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12 Rules for Life by Jordan Peterson

She thought it was, in a way, disgraceful. She was a bit embarrassed by what must appear as her dependence. She shook herself out of her memories. What do you hear from Chicago? Sully grunted. When I was growing up, she was a teacher. Then she was a teacher and a writer. But after I finished med school, she grew wings.

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Sometimes she takes me with her. China, Morocco, Italy, many other places. She always works, though. A lot. Leigh grinned. Want me to get you one? But that could be a matter of family complications. Then my mother died—I was only four. That left poor Aunt Helen with a child to raise alone. A working woman with a child.

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Where was she going to find a guy with all that going on? Sully was quiet for a moment. A good woman. You must miss her a lot. There were plenty of separations with my education and her travel. Aunt Helen has friends all over the world.


And writers are always going to some conference or other, where she has a million friends. But, of course, she missed Helen madly. Was she trying to prove she could take care of herself? Thanks for lunch, Sully. It was a nice break. You make turkey on whole wheat a lot more interesting. I want to take you to lunch. Did you have a nice lunch?

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There are buds on trees and green shoots poking out of the ground. Leigh had two assistants, both RNs. They were both perfectly efficient. Both of them were excellent nurses. Leigh referred those appropriately. He had an upper respiratory infection with a lingering cough. It was a good little clinic. There was another doctor who filled in two to three times a week for a few hours or a shift; he was semiretired.

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Bill Dodd. They kept pretty odd hours, staying open two nights a week and Saturdays. Outside clinic hours, patients had to drive to a nearby town to another urgent care. The clinic was there primarily for the locals. Emergencies were deployed to area hospitals, sometimes via ambulance. Leigh hung her jacket on the hook behind her desk and replaced it with a white lab coat. She was a quick learner. Now she wore scrubs and tennis shoes like her nurses. Not only was their attire pretty casual, the office was friendly and open. A few of the firefighters from across the street were known to drop in just to visit.

If they could get past Gretchen, who was a tad rigid. His face would crack. Like Sully. He could come off as impatient or crabby, but really, she wanted to squeeze him in a big hug every time she saw him. Then there was a bad cold, a referral to the gastroenterologist for possible gallbladder issues and she splinted and wrapped a possible broken ankle before sending the patient off to the orthopedic surgeon. Just as they were getting ready to close the clinic, there was some excitement. Finn was as tall as Rob, and Rob was a bit over six feet.

Nice, deep breaths. Close your eyes a moment. Dad, can you tell me what happened? Finn was recovering. I was emptying it and ran my hand right across a sharp edge. My palm. And the blood poured out. You should see the kitchen floor. I want you to stay f lat, eyes closed, deep breaths. Eleanor, can you set up a suture tray, please? Some lidocaine and extra gauze. Plenty of them.

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She dabbed the cut with gauze. Eleanor provided drapes, covering Finn, lying the hand on an absorbent pad that was on top of a f lat, hard, polyurethane tray that was placed on his belly. Leigh cleaned the gash, applied antiseptic, picked up the needle with a hemostat and began to stitch.

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She dropped the bloody towel on the floor, stacked up more bloody gauze squares, applied a few more stitches. Then there was a sound behind her—a low, deep groan and a swoosh. Rob, his face roughly the color of toothpaste, leaned against the wall and slid slowly to the floor. He was shaking his head but, fast as lightning, Eleanor passed a basin to him.

That never works out. Then she chuckled softly.