Author's Note:

(There is a general consensus that two of the recent episodes of Chicago Hope — 'Karmic Relief' and 'Playing Through' — are difficult to reconcile as consecutive stories. There seem to be far too many discrepancies, as well as too many major character developments, that remain unexplained. Therefore, I would like to submit this brief glimpse of life at the Hospital as one possible version of events, starting from 'Karmic Relief', and leading up to 'Playing Through'. So, grab an herbal tea, a handful of gummy bears, and enjoy...)

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"Par for the Course" (a lost Episode)

The deep, sombre tones of Bach's Cello Suites echoed through the Operating bay, filling the room with music. Rich music, beautiful music, heady and introspective, designed by the Baroque master to bring together not only heart and mind, but to reach into the depths of the human soul with the very sounds of heaven."Oh please, Kate," groaned Dr. Billy Kronk. "Can't we turn this stuff off? It sounds like a funeral in here or something..."
Beneath her mask, Dr. Kate Austin grinned, her fingers moving like an expert craftsman, weaving artery and fibre in cohesive union. "You're a musical barbarian, Billy."
Kronk adjusted the suction. "That's me, Katie. A big, hairy Neanderthal. I need drums."
"You should be in with Jack."
"I tried. His OR is jam-packed this morning. Something about removing and repairing some guy's spine..."
"Vertebrae, Billy. Removing and repairing some guy's vertebrae. Four of them, actually."
"Yeah. Whatever."
She grinned again. "No wonder you're in here." Her eyes had not wavered from that of the heart, dark red and foreign, now nestled deep within the chest cavity of Kevin Jacobi, 36 year-old husband and father. It was a perfect fit. It had to be. When Kate Austin was the surgeon, nothing less would be accepted.
"Okay, people. Let's begin shutting down the bypass. Billy, release the clamps."

For a brief moment, everyone in the OR held their breath. Blood began coursing anew through shunted arteries, and the four chambers swelled with it, losing their dark cast for a brighter, more vibrant hue. A small current was passed through the muscle and the heart leapt in its bed, before picking up the familiar, two-beat rhythm of its own accord.
Austin glanced up at the faces surrounding the narrow table. "Nice work, people. Looks like Mr. Jacobi just might get to see his daughters graduate after all..."
And with a snap of latex, she tossed her stained gloves into the bin and strode from the bay, allowing one of her surgical residents the privilege of closing after her. Billy Kronk was hot on her heels, and within seconds, they were side by side at the sinks, maskless and capless and plunging their hands into strong, hot water. It felt remarkably good.
Out of the corner of her eye, Austin could see Kronk grinning at her. She steeled her jaw. She had been expecting this.

"What?" "Nothing." "Oh really? Nothing." "Really. Nothing." He now seemed rather intent on scrubbing the shine from his fingernails. "Unless..." "Unless what?" "Unless, of course... there is... something..."
Sighing, she turned and leaned against the sink, holding her hands up and allowing the water to run down her arms and drip off her elbows. "You want to know about the retreat, is that it?
He tossed her a coy look. "Only if you want me to know..."
She rolled her eyes. Where to start? She took a deep breath. "The retreat was... an 'experience'. Not that it did any good, mind you. My cyst is still there, as big as ever. And that music, Billy. I honestly don't know how people think they can get 'spiritual' listening to rap and be-bop —" "Hip-hop?" "Whatever." "And I thought I was the musical barbarian..."

She scowled at him. "And the kids! That's exactly what they were, Billy. Young, beautiful, twenty- something kids, searching for some 'deeper meaning', getting in touch with their bodies, getting in touch with each others' bodies and trying to find some sort of 'karma' in it all. And then there's me, forty-something, worrying about NASA, ovarian cysts, my daughter in hospital, and snarfing down all the junk food I had smuggled in..." She paused in her monologue to shake her head. "I don't know, Billy, but for the first time in a long time, I felt... old..."
"You? Old? Katie, you're as young and blood-thirsty as the day I first met you." Austin could not help but smile. "Charmer." "Not bad for a barbarian, huh?" She turned back to the sink. "Well, I suppose even barbarians have to evolve sometime..." They continued to scrub, but it wasn't long before yet another grin was threatening to split Kronk's face.

