Chapter 192: The "Bear" Parent
Phoebe and Ethan agreed to meet over the weekend at Central Perk.
To be honest, Ethan was looking forward to finally meeting the whole gang.
There was one question he especially wanted to ask them in person:
How do you people have so much free time to spend every single day hanging out in a coffee shop?
But the weekend was still a few days away.
For now, the young doctor's daily routine continued as usual.
That morning, the clinic was unusually busy.
Not the kind of chaos where patients were lined up out the door—but rather a string of minor emergencies that all seemed to arrive at exactly the same time.
Someone had sliced a finger while cooking.
Someone had twisted an ankle.
A child with a fever was somehow still bursting with energy.
Before noon had even arrived, Helen was already checking the clock repeatedly and had no choice but to stop accepting new morning appointments.
Ethan picked up his pace.
Even with the Holy Light, he could feel himself starting to fall behind.
Not because the treatments were difficult...
But because before every treatment, he had to ask questions, explain everything, and convince both patients and their families that what he was doing was perfectly reasonable.
A thought gradually surfaced in his mind.
A doctor capable of creating miracles... was spending most of his time hiding those miracles.
The next patients to enter were a family of four.
The young parents looked visibly anxious, carrying a little boy who couldn't have been more than two years old.
Wrapped in a thin blanket, the child's face was pale, his brows tightly knit in discomfort.
Leading the family was his grandmother.
She was in her early sixties, her gray hair neatly pinned up, carrying herself with the unmistakable confidence of someone thinking, Let me handle this.
Ethan was familiar with that type.
The person who spent the most time caring for a child often understood the child better than the parents—and usually spoke with the most authority.
"What seems to be the problem?" Ethan asked.
"His stomach," the grandmother answered immediately.
"He started fussing this morning. Every time someone picks him up, he cries."
The child whimpered softly in his mother's arms.
The sound wasn't loud, but the discomfort was obvious.
Ethan motioned for them to sit and began the examination.
He palpated the abdomen, observed the child's reactions, and asked about vomiting, fever, and bowel movements.
The parents answered while the grandmother constantly added details, speaking rapidly.
"Has he eaten anything this morning?" Ethan asked, looking up.
"No," the grandmother replied without the slightest hesitation.
Her answer was immediate and confident.
"Nothing at all?" Ethan confirmed.
"No. He wasn't feeling well this morning, so I didn't let him eat."
The parents exchanged a glance but remained silent.
Ethan noted "No food intake" in the medical chart.
He continued.
"Has he ever had anything like this before?"
"No."
"Any medication allergies?"
The grandmother shook her head.
"None."
Again, she answered with complete certainty while the parents quietly accepted her statements.
Ethan wrote down his preliminary diagnosis:
Suspected functional intestinal discomfort—intestinal spasms.
It was a very common pediatric condition.
At that age, a child's intestinal nervous system was still immature.
Minor irritation, emotional stress, or even a disrupted routine could trigger sudden, painful intestinal contractions.
Ethan glanced at the grandmother and ultimately decided not to use the Holy Light.
If all a doctor had to do was touch the child's stomach and the pain magically disappeared, it could easily give caregivers the false impression that they could handle similar situations themselves at home.
Instead, he chose a conventional treatment.
A low-dose antispasmodic medication to relax the abnormal smooth-muscle contractions and gradually calm the overactive intestinal reflexes.
It was considered extremely safe in pediatrics.
No anesthesia.
No painkillers.
There was only one requirement—
The child had to have an almost empty stomach.
Because antispasmodic medication temporarily altered gastrointestinal motility.
If liquid or semi-liquid food was still present in the stomach, the combined effect could easily trigger reflux and cause a sudden increase in intestinal pressure.
Instead of relieving discomfort, it could leave a young child suffering from severe abdominal pain and violent nausea.
After confirming once more that the chart read "No food intake," Ethan began the treatment.
