Anatomy of a Meet Cute by Addie Woolridge

Chapter Six

Sam hesitated just down the hallway from Dr. Franklin’s office. It had taken him a few days to get back to her, which gave Sam plenty of time to think through what she was asking for. If Grant was right, then Dr. Franklin wasn’t likely to be over the moon about her idea, which was why she had come prepared with stats of every sort. It was harder to argue with numbers.

Giving herself a shake, she pushed her nerves aside, pulled her shoulders back, and strutted toward Dr. Franklin’s office. Stopping just outside the door, Sam saw Dr. Franklin staring at a computer, his glasses pushed way down his nose and his head tilted back as he scowled at whatever was on the screen. Taking a deep breath, Sam raised her hand and knocked on the doorframe, instantaneously pulling his laser focus away from the computer.

“Hi, Dr. Franklin. I’m Sam Holbrook; we were going to chat about birthing-and-parental programs at the hospital.”

“Oh yes. Hello, Dr. Holbrook, have a seat.” Dr. Franklin’s blue eyes sparkled as he pushed his chair away from his monitor and stood to beckon her in. Sam felt like she was being welcomed by a fit Santa Claus, minus the beard.

“Thank you.” Sam walked into the room, doing her best to maintain her confidence as she shook his hand. The office was the sort of place that wasn’t intentionally intimidating but ended up feeling that way just the same. It was full of faux-cherrywood furniture, complete with the particleboard desk and half a dozen bookshelves lining the room. Dr. Franklin had only managed to fill half the shelves, but he had done it with a perfectly calculated balance of books, knickknacks, photos of kids, degrees, certifications, and finger paintings that made Sam wonder if his office moonlighted as a movie set.

“So what can I do for you?” Dr. Franklin asked, his voice gently easing her mind away from the sundry items on his shelves.

“I talked to Dr. Gao, and he mentioned that the hospital hasn’t developed a comprehensive birthing program. Did I understand him correctly?”

Dr. Franklin’s eyes flicked to the screen in front of him, then returned to Sam. “Yes, that is correct. It’s just not something our hospital has the resources for.” His tone sounded like he was mentally composing an email and was just waiting for Sam to leave so he could get started on it.

Not that it mattered. She was determined to see this through, no matter how intimidating his particleboard office was. “I’m curious—if I could identify a funding source for a program, would it be possible for us to start one?”

The shift in Dr. Franklin’s attention was palpable. Looking directly at her, he said, “What kind of program did you have in mind?”

“Well, I have been doing some research, and I think a partnership with local doulas would benefit us. According to the Journal of Perinatal Medicine, pre- and postpartum care is crucial to—”

Dr. Franklin’s burst of laughter sliced through her sentence, cutting off her prepared display of research. “I’m sorry. Doulas?”

“Yes. When you think about it, a well-trained doula has seen hundreds of pregnant people in all different settings. In fact, Medi-Cal is considering covering doula services for Californians with state insurance as we speak. SF Central could be on the cutting edge of understanding how doulas impact care in populations like ours.”

“That is some very hippie-dippie stuff there.” Sam watched as Dr. Franklin’s eyebrows crept up his forehead, his brow wrinkled as he concentrated on not laughing.

“I know it sounds that way. But I think you’ll find that the practice of being a doula is very different from the sort of 1960s ‘have a baby in the woods while praying to a tree’ that people imagine.” Dr. Franklin laughed at this, and Sam was relieved that he was finally laughing with her, as opposed to at her. She tried to keep her smile light as she doubled back to the topic at hand. “For many cultures, doulas have always been part of pregnancy. This is just incorporating historical and cultural practices into modern care. Over the centuries, doulas have provided the sort of pre- and postpregnancy care that helps fill the gap between patients and medical-care providers.”

Dr. Franklin snorted and leaned back in his chair, studying Sam. “You’re a community health research fellow, aren’t you? What study did you read that brought this idea on?”

“Okay, yes. You are correct. I’m a community health research fellow.” Sam laughed. She had to hand it to Dr. Franklin: at least he knew his fellows and residents well. “I did my master’s in public health policy, looking at successful mentorship programs for pregnant teens, so I know community programs can work. Why shouldn’t they work for our pregnant population? It’s widely understood that the risk of birth complications for trans people, people with disabilities, lesbians, and people of color is much higher. But the risk of complications decreases when people have access to doulas, which is often the exclusive domain of rich people. If my hypothesis is correct and we design a thoughtful program—and don’t worry; I plan to study this—then we could help improve the experience of and outcomes for marginalized pregnant people tremendously.”

“By using a doula? Why not additional training for staff? A training day is much cheaper than a new program.” Dr. Franklin steepled his fingers and squinted at Sam, his gaze making her nervous all over again.

