CHAPTER 8 — THE RULES POV: Damian Blackwood

Already Monday morning. And by eight-thirty, I’ve already shifted three things on my calendar.

I don't like to change my calendar.

There’s a reason for schedules. They impose order, cut out needless delays, and make it possible to run a company without every unexpected demand becoming an emergency.

But now I have a hospital appointment in the middle of my week, like an indictment.

I look at it for a few seconds and lock my phone.

“That’s new.”

Adrian's voice sounds from the other side of my office.

I look up. “What is?”

“You had a free hand to move a meeting.”

I shifted a meeting because it was necessary.

“Sure.”

He looks at me like he doesn't believe what I'm saying.

My gaze wanders back to the papers before me. “What do you want?”

“The updated purchase numbers. And confirmation on the Singapore call.”

“Thursday,” someone said. “Put Singapore on four.”

“Yes.”

He looks at his tablet.

Thursday afternoon is already booked.

“Then shift whatever is there.”

He looks at me once more.

“The hospital?”

I look at him evenly.

“You’re getting a little too interested in my personal timetable.”

“I’m worried you’ve rescheduled a meeting with a supplier who’s come all the way from London.”

“Then they can fly back after the meeting.”

“They’ve already been told the original time was confirmed.”

"Tell them it wasn't."

Adrian looks at me for a moment longer, then nods.

"Understood."

He walks away.

"Adrian."

He halts.

“Don’t touch anything else without me telling you.”

“That’s how most calendars work.”

The door shuts behind him.

I sit back in my chair.

It’s not the appointment that’s the problem.

The thing is, I don’t know what happens next.

The monitor's results don't give Amelia everything she needs. The extra assessment is still being organised. No one has told me to stop working, cancel travel, or change my whole life.

And, though, I've begun to make adjustments.

That annoys me more than it should.

By midday, my schedule is almost back to normal. Then my phone rings.

The Cardiology Section.

I answer.

"Mr. Blackwood, this is the cardiology unit. Dr. Carter would like to discuss some of the practicalities of your follow-up."

“I have another appointment,” I say.

“Yes. This is different.”

“How separate?”

“She wants to make sure you understand what you should be doing between now and then.”

I glance at the papers awaiting me to sign.

“Can she send the instructions?”

“She can, but she’d rather explain them as they come up.”

She would, of course.

“When?” I ask.

The nurse tells me a time.

I look at my calendar.

“I’ll be there.”

Amelia is there waiting for me when I reach the hospital.

She's standing by her office door, talking to another doctor. She acknowledges me with a quick nod as she finishes the conversation.

No special salutation.

No acknowledgement that I’ve moved part of my day to be here.

Weird, but I love it.

When the other doctor leaves, she motions me in.

“Have a seat.”

I sit opposite her.

There’s a file on her desk. Next to it is a printed page with bullet points.

“I thought we were talking about my results next week.”

“We are,” she says.

“Then what's this?”

“The practical side of your follow-up.”

I look at the page.

“What do you mean?”

“Meaning I don't want you leaving here knowing you have appointments but not knowing what you're supposed to do in between.”

“I know how to go to an appointment.”

“I suppose you do.”

The answer takes me by surprise.

Before I can reply, she goes on.

“Your assessment is still in progress. That means we’re collecting data. Information you give us between appointments can be helpful.”

“What do you need to know?”

“Symptoms that are relevant. When they occur. What you were doing at the time. How long they remain.”

“And now I'm to write down every heartbeat?”

“No.”

Her expression remains entirely serious.

“You’re supposed to notice when something is different enough to be important.”

I look at the page below me.

"That's a matter of opinion."

“Sort of. That’s why you record what you observe, instead of pre-judging its significance.”

I settle back.

“This is gonna interfere with my job.”

“Maybe.”

At least she does not pretend otherwise.

“I have meetings the whole day. Some last for several hours.”

“Then you take a note when you can.”

“What if I don't?”

“Then get it down as quickly as you can.”

“And travel?”

“Tell us if you have major travel coming up.”

“Why?”

“Because the circumstances are important. A short domestic trip isn't necessarily the same as international travel, and what's appropriate may depend on how your assessment develops.”

“So I need a permit to travel?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Her answer is swift.

“You need medical advice when the circumstances might reasonably affect your care. That’s not the same as asking for permission.”

I look at her.

“You make everything sound so easy.”

“No. I particularise it.”

Well, there is a difference.

She indicates the page.

“We are still investigating your condition. You don’t have to give up your life. But you have to make space for the assessments that we know need to be done.”

“That is not the way my schedule works.”