For the first few minutes, everything proceeded normally.
The child merely frowned slightly without resisting.
The mother visibly relaxed, gently patting her son's back.
Then...
something changed.
The child suddenly curled up, his tiny body tensing violently.
It wasn't a normal reflex—it was an unmistakably abnormal spasm.
His little face flushed bright red before draining of color the next second, and his breathing immediately became ragged.
"What's happening?" the mother asked instinctively, turning to Ethan.
The child burst into tears.
Not the whiny cries of a frightened toddler, but sharp, panicked screams filled with pain and terror.
Ethan's heart sank.
He immediately bent down and examined the boy again.
The child cried even harder, flailing his tiny hands while his abdomen became visibly rigid.
"T-This doesn't look right..." the father said, his voice tightening.
Ethan's mind raced.
This was no ordinary intestinal irritation.
He looked up at the grandmother.
"Are you absolutely sure he didn't eat anything this morning?"
The grandmother froze.
"...Well, not exactly nothing."
After a brief hesitation, she added, "I only gave him a few spoonfuls of oatmeal."
"It was very thin."
She hurried to explain herself.
"That doesn't really count as eating, does it?"
"It was just something warm. I didn't want him feeling uncomfortable on an empty stomach."
Suppressing the anger rising inside him, Ethan asked calmly,
"What time did you feed him?"
"A little after seven."
Ethan glanced at the clock.
It was now ten-thirty.
Nowhere near a safe fasting interval.
The child was still crying, and his breathing was becoming increasingly erratic.
There wasn't much time left.
He couldn't afford to waste it arguing.
Looking at the parents, Ethan spoke in a firm, serious voice.
"Your son's reaction is outside the normal range."
"I'm going to treat him immediately, but I need all of you to step outside first."
He pressed the call button, asking Helen to escort the three adults out of the examination room.
The grandmother looked reluctant, but under the parents' insistence, she eventually left.
The moment the door closed, Ethan raised his hand.
Holy Light.
As the warm radiance descended, it was as though an invisible hand gently quieted the child's cries.
His breathing immediately steadied.
The rigid muscles throughout his body gradually relaxed.
Within seconds, the panicked wailing faded into soft, intermittent sobs.
A short while later...
Silence.
The entire process had taken less than a minute.
Ethan called the family back inside.
The child lay quietly in his mother's arms, eyes half-closed.
He looked exhausted, but the pain was gone.
"He's all right now," Ethan said.
The mother nodded, her voice hoarse with relief.
"Thank you, Doctor... he's so much better."
The father let out a long, trembling sigh.
The grandmother stood nearby, her face noticeably pale.
"I... I thought that didn't count as eating."
She spoke quietly, sounding more confused than defensive.
Ethan didn't respond.
He simply finished the consultation, prescribing a gentle medication suitable for a young child's digestive system.
He offered no lecture to either the parents or the grandmother.
Once everything was complete, he let them leave.
Instead of calling in the next patient immediately, Ethan remained seated, taking a moment to collect himself.
Helen entered quietly, setting a cup of coffee and a small cupcake on his desk.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
Ethan nodded.
Helen studied him for a moment, chose not to press further, and quietly left the room.
Ethan had always believed that overbearing, impossible caregivers—the kind people jokingly called "bear parents" or "bear grandparents"—were a problem unique to certain places.
Today reminded him otherwise.
Whether it was grandparents raising children...
Or elderly people refusing to follow medical instructions...
It seemed to be the same everywhere.
The reason he hadn't lost his temper wasn't because he wasn't angry.
It was because he knew anger wouldn't accomplish anything.
If witnessing their grandson nearly suffer a serious complication wasn't enough to leave a lasting impression...
Then no amount of lecturing from him would make a difference.
After finishing the cupcake, the weight pressing on Ethan's chest finally eased.
He took a deep breath, gathered himself, pressed the call button once more—and welcomed his next patient
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