To Do No Harm
Posted on January 30th, 1998 by Brooke Dolan

Brooke Dolan tossed and turned under the covers, unable to find a comfortable position, or for that matter, any sleep. Finally she sat up in bed and threw the sheets to the floor. “Lights.” She stood and began pacing her room, counting steps from one wall to the other. She could’ve easily injected herself with a mild sedative — doctor’s prerogative, but she’d already used one each night for the past eight days. Besides, it might make the insomnia go away, but not the nightmares. What’s your problem? she asked herself. What’s wrong, Brookie? Her father had often asked her that when she was a child, anytime she’d come to him with a frown or a scowl on her face. Then he’d smile and gently ruffle her hair, and she’d smile back, unable to stay upset for more than a few minutes. Even when she was a teenager, and went through regular mood swings almost hourly, her father could be counted on to be patient and understanding. He always had an inexplicable way of making all her problems fade away. But Daddy’s not here right now, Brookie. You’re on your own, and you need to face up all by yourself.

Brooke sighed morosely. The sleeplessness had started over two weeks ago. It had only been within the past week or so that she’d kept a hypospray by her bed, just in case, and that had basically been a last resort. She was trained extensively in psychology, but she didn’t know how to counsel herself. Her tempestuous feelings were threatening to engulf and overwhelm her. And she had no idea how to stop the cycle …

Brooke sat down at her desk and began reviewing her personal and medical logs for the past month. She was generally pretty good about keeping her logs up to date, although she’d been slipping the past couple of weeks. She opened the file containing the official medical report on Senior Lieutenant Kang’s surgery and the successive follow-up on recovery. The file detailed how Brooke and Ensign Yanus had researched together for dozens of hours in preparation, reading countless reports, journals, and assorted files on the genotronic procedure. Brooke vaguely recalled the details of the surgery, through a fog, and shook her head in disbelief that they’d managed to pull it off so successfully, considering that that type of procedure was almost completely out of each of their fields of expertise, and they’d had no training to prepare them at all. That too had been a sleepless week, at least for her, because she was so anxious about the procedure. Kang was a valued member of the crew, and a Klingon to boot. If she’d failed … she shuddered a bit at what might have happened. Her captain, her crew, they would have been so disappointed in her, and not only that … but she would have destroyed the life of a proud and honorable warrior. She’d been apprehensive about the risks, but had been talked into it by Captain Blackthorne, among others. And after all her worrying, all her stress, they’d succeeded. Kang’s recovery would be slow, and somewhat uncomfortable, but he was definitely going to regain nearly, if not all of his mobility. She was already certain she’d seen him walking once or twice, although she was too distracted to take much notice of it at the time … which brought her right back to her thoughts from before. She tried to shake everything off, but her mind was a wreck, her emotions an incoherent jumble. Dammit! The surgery was a success, Kang’s walking around the ship, sickbay’s functioning well, no major crises on board. Why can’t I sleep?

Brooke continued reading. Boring medical reports. A few casualties from a skirmish weeks ago. Materials and supplies requistions. Commendations for officers. Nothing out of the ordinary on the professional end of her life. But I already know that. Whatever’s bugging me has nothing to do with my job, but it’s unquestionably affecting my performance at work. That was undeniable. She’d been rude, coarse, harsh, demanding, and simply bitchy to her entire medical staff. They had gone from curiousity to concern to fear to loathing. She’d alienated an entire department. Especially the nurses, which was turning into a serious problem. If she couldn’t rely on her staff … No. It’s the other way around. They can’t rely on me.

Sighing again, she tried to dismiss the depression that was threatening her mind, much like a tension headache at the base of her skull. She turned from medical logs to personal ones, desperately searching for a clue, some insight into where she’d taken a wrong turn … Unfortunately, no one thing jumped out at her. She read her words for the past month, twenty or so entries. They showed a progressive decline in her attitude, an unsettled kind of feeling in her thoughts, but only symptoms, no definitive causes. She picked up a PADD and threw it against the wall, letting a stifled scream of frustration escape her lips. I’m a doctor, dammit! I’ve examined millions of symptoms, and diagnosed thousands of maladies! I’ve always been able to determine the cause of an illness or injury, even if I’ve known I couldn’t remedy it. … So why can’t I even figure out what’s wrong with myself? She’d rarely felt so powerless about something, and certainly not for many years. She could feel her control of her own thoughts and feelings, of her very life, slipping through her grasp. And if there was one thing Brooke Dolan hated more than anything, it was losing control.