“I would argue that we could do both. My interest is in community programs. But if we have another fellow on staff who is interested in researching physician education, then let’s include them.” Sam shrugged.

Dr. Franklin shook his head as if he was trying to come up with a nice way to say no. Sam couldn’t let that happen. Jumping in, she added, “Think about it. Only fifty percent of the people who deliver here received care at SF Central prior to having a baby. But our hospital could be a place where people who typically avoid medical care or whose outcomes are poor actually want to come and give birth. Doulas can help bridge the gap between the medical experience and everyday life. Not to mention help provide care for people whose pregnancies may not come to term for whatever reason. Right now, we don’t offer them any real support to speak of, and that is a shame.”

“Dr. Holbrook, I appreciate your enthusiasm, and you certainly make a good point about patient experience affecting the bottom line. However, I know you are new here. Do you have any idea how many of these fly-by-night, fad community health programs have come and gone?”

Sam felt her stomach drop. She should have anticipated this question. Hell, Grant had warned her that this wouldn’t be an easy sell. “Well, no. But that’s the thing—”

“Our midwives do a great job with the postcare checkup after someone has given birth. I fail to see how using a doula for that would be any different. If anything, it is just inviting someone without any formal medical training to do a clinician’s job, despite the fact that we are already paying to have a nurse there.”

Ouch. That was blunt. A small voice in the back of Sam’s head pointed out that although it was harsh, Dr. Franklin had tipped his hand. She was thinking about this the wrong way. Patient centric might be her goal, but it wasn’t his. Money and the old guard were what mattered here. Sam smiled.

“Not everyone who comes here has a baby when they leave. Nurses aren’t much help there, but a doula could be. And for those who do, are we paying nurses to make house calls or scheduling them for more than ten minutes for each patient?” Sam asked, letting her eyes go wide in the hopes that it would sound more naive than judgmental. Dr. Franklin smirked as if he bought her act about as much as he believed in leprechauns, but she continued. “Bringing in a doula allows the nurses to focus on patient care, while someone else handles the aspects that don’t require medical attention so much as managing patient and familial comfort and anxiety. Not to mention the basics of changing and swaddling postbirth and the general reassuring everyone that they are normal.” Sam steadied her breathing as Dr. Franklin shifted his attention away from his watch and back toward her, his focus becoming more intent as she spoke.

“I can see where you have a point.” Dr. Franklin nodded, his expression looking like someone who is trying to decide between a Big Mac and a Quarter Pounder.

“And,” Sam added, pushing her luck just a little further, “if we do this right, the doula will have a relationship with the patient, so they can help with lactation support, finding life balance, and any number of questions that come up in the first few months after the baby is born. It would cut down on calls to the clinic for things that really don’t require a nurse or a doctor’s attention.”

Dr. Franklin’s sigh was heavy, as if Sam’s line of thinking was wearing him out. He leaned back in his chair, letting his eyes flick toward his screen again. “These are all very appealing reasons to consider a community program. But that still doesn’t change the hospital’s financial situation. We just don’t have the cash on hand for something like that.”

“Dr. Gao said as much. But I have done some thinking about this.” Sam refused to let his exhaustion deter her. Not when she was this close to getting her way. “Part of a fellowship is learning how to apply for grants. I know this isn’t likely to get NIH funding, but if I could find us philanthropic support for a pilot program, would you be willing to give my research idea your blessing?”

Standing up, Dr. Franklin looked down at Sam, cueing her to stand without so much as a word. Exhaling so his cheeks puffed out like a bath toy, he said, “Physicians always think their ideas are surefire, easy grant money, and they never are. And doulas? Talk about a tricky sell.” Dr. Franklin snorted as he said the word doula, and Sam held her breath, refusing to walk toward the door until she had a firm yes or no. He eyed her, waiting for a response.

“I suspect you are right. But what could it hurt to try?”

Dr. Franklin shook his head and walked around the desk, effectively herding her toward the door. “Well, if you are determined to try it. Sure. Go ahead and look for grants. If you can find someone to fund it and a senior physician to advise you since you’re in your first year, then by all means. I’ll let you give it a go.”

“Thank you, Dr. Franklin,” Sam gushed. When she’d envisioned this part of the conversation, she’d thought she’d be chill. It turned out she had zero chill when it came to patient care. “I look forward to updating you as I develop the program.”

The older man walked to the door, the humor returning to his face. Laughing lightly, he said, “Right. Good luck getting doulas in my hospital.”