"What now?!" "Nothing." "Billy!" "Well, I was just wonderin'... did you and Yeats...?" "Shut up, Billy." "That's my girl, Katie." And they finished scrubbing in silence.

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Kronk would have loved it. The sound of drums was masked only by the wailing of electric guitar, and more than one nurse could be seen wincing as Jack McNeil's Operating bay reverberated with the howl of Led Zeppelin. It was common knowledge that, of all his colleagues, McNeil boasted the most unorthodox of surgical accompaniment, desiring not to be soothed or calmed, but rather stimulated, set on edge, his senses heightened.. For it was also common knowledge that when his senses were sharp, his hands were sharper.

"Will you get a load of this..." With a pair of long, silver tongs, the orthopedic surgeon held up a ring of ragged bone to the light. It was a spinal vertebra, yellowed and pitted and chewed as if by tiny teeth. "Poor SOB," he growled to no one in particular. "There's not much left to work with. The cancer's eaten most of the good stuff." He shook his head, lowering the vertebra to the table. "Well, let's see if we can pull off another 'Miracle of Modern Medicine'..."

The term 'we' was pure courtesy because, for their part, the rest of the surgery team could have been out playing poker. This was McNeil's show, and he knew it. The procedure required a surgeon as skilled in neurology and reconstruction as orthopedics, and McNeil was the logical choice. The only choice.

"I feel like a dentist," he muttered under his breath. "Pulling teeth ... Filling cavities..."

The humour was appreciated by his staff. They watched in relative amazement as he began work on the first ring of living bone, his tools concrete and steel pins, before beginning the delicate re- attachment to the rest of the spinal column, and the removal of the second of four. It would take hours, but McNeil never cared. He came alive in the OR and his work came first. It always had.

Another experimental procedure — this time, Stroke Reversal — with Dr. Lisa Catera at the helm and for a brief moment, he was transported. Last night, another fight. This morning, no words, just the drive to work in silence. It wasn't her fault, he knew this in his heart. It wasn't even her problem, but, by involving herself with him, it became her problem by default. He was a closed book she was desperate to read, and despite her best attempts, he could not open up to her. His stubborn pride refused her entry. It was his only character flaw — at least the only one he would admit — and he hated it with a passion.

He would never change. This, he also knew. She would have to get used to it.
With an inaudible sigh, he looked back to the table, to the living, dying ring of bone, once a key element in the body's support system, now crushed and crippled by the very weight of its position. It needed the others, the others needed it, but it was being gnawed away by something from the inside, helpless to heal itself. The irony mocked him.
He shook his head and bent down to his work.

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There was no music in her OR this morning. Silence was critical in Stroke Reversal Surgery, for in this case, it required an ongoing dialogue with the patient, questions and answers that would determine, how far and how fast her work would take her.
Dr. Lisa Catera paused, her eyes never leaving the swollen pink tissue. "Can you close your right eye, Mrs. Pizzo?" There was a moment of hesitation before Mrs. Pizzo, 65 year-old retired kindergarten teacher, responded. "No, I'm afraid — wait, wait..." It seemed ages, but within seconds, a soft, wrinkled lid began to twitch, not quite closing all the way. That was not necessary, however, and a thin smile flashed across the neurosurgeon's face. "That's great, Mrs. Pizzo. Just great."

The old woman managed a half-paralyzed smile. In fact, she seemed perfectly relaxed, as if she were at some exclusive spa, enjoying the benefits of therapeutic scalp massage. However, her forehead was swathed in blue cloth, and a tent of surgical fabric rose from her hairline, a barrier to unwanted eyes. At her crown, Catera worked, silent and focused. Point of fact, when she was in the OR, she was rarely otherwise, for she did not allow her personal life inside its sterile walls, scrubbing it away along with a layer of skin and soapy water, wishing it would so easily disappear down the drain. It always came back, and lately, it was not a welcomed return.

She would not think about the frustration, the fury, the helpless despair of loving a man who rejected love. Of loving a man so hardened by life that he could not, would not accept any semblance of softness or vulnerability. She would not think about the scars of the past that he only hinted at now and then, or the total bleakness of a future with one who viewed it as merely a roll of the dice. She was a professional. She would not think of these things. Why did love have to be war?