The sound of a PADD slamming down on her desk startled Brooke so suddenly that she nearly fell backward out of her chair. Blinking, she looked around. Had she been sleeping? At work? She glanced up, trying to force the image looming over her to come into focus. But before she could make it out, a disproving voice issued forth in a low growl. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Brooke squeezed her eyes shut tight. I know that voice. It’s … it’s … “Look, Dolan. I don’t give a damn if you wanna lose sleep and mope around the ship and confine yourself to quarters. But so help me God, if you cause a mutiny in the medical department, I’ll …”

“Yanus?” she mumbled, squinting.

“What?” The figure shook its head in disbelief. “No, damn you. It’s Seamus. Blackthorne. … Your captain. Remember? Or have you become too self-absorbed to discern your own commanding officer?”

Brooke summoned all of her energy to stagger to attention and focus on the captain. “Uh, no. Of course not, sir. I just — that is — I was — ”

“You were sleeping.” The captain’s image sharpened gradually, bringing into focus the stern look on his face to match the disgust in his voice. “On duty. You know that’s not only professionally unacceptable in any Starfleet position, especially a CMO, but it’s also punishable as the captain sees fit. I don’t know what your problem is lately, but Commander Stecker and I have received a sudden influx of requests for transfer … from your department.”

Brooke rubbed her hands across her face and through her hair. If she’d had the energy, she would have defended herself, maybe even yelled. But she was just too tired. “I don’t know if you’re not dealing well with work-related stress, or if you were promoted too quickly. Perhaps I was mistaken in placing my confidence in your abilities. But despite your talents and intelligence, you are not irreplaceable, especially when your words and actions are causing a serious problem with my officers.” She stood stone-still, unable to come up with any kind of response to the captain’s harsh admonition. “If you’re having difficulties of a personal nature, I expect you to keep them as such — personal. They are not to interfere with your duties as Chief Medical Officer, is that understood?” Again, she could not reply. “And,” he said, the glare in his eyes softening somewhat, “if you can not do that, then perhaps you need to come see me, so we can work something out.” He put a strong arm on her shoulder. “Together.” With that, he turned and exited her office, and as soon as the doors shut behind him, she collapsed in her chair, exhausted.

Shutting her eyes, she tried to clear her head, and her heart, the way she’d taught herself years ago at the Academy … before she’d joined Starfleet Medical, back when she knew she wanted to be a doctor more than anything, and made the decision that one day she would be, no matter what it took. She’d done well at the Academy, but it had never come easily, she always had to work, harder than anyone else it seemed. And the only way to do good work was to be completely focused on it. She’d found that the best way to focus was to concentrate so intensely on something that was important to her, that it blocked out everything distracting. Most of the time, that focus was on the Hippocratic Oath. Eyes still shut, Brooke recited what she knew about the oath. “Mistakenly attributed to Hippocrates, the Greek healer, but actually written thousands of years ago by an unknown practitioner of ancient medicine, the text of the oath itself is split into two major parts. The first half outlines the duties of the physician to pupils of medicine and the obligations of students to their teachers. In the second part the physician swears to administer only those treatments which are beneficial, according to his judgment and abilities; to forbear from causing hurt or harm; and to live an exemplary personal and professional life.”

But this time, the ancient words brought her no comfort. I’ve failed, she thought miserably. On all of those counts, I’ve failed. I’ve neglected my duties as a teacher of medicine, I’ve disregarded my obligations to those serving me, as well as my obligations to those I serve. And, she thought, laughing out loud, there certainly hasn’t been anything “exemplary” about my personal or professional life recently. But worst of all … “to forbear from causing hurt.” The words echoed in her mind. Most commonly they were translated simply as “Do no harm.” Worst of all, I didn’t even get that part right. Not for me, not for anyone … do no harm.

I’m so sorry, Captain. I’m sorry for letting you down, for letting everyone down. She tried willing her thoughts to him, she had to let him know somehow how she was feeling, why she was acting in such a horrendous way, even if she couldn’t explain it herself. But she wasn’t a telepath, so her thoughts couldn’t reach him, and she wasn’t an empath, so she couldn’t sense the reasons behind her own fear and distress and self-doubt. But I know someone who might be able to … Shannon Yanus. He’d recently become something more than simply her assistant. He’d become her friend, and occasional confidante. Even if she couldn’t talk to anyone else on the ship, she knew she could talk to him. And maybe, just maybe, he could help her work through whatever was going on with her. Seamus’ last word resounded in her thoughts … together.