“I know the idea is unorthodox, but I think it might just work out in everyone’s favor.” Stepping through the door, Sam forced herself to smile. He could underestimate her all he wanted. Sooner or later, Dr. Franklin would eat his words, and then she would be laughing all the way to better patient outcomes and an article published in the American Journal of Medicine or something. “Thank you again for making time to see me. You won’t regret it.”

Sam saw him shaking his head. His expression was the sort of amused look that adults usually reserved for small children telling bizarre stories. She waited until she rounded the corner and heard his door shut before busting out a small happy dance, complete with a shimmy and a few hops.

To think Grant thought it couldn’t be done. Sam grinned as she got in the elevator and pressed the button to the third floor. She wasn’t planning to track down Grant and tell him he was wrong or anything . . . but if she happened to see him in the staff lounge, she couldn’t promise she wouldn’t mention it. She could do that without sounding too smug . . . or at least she would try.

“How’d it go?” Duke asked as soon as she opened the front door.

For a moment, Sam’s tired mind went empty as she sifted through her shift until it hit on her meeting with Dr. Franklin. “I got the green light.”

“I told you!” Jehan’s voice rushed down the hall, with the sound of her footsteps.

“I see you.” Duke spread out his arms and pulled the two of them into his massive wingspan for a group hug.

“This is the gangliest group hug.” Jehan giggled as she tried to navigate two taller people’s arms. “Seriously. I’m rooming with people who should be in a professional basketball league.”

Sam laughed as the three of them let go. “Maybe it’ll rub off and you won’t need a step stool to reach the kitchen counter.”

Jehan snorted and followed Sam over to the couch, flopping down next to her with the same exhausted sigh. “So what happened? Was Grant right? Details, please.”

“I mean, he was kinda right.” Sam wrinkled her nose. “But also wrong in several ways, which I am choosing to focus on because I’m petty.”

“Attagirl,” Duke snarked, his head in the fridge as he dug around for something to eat.

“Obviously, you are superior in every way.” Jehan nodded. “But how exactly was he wrong? We need these details in order to silently gloat through our next hell shifts.”

“Basically, Dr. Franklin tried to laugh me out of there as soon as the words community program and doula were uttered. He started saying all kinds of things about the budget. And when I wouldn’t give up on that, he tried to ask why nurses couldn’t just do the work—”

“Did you say, ’Cause they have other jobs?” Jehan jumped in, slapping the back of the couch as she got into the story.

“I did just that,” Sam said, shaking her head. “Then, get this, he basically said that every physician is a narcissist and that no one cares about our ideas as much as us.”

“What?” Duke shouted, popping his head out of the fridge. “That is rich coming from a man who insists on introducing himself as Doctor to all the other doctors he knows.”

“I know. I know. I could understand if I was asking for them to build me a space medicine laboratory or something. But honestly, I’m not that original,” Sam cackled.

“No, your program idea is way better than that,” Jehan said, shaking her head and missing the joke.

“Yeah, but you know what I mean. This ain’t exactly brand-new stuff. Rich women have had birthing coaches for years.”

“Okay, yeah. But don’t sell yourself short,” Jehan said, tapping the couch again. “Keep going. How did it end?”

“Right, right. Well, anyway. I could tell that making it all about patient outcomes wasn’t getting me anywhere, so then I shifted. Made it about saving money and staff time.”

“I’ll bet he was into that,” Duke said.

“He tried to play it off, like, whatever. But he was listening. So then I thought, Okay, maybe we compromise. So—”

“Wait. I thought we were being petty and focusing on where Grant was wrong. Didn’t he say to compromise?” Duke asked, coming out of the kitchen with something that looked suspiciously like a protein shake with coffee in it.

“Well, yes . . . ,” Sam said, shifting in her divot in the couch. “But this is different.”

“Different how? I thought this was about proving Grant wrong, not taking his advice and pretending you didn’t.” Duke sipped his glass of whatever and looked smug for all of three seconds, until the taste of what he was drinking started to burn his throat and he coughed. He deserved that. With the way he was raining on her superiority parade, Sam hoped the drink tasted like the dirt on a hubcap. “What’s the deal with you and him? Why do you hate him?”

“I don’t hate him.”

“You said you loathed his smug face last week,” Jehan said, narrowing her eyes at Sam.

Avoiding the weight of her roommates’ gazes, Sam wrinkled her nose and said, “Loathing a smug face isn’t hating.”

Jehan snorted and rolled her eyes before dramatically flopping onto the side of the couch just to drive her point home in case she wasn’t clear about how affronted she was by Sam’s logic.

“It’s just . . . I feel like he is too perfect. There is something untrustworthy about good-looking people who are smart.”

“So you hate him because of his face?” Jehan asked.

“You don’t hate me, and I’m basically a god,” Duke said.