Unencumbered, she worked, occasionally throwing a glance at the surgical monitor overhead, which prominently displayed Mrs. Pizzo's brain to all eyes. Steady and focused, not even thinking of the man in the operating bay less than a wall away. Had she been listening, however, she probably could have heard his music.

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Oddly enough, you could hear music in the ER this morning, over and above the sounds of the intercoms and pagers and rattling carts. Someone's walkman, playing far too loud for its headphones, so that a tinny whine of melody pierced the noise, underscoring the business with the sound of many bees. But first and foremost, there were voices. Coughing, laughing, weeping and murmuring, orders being given, orders being followed, it was all there. A human orchestra, an urban cantata. To Dr. Robert Yeats, it was the most beautiful music there was. He swept open an orange curtain and stepped inside the exam room. "Keith?" Dr. Keith Wilkes turned slightly, revealing a frail, middle-aged man sitting nervously on an exam bed. "Mr. Rufus, this is Dr. Yeats. Mr. Rufus wants to see a surgeon. And since you are on ER rotation..." "Don't you qualify?" "I thought he might benefit from your rather... unique perspective." Yeats smiled. "He won't talk to you, will he?"

Wilkes' hard-edged glare spoke volumes. But he managed to control his obvious irritation and passed Yeats the clipboard. It was all but empty. Yeats cleared his throat. "How can I help you, Mr. Rufus?" Now, Rufus cleared his throat, his eyes pale and bloodshot and darting from physician to physician like a cornered animal. "Nothing... "Nothing? Are you certain?" Rufus looked away. "Well... it — it's kinda personal..." Yeats nodded. "Many people are uncomfortable discussing their bodies with strangers, Mr. Rufus. It's a completely normal, understandable reaction. But I want to assure you that both Dr. Wilkes and I are sensitive to that. We will be as careful with your emotional misgivings as we are with your physical problems. Isn't that right, Dr. Wilkes?" Wilkes' eyes were as hard as diamonds. "I'm very sensitive, Dr. Yeats." Rufus seemed to be sizing them up before he shrugged and lowered his gaze once again. "It — it's my thing..." "Your... thing?" "I think you're gonna have to cut it off." Yeats could not bring himself to look at Wilkes. Instead, he looked back at the chart in his hands. "Why do you think we're going to have to remove your penis, Mr. Rufus?"
"See! You don't believe me! I knew it! I knew you'd think I was crazy. Let me out of here—" "Mr. Rufus, I never said I didn't believe you —" "You're smiling."

"Oh. Sorry." He bit down hard on his molars, struggling valiantly to control the corners of his mouth. "Yes, it's a nasty habit I picked up in pre-school..." He could hear Wilkes behind him, not faring so well, threatening to burst into laughter at any moment. He took a deep, cleansing breath, placed the chart on the table and lowered himself next to Rufus on the bed. "Please, Mr. Rufus. I really want to help you."

Reluctantly, the nervous man began to speak. "It — it hurts when I go. Like a fire, or worse. And the cramps — they almost made me pass out. I — I haven't gone for days, and, and when I do, I know it's gonna kill me..." Yeats rose from the bed. "Please lie down, Mr. Rufus." Rufus did as he was told. Discreetly, the doctor folded the blue Chicago Hope exam gown over the thin abdomen and began to press down on various sites along the belly. "Tell me if and when any of this hurts, Mr. Rufus." "No, I told you, it only hurts when I g — OW!" Satisfied, Yeats pulled the gown back and Wilkes stepped up beside him. "I think I can take over from here, Bobby." "What? Wait, don't you gotta operate or nothin'?" Mr. Rufus seemed ready to explode with tension, but Yeats turned to him, this time allowing the smile full reign across his face.

"No, Mr. Rufus. I don't think we're going to have to operate. We're going to arrange for you to have some X-rays, and some blood and urine tests. Hopefully, these will confirm a diagnosis of kidney stones, which while extremely painful, are rarely fatal. There are a great many forms of treatment, some of which are holistic, and most of which do not include surgery. Dr. Wilkes can take it from here. If, that is, you feel comfortable with us so far."