“Then we’ll work around your schedule where we can.”

“And where you can't?”

“Then we shall discuss the conflict.”

I tap a page with my finger.

“Why don’t you give me a list of things I can’t do?”

“We don’t have enough information to justify a fixed list.”

“So you don’t know what I should or should not be doing.”

“We know what we’re recommending now. We also know that your assessment is not finished.”

The difference is precise.

And annoying.

“Say I don’t follow the recommendations.”

“You can.”

I look up.

She doesn’t qualify the statement.

“You're a grown man, Mr. Blackwood. I can explain the medical rationale, answer your questions, and suggest what I think is appropriate. I can’t make you go along with it.”

“You don’t sound concerned.”

“I am worried. I’m just not going to confuse worry with control.”

Something clenches in my chest.

Not in the flesh.

Something else.

Everyone who cares for me eventually tries to control me.

They make decisions for me. They tell me what is good. False choices they offer.

Amelia ain’t doin’ none of that.

She is putting the responsibility where it should be.

Along with me.

"What are you asking me to do?" I say.

“Three things.”

She counts on her fingers.

“Schedule your follow-up appointments. Record pertinent symptoms accurately. And if something changes, contact the medical team rather than waiting for your next appointment.”

“And work?”

“Continue as normal where it makes sense.”

"Travelling?"

“Tell us about serious travel.”

“Meetings?”

“Reschedule them if they conflict with necessary medical appointments.”

I lift an eyebrow.

“That’s your medical opinion?”

“That’s sensible advice.”

“You’re getting very comfortable giving me practical advice.”

“Only because you keep asking intelligent questions.”

I nearly laugh.

Kind of.

Instead, I take the sheet.

“Anything more?”

“Don’t put limits on yourself because you’re afraid.”

I watch her.

“Well, that’s an interesting instruction.”

“You have asked me twice now for a list of things you are not allowed to do.”

“Because uncertainty is wasteful.”

“Medicine doesn't always give us certainty right away.”

“No. Apparently it gives us paperwork.”

The corner of her mouth twitches.

“Hardly.”

“Paperwork can be helpful.”

I'll take your word for it.

She shuts the file.

“The thing is, I don’t want you to take uncertainty as a licence to ignore everything or an excuse not to live normally.”

I can't argue.

Because that is uncomfortably close to what I have been up to.

Before I do anything, I want to be sure.

I want evidence before I say there is a problem.

And since the proof isn't finished, a part of me keeps acting like nothing has to change.

Amelia pushes the page to me.

“Read it right before you leave.”

“I will.”

“And if you disagree with something?”

"I'll tell you."

“Good.”

I get up.

I halt at the door.

"You don't really mean to tell me what to do, do you?"

She looks at me.

“I’m going to tell you what I think you should do medically. What you do with that information is up to you.”

There it is once more.

Accountability.

Most of my life, I thought control and responsibility were the same thing.

Maybe they aren't.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Carter.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Blackwood.”

I go.

I read the instructions again in the car.

They’re reasonable.

It doesn't make them convenient.

My phone is already on my calendar.

The supplier meeting is still scheduled for Thursday morning. Time for the follow-up appointment: afternoon.

I could have put it all back the way it was.

Instead, I'll leave the changes as they are.

The decision should not matter.

It does.

I walk into the office, and Adrian is waiting outside my office.

He says the supplier has agreed to the new time frame.

“Fine.”

“And the Singapore call's come through.”

“Okay.”

He is watching me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That look usually means something.”

“You were in hospital.”

“I had an appointment.”

"You've never rearranged a supplier meeting to get an appointment."

“Now I’ve done it.”

He slowly nods.

“You following the doctor’s orders?”

I walk by him.

“I’m thinking about them.”

“That’s dangerously close to yes.”

“Then consider yourself lucky.”

He laughs softly behind me.

I place the hospital instructions beside my laptop in my office.

I pull up my calendar.

I hold my finger over the screen for a moment.

Then I set a reminder.

Note the relevant symptoms.

I add one more.

If anything changes, page cardiology.

I look at both.

Some reminders.

Less than a minute for me.

I haven't been robbed.

No one has told me to stop working. Nobody’s telling me I’ve got to cancel all my meetings or give

away control of my schedule.

Amelia didn't try to persuade me. She just laid the facts on me and let me make up my mind.

This should make it easier to ignore her.

I’m not doing that. I’m taking one of her suggestions.

I shut the calendar.

I will not mention influence.

It was mine.

My choice.

And if I happen to have my Thursday afternoon cleared, it is not because Dr. Carter told me to make room for self-care.

Or at least, that’s what I want to believe.