Martin Whitly (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
not_as_i_do) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tramitem_log2020-07-29 10:28 pm
not_as_i_do) wrote in tramitem_log2020-07-29 10:28 pm
doctor I'm damaged
Who: Alec & Martin
What: Alec gets transferred to a new specialist...
When: July 29th
Where: Stuyvesant Cardiothoracic Suite in Manhattan
Rating/Warnings: It's Alec, there will be language. And discussion of internal organ stuff. We'll label anything else in the comment headers if it comes up.
The Stuyvesant Cardiothoracic Suite was nestled a few blocks away from its eponymous park, equidistant to the towering blue - and far more imposing - Beth Israel teaching hospital. From the outside, it looked like any other medical office in New York City, tucked into the a towering, relatively modern structure. A sign in the spartan, modern lobby directed patients to take the elevator to the second floor, and the elevator car smelled faintly of antiseptic and urban haste. But any trace of the stereotypical doctor's office disappeared the moment the patients entered. The waiting room was walled in glass, and had been situated to allow the most natural light in through the tall plate glass windows. A few comfortable chairs and loveseats ringed a coffee table, facing a flat-screen TV on the far wall. It was on low, currently showcasing that safe choice of waiting rooms everywhere - the home and garden channel. Underneath the soft volume of the television, anyone with keen enough hearing would be able to notice a white-noise machine thrumming diligently away at the end of the hallway which led to the nurse's station and Dr. Whitly's office.
What: Alec gets transferred to a new specialist...
When: July 29th
Where: Stuyvesant Cardiothoracic Suite in Manhattan
Rating/Warnings: It's Alec, there will be language. And discussion of internal organ stuff. We'll label anything else in the comment headers if it comes up.
The Stuyvesant Cardiothoracic Suite was nestled a few blocks away from its eponymous park, equidistant to the towering blue - and far more imposing - Beth Israel teaching hospital. From the outside, it looked like any other medical office in New York City, tucked into the a towering, relatively modern structure. A sign in the spartan, modern lobby directed patients to take the elevator to the second floor, and the elevator car smelled faintly of antiseptic and urban haste. But any trace of the stereotypical doctor's office disappeared the moment the patients entered. The waiting room was walled in glass, and had been situated to allow the most natural light in through the tall plate glass windows. A few comfortable chairs and loveseats ringed a coffee table, facing a flat-screen TV on the far wall. It was on low, currently showcasing that safe choice of waiting rooms everywhere - the home and garden channel. Underneath the soft volume of the television, anyone with keen enough hearing would be able to notice a white-noise machine thrumming diligently away at the end of the hallway which led to the nurse's station and Dr. Whitly's office.