Rufus nodded, tentatively at first, then more convincingly. "Yep. Yep, I think so. You guys are the best. My wife will be so pleased it don't have to come off..." "I'll check in on you later, Mr. Rufus." Yeats turned to his fellow physician, still grinning. "Do you need me for anything else, Dr. Wilkes?"

The irritation seemed to have returned, along with the diamond eyes. "No. That will be all, Dr. Yeats." "Because, I really think I could help you to get in touch to your sensitive side —" "Get, before I kick your sensitive ass." "I'm getting." Still smiling from ear to ear, Yeats slipped out from under the orange curtain and headed for the elevator. There was someone upstairs he wanted to see.

**************************************************************************************

"Tell me again, Phillip." Dr. Phillip Watters sighed for the third time. "Kate, please —"

Kate Austin grimaced and waved her hands at her long-suffering boss. "Phillip, I just really need to hear you say it, that's all. My life had been so stressed out lately and I just need to know that when I come back from NASA, that my job here is secure. Is that too much to ask?" "Have they notified you of any formal decision?" "Well, no... not officially..." "I see..." Watters nodded slowly and furrowed his brow. His hands were clasped behind his back, giving the impression that he was about to start pacing her office, deep in thought. It was a false impression. Watters rarely paced.
"Oh, Phillip, you can't seriously be considering keeping Cacaci on as Chief of Surgery, can you? I mean, the man's a joke! He can't even begin to approach my credentials, not to mention my skill in the OR —"
He swung around to face her. "Kate, the only thing I can assure you is that you will be head of Thoracic Medicine when you return. No one can take that away from you." Unless of course, the shuttle blows up on the launch pad, or cracks a fuel cell taking off, or burns to a cinder upon re- entry. Then, you won't be coming back, will you, and maybe Cacaci will have that job too —
Austin blinked several times. "What... what did you say?" "I said 'No one can take that away from you.' Kate, your position here is secure. What more can I say?" "It's not enough —" "It's all I can promise. It isn't solely my decision, after all." He regarded her for a long moment, her crestfallen face, her sagging shoulders, the beginnings of self-doubt written in fine lines across her forehead. It was as if he had snapped a spoke of a sleek, tightly-wound racing cycle. She could still run alright. But could she fly...?
His eyes softened. "Kate, if you do make the 'Heart in Space' Mission, you will be bringing yourself, and Chicago Hope, more honor than you can possibly imagine. Perhaps, just perhaps, Chief of Surgery will be too small a position for such a physician." Now, it was her turn to soften. "How do you always know what to say, Phillip?"He shrugged, smiling. "It's in my job description." Watters turned to leave. "Phillip?" "Yes?" "You don't think I'm going to... blow up on the launch pad or anything, do you?" He smiled his trademark 'non-committal' smile. "Now why would I think that?" And he closed the door behind him. Her office was quiet, save for the frantic beating of her heart.

She dropped herself behind her desk, and her head in her hands. Blow up on the launch pad... What was she thinking...? There was a knock at her door."Come in." A familiar red head peered around the doorway. "Dr. Austin." "Dr. Yeats." She could not help but smirk. "What can I do for you?" He closed the door behind him. "I need a consult." "For you or a patient?" "Alas, for me, I fear." "For you..." She placed her pen on the report she had been trying to write all morning, and laced her fingers under her chin. "Then you'll be wanting Pysch. Aaron's just down the hall..." "It's a heart problem." "I see." She shook her head, still smirking as he strolled across her office, moving ever closer, like a cat closing the gap on an unsuspecting canary. "And your preliminary diagnosis, Doctor?" "Bi-lateral conjunctive diverticulosis with severe haemodural veggie-itis." "Sounds serious." "Fatal, I'm afraid." "And it can't be treated with 'Funk Yoga'?" "Nope." He perched himself on the corner of her desk, leaning towards her over the reports. "Only gummy bears." "You know, I've heard rumors that those are made with animal gelatin."

