer in different parts of the country as captured by researchers. Interspersed among these presentations were the five minute question and answer sessions which allowed the audience to question, commend, critique or make recommendations to the presenters.

Morgan meticulously jotted the notes down on his tablet during the proceedings. Not wanting to draw any attention to himself, he never asked questions during those five minute sessions. Morgan opted to corner the presenters afterwards, providing him with enough time to pick their brains.

The clock on the wall read seven minutes past seven in the evening, two whole hours after the conference had concluded. Morgan was at the bar in the restaurant on the 8^th floor, gently swirling his whiskey on the rocks and lost in thought. Bad memories always found a way to haunt him whenever he was not preoccupied, just like the fabled ghost of Christmas past. There was always one question that played like song on a loop: Where did it all go wrong? The answer never came, only endless theories and possibilities that served to lower his mood. That’s where the alcohol came in; to abate the entire process as a lull settled in. Morgan started drinking six months ago to cope with it all. In those moments, when the effects of the alcohol kicked in, all the problems in the world disappeared.

He was about to take another swig of his drink when a commotion erupted behind him. Uninterested in the events taking place, he did not bother looking and shifted his focus back to his drink. The next words he heard were unmistakable.

“Somebody please help! My husband is choking,” cried a woman from one of the tables occupying the middle of the room.

He set his drink aside and sprung into action immediately.

“I am medically trained and I am here to help,” said Morgan, making his way through the throng of diners. As he approached the table in question, his mind went into full analysis mode: predicting the man’s approximate height, weight and the best method in which to help him.

The man was hunched over his table with both hands clasped around his throat. Morgan got him to stand up, placed his arms around the man’s waist, made a fist with his right hand and placed it above the belly button with his right thumb pointing in. He then proceeded to cup his fist with his left hand, pushing it inward and upward simultaneously. After six abdominal thrusts, the piece of rib-eye steak was expelled. This was received by an ovation from the crowd of diners. The happy couple thanked him and offered to pay for his dinner but he politely declined, stating he was only doing what any medically trained person would do. He then made his way back to the bar, smiling bashfully as he passed other diners who either patted him on the back while singing his praises or simply applauded him as he walked by.  This was all new to him and although it felt amazing to get some recognition, it also made him very uneasy.

He grabbed his tumbler, ready to finish his drink and order another when he was interrupted again.

“Drinking something you left unattended is not the wisest decision. Someone could have slipped a roofie in it,” said a female voice behind him.

“Well, the bartender has been here the whole time so I’m pretty sure he would have alerted me,” replied Morgan, his eyes firmly fixed on his tumbler.

“What if he’s the one that put it in?” The voice retorted.

Morgan glanced at the bartender for a few seconds, gauging how such a notion was remotely possible. He slowly turned around to see who he had been conversing with. The only thing he was almost certain about was the fact that she was female.

What he saw completely stunned him. She wore a sky-blue sundress with a pink, orange and white floral pattern that complemented her figure well. Though she wore blue flats, she was considerably tall for a woman. Her face was round with a minimal amount of makeup. When their eyes finally met, he noted a fire in her soft brown eyes and knew that he had to tread lightly. Her shoulder-length dark brown hair was tucked behind her ears. He concluded from the olive colour of her skin that she had to be a Latina.

“Where are my manners? My name’s Maddison,” she said, extending a hand.

“Morgan... Morgan Drake.” He replied, shaking her hand.

“I saw what you did for that elderly man. I’ve only seen it happen on TV but it was still impressive.”

“I really didn’t do anything special. The Heimlich manoeuvre is a relatively simple technique anyone can perform,” said Morgan matter-of-factly. He could feel the eyes of the other diners boring into him, making him even more uncomfortable.

“Would you like to take a seat and let me buy you a drink? If you stand there any longer, we’ll definitely have another situation,” said Morgan, looking around the room. She followed his gaze, finally understanding what he meant. Maddison acquiesced to his request and sat in the stool next to him. When the bartender came around, she ordered orange juice.

“I take it you’re not much of a drinker, Maddison?” asked Morgan, eyeing her drink.

“Well I do drink but on rare occasions. Alcohol is bad for your liver but I’m sure, as a medically trained person, you already know that,” said Maddison, staring at the now empty tumbler.

“True but one of the liver’s functions is to break down harmful chemicals. So the way I see it, I’m putting my liver through its paces. You can call it liver cardio.”

Maddison stifled a laugh, finished the rest of her drink and started to get up.

Morgan’s mind began to go into overdrive with questions: how long was she in town? Should he ask her for her number or to have dinner with him? Most importantly, did she live so far away that this would be all for nothing?

He wouldn’t know the answers to any of those questions if he didn’t try. He cleared his throat, saying “Maddison, I know this is rather sudden but would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

“I had a long day today so I’m actually heading to my room for a good night’s rest.”

“Does tomorrow night work for you?” asked Morgan. He was not about give up just yet.

“It’s also a bad time for me but I’m free Sunday night,” said Maddison truthfully.

“Does seven pm at the restaurant on the 45^th floor sound good to you?”

“Sounds like a plan,” replied Maddison, finally departing.

Morgan watched her walk away, feeling his heart rate slowly dropping back to normal. On a whim, he had just asked a beautiful stranger on a date and it went his way. Morgan’s joy quickly faded when it hit him.

How the hell did I forget to ask for her number?