Both she and Jehan stopped to stare at Duke, who started cackling like the joke was the best one he’d told all day. When no one joined him, he straightened up and said, “Anyway. Carry on. You don’t trust his extremely symmetrical face because why?”

Why didn’t she trust him? She could admit it wasn’t just the plane thing, although that didn’t help. If she was honest with herself, Grant just felt too good. People like him weren’t interested in people like her—the messy kind, with broken family relationships and something to prove. They dated people who didn’t keep their phones in airplane mode to avoid hard phone calls and emergency ice cream in the fridge to survive hard days. No. She didn’t hate him. It was more that she was afraid of him. Of what he’d see if he looked too close. All the cracks in her life on display like that . . .

She didn’t even want to think about it. Looking at her friends, she pasted a smile on and said, “Because I just don’t.”

“Duke, don’t pester poor Sam. Can’t you see she is basically melting under the pressure of explaining the unexplainable?” Jehan said, cutting Duke off before he could try to reason with Sam.

“Make fun all you want. I don’t see Grant Gao running a doula-and-doctor community program.”

“Technically you aren’t either,” Duke said, wincing through another sip of his drink.

“Okay, pipe down before you catch a knuckle sandwich,” Jehan said, coming to Sam’s defense with more sincerity this time.

“Knuckle sandwich? Is this 1972? Who says that?” Duke rasped, shaking his head and glaring at his drink. For a fraction of a second, Sam wondered why he was so dedicated to finishing that thing when it clearly tasted like rubber cement smelled.

“Just saying—our girl is on a roll with this.”

“My bad. You are right. Sam is definitely far superior to a certain doctor that we all dislike because reasons.”

“Thank you, Duke.” Sam gestured to her heart. “Besides, I will be leading the clinic shortly, because Dr. Howie Franklin said that if I can find the funding and a senior adviser, I can have my program.”

“That is so exciting. Seriously, Sam, congratulations on clearing the first hurdle.”

“Now, I just gotta find me some funding.” Sam sighed, leaning back into the couch and fighting the urge to close her eyes.

“We got you. English major right here,” Duke said, tapping his chest and grinning.

“And I have grant-writing experience from my days with the international medical charity. I’m happy to chip in,” Jehan said, pulling out the hair tie that was supporting her ponytail and giving her hair a shake.

“Y’all are sweet. But you don’t have to do that.” A small part of Sam’s chest twinged with fear. Her friends weren’t wrong about how much work writing grants could take, especially without Dr. Franklin’s full blessing. But if she allowed her friends to help and she still failed . . . letting her friends down and not getting her program funded was too much. Shaking her head, she said, “I’m good. You both have enough work to do without me.”

Duke looked like he was happy to leave it at that when Jehan said, “You are doing something important. Of course we will help.”

For a moment, Sam was quiet. What had she done to deserve such wonderful roommates? It wasn’t like either of them had a ton of free time. She certainly hadn’t done anything this big and time consuming for them. Yet here they were, pitching in to make her community program a reality. She’d find a way to pay them back, even if it meant doing Duke’s chores for the next six months.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Duke added, interpreting the silence caused by Sam’s emotional vortex as hesitation.

“Thank you both. I’m lucky to have you two around.”

“We know.” Duke laughed, giving up and placing his drink back in the fridge. “Sam, we’re gonna have to help you at a different time, though, or we’ll be late.”

“What?” Sam asked.

“We got a game tonight. Remember? Are you gonna play in your scrubs or what?”

Sam really looked at Duke for the first time. He was dressed in his basketball gear, which explained the protein shake from hell. “Ugh. Jehan, you sure you don’t want to play? You can have my spot.”

“Nope. That is the one thing I can’t help you with.” Her friend laughed, pushing herself off the couch.

“Who are we playing?”

“Not Dr. Too-Perfect Face, so you don’t have to see someone you don’t like.” Duke smirked as he added extra emphasis to the words don’t like just to hammer home how much he didn’t believe Sam, even if Jehan had made him let it go.

“That just means I’ll have to wait to rub my success in Grant’s face.” Sam shrugged, then took Jehan’s hand and let herself be yanked off the perfectly fluffy couch with a groan. Turning back to Duke, she asked, “How did I let you talk me into this?”

“I don’t know, but you can’t quit now. You got a reputation to uphold, point guard.” Duke chuckled as Sam shuffled down the hallway.

“I regret our friendship. I could be sleeping right now,” Sam called as she reached her bedroom door.

“Don’t lie. You regret nothing,” Duke shouted from somewhere in the living room.

Sam smiled as she dug out a pair of shorts from a drawer. He was right; she loved having her roommates around, so sleep would just have to wait.