"Well," leaning closer still, so that his face was only inches from hers, "Now you see my problem..." She swallowed hard. This weekend was still fresh in her memory, the taste of him still on her tongue... Sitting back in her chair, Austin lowered her eyes. A brief flash of confusion crossed his brow, then he too sat back, remaining casually perched on the corner of her desk. "How's your daughter?" "Sara's great. I took her home yesterday, and kept her home from school today. There's no real reason to, medically, but I figured, 'just keep her home, warm, safe'... you know, typical 'mom' stuff..." He nodded patiently, as if waiting for her continue. Expecting her to continue. She steeled her jaw. She hated this. "Bobby, we have to talk..." "Over lunch? They're serving vegetarian chili again today. Your intestines will love you for it." She smiled again, sadly. He sounded so hopeful. She started to open her mouth, but it felt wrong, her sitting behind her desk, him sitting on it. So she pushed herself up from the chair and began to pace, giving her long limbs something to do with all their excess nervous energy.

"Bobby... Do you think I'm going to blow up on the launch pad?" Suddenly, she felt the heat rush to her face. That was not was she had planned to say. She was obviously losing it, and what was worse, Bobby Yeats seemed to be enjoying the ride. "Sorry. Let me start again." She took a deep breath. "Bobby, this weekend... I think... I think it came too soon for me. The timing is all wrong. I'm being pulled in so many directions right now and I feel like I coming apart at the seams. My daughter needs me. NASA really wants me. There's all this training I have to undergo, weeks of dedicated work, total preparation, and then there's the mission itself... me, going into space... I still can't believe it..."

She swung around to look at him, still waiting so patiently on her desk. Most men would have interrupted by now, trying to spare their fragile egos the pain of rejection. But Bobby Yeats just sat there, waiting. She felt like a heel. "And don't think that I regret what happened this weekend, 'cause I don't. I wanted it as much as you did. Maybe more. And I'm not saying 'not ever', ...just... 'not right now.' Can you understand that? Am I making any sense at all?" He sat for what seemed like hours, his smile enigmatic, unreadable, and only just the slightest bit forced. Finally, he rose from the desk and walked over to her, catching her hands up in his and raising her knuckles to his lips. He kissed them. "You're making perfect sense. I do understand." With that, he let her go, pausing in the doorway long enough to look back only once. "If you do blow up on the launch pad, maybe you'll come back as a shooting star. I'll wait for you then." And he closed the door behind him, leaving her standing and watching it for several minutes longer.

**************************************************************************************

"Jack, we have to talk." "Later, Lisa." Lisa Catera folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the doorframe. "If I had a dollar for every time I've heard that." Jack McNeil did not even bother to look up from his Golf Digest. "How did your spinal restoration go?" "Fine." "My Stroke Reversal went well, too. Looks like Mrs. Pizzo will have pretty close to full mobility on her right side." "Good." "Do you want to grab some lunch from the cafeteria? It's vegetarian chili today..." "I hate that stuff." Helpless, she flailed her hands into the air. "And I hate this, Jack. If you don't love me anymore, if you don't want me, then at least have the decency to tell me." Still, he would not look up, but intently studied the page on high-powered titanium drivers. "You're overreacting, Lisa."

"Am I, Jack? Because I don't think I'm acting at all! That's my problem. I don't know what part I'm supposed to play!"
Without warning, he slammed the magazine closed with a bang, and she jumped. "Why do you have to play any part, Lisa?! Why does everything have to be a romance novel with you? Why can't two people just be who they are, and do what they do, without being graded by some invisible 'panel of judges' on the caliber of their performance?" Her brow furrowed in frustrated fury. "What the hell are you talking about, Jack?"

"I don't know, Lisa! But lately, all I get from you is complaints and criticism, and you know what? You have no right! You have no right to complain or criticize me. You're not my mother, Lisa! And you're sure as hell not my father. You say you love me, but you feel this — this need to change me, to make me better, or more suitable, or something. Like I'm not good enough the way I am. And you know what else I think, Lisa?" "No. What else do you think, Jack?"

He was like a dog on a scent, fierce and unwilling to let go. "I think you love the idea of love, or the concept of love, but the reality... the reality is another thing entirely." "Are you finished?" Her voice was as ice. After holding her stare, his eyes went back to the magazine. "You were the one who wanted to talk." "Thanks. That was very helpful. I'll see you at home." With that, she whirled and stomped out the door, his attention now fully focused on the perils of water hazards and sand-traps.

 **************************************************************************************

"I have to create some space." Dr. Diane Grad grinned as she dunked her teabag into a mugful of lukewarm water. "How do you do that, Bobby? I mean, it's the Law of Thermodynamics. 'Space' — by it's very definition — is a vacuum. It exists only because it does not exist. How can you aggressively create something that isn't really there?" He closed his eyes and folded his legs underneath him on the lounge sofa. "That's a very good question, Diane. Can I meditate on it and get back to you?" Still grinning, she backed out the door. "Take all the time, and space, that you need." The lounge was quiet for the first time in hours.

Bobby Yeats sighed, releasing his breath slowly and with considerable control. Breathing, cleansing, purifying — detoxification for the blood and the brain. Airflow, in and out, filling his lungs, leaving none in its wake. The answer to Grad's question came easily into his mind, and he tried to put it aside in favor of nothingness. The peace that accompanied a centered soul. But something she had said had troubled him.

Take all the time, and space, that you need. Kate was doing just that. Kate was taking Space. Not him. It felt a little like jealousy, but that was impossible, for he was beyond such petty emotions. He was certain of it. His self-awareness precluded self-centeredness. It was not the way. It was not his way. He truly understood her concerns. He truly was happy for her. And yet... He opened his eyes. And yet... Maybe he did not have to create space this morning. There was already enough emptiness inside. Suddenly, the door slammed open, and to his credit, he did not flinch. Lisa Catera bolted inside, throwing a hurried look around the room before sagging against the fridge and clapping her hands over her face. Her chest was heaving, deeply at first, growing more ragged by the moment before erupting into full-blown sobs. She had not seen him. "Lisa?" She jumped like a frightened hare. "Dammit, Bobby!" she wailed. "Don't do that to people!"

"Sorry. Nasty habit I picked up in Dharamsala. If you don't move, people don't see you. Very good technique for being ignored." She was not listening, for she had turned away to the counter, and seemed to be leaning against it for support. "What is it, Lisa?" Her voice was weak, trembling. "Nothing." "Hmm. I seem to have been having a lot of experience with that today." With a sigh, he gave up his quest for 'space', and pulled himself up from the sofa, crossing the room to lean beside her. "Is it Jack?" Slowly, she nodded. "We need to talk, but he just sits there, reading his stupid golf magazine." She turned her tear-stained face to him. "You know, sometimes I feel like a golf ball. Like he's painted my face on some puny little golf ball and he takes out his frustrations by whacking me from little hole to little hole. I try to hit the green, I really do, but I usually end up somewhere stuck deep in the rough." She tried to laugh. It was a sad, whimpering sound. "Pretty pathetic, isn't it?"

"I dunno. Probably, just par for the course." Now she did laugh, and this time, it sounded better. She smiled at him. "I'm sorry for all this, Bobby. It's not your problem." "And I'm sorry for you. But I feel sorry for him." Catera looked up. "Why? Why do you say that?" Yeats shrugged. "You love him and he can't see it." "He doesn't want it." "No, he just can't see it. He doesn't understand it. It is foreign to him, a little frightening perhaps, because he's never known it, or he has known it and he's lost it and it's hurt. Maybe both. And now, when he really has it, he doesn't recognize it and..." He sighed again, this time feeling the emptiness replaced by a strange heaviness. "...and he acts like an idiot, like a callous child, with all kinds of walls and defenses and barriers, and doesn't afford her the respect or the care that he has so eagerly sought out in the first place... He finds her love slipping through his fingers, without a clue why or how to stop it... Sad really..."

He fell quiet as his own words sank in. "How do you know all this?" Her eyes were luminous, dewy and red-rimmed. She looked like a wounded deer, a gazelle, a swan... "Because, because he's a fool, just like me..." She was so close, so fragile. He wiped her tears. She did not look away. He stroked her smooth cheek. She did not move. He bent down to kiss her. She met him with trembling lips. And at that exact moment, Jack McNeil came through the door. "Is Lisa... in... here..." Catera gasped and pulled out of the embrace. "Ohh... Jack..." "Ohh... boy," said Yeats. McNeil disappeared like a bullet, Catera hot on his heels. Yeats sighed one last time before heading out after them both. "Yeah. Today, it's just Par for the Course..."

To be continued in 'Playing Through'

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