Chapter 1027: Startling Mundane Matters (Part Four) (Patreon)

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"Don't rush, take a sip of water first, and we'll talk slowly," Schiller said as he walked to the nearby table and poured a glass of water for Strange.

Normally, Schiller, Strange, and Loki were more like frenemies. Whenever they gathered, aside from bringing some human shock to the Cosmic Gods, they often bantered with each other.

There was a reason for this dynamic. The three of them represented different factions, each tangled in its own complexities beyond easy explanation.

Loki's Asgard was drowning in debts, Strange's Kamar-Taj was far from tranquil, and Schiller's side had its fair share of human heroes and their antics. With these three masters of banter coming together, any sneeze from a key figure on either side could trigger a tsunami.

But now, Schiller felt the need to show concern for Strange because his condition seemed dire.

Strange was a neat freak with a touch of obsession. Like most surgeons, he had exacting standards for his appearance and demeanor, unwilling to appear anything less than immaculate. Even after becoming the Sorcerer Supreme, this hadn't changed. While the Ancient One led with a laissez-faire style, Strange was meticulous, down to micromanaging every apprentice's daily routine.

Yet now, Strange's suit buttons were askew, likely due to trembling hands failing to fasten them properly. His tie knot was neat, but it seemed he struggled to fit it inside his suit jacket, causing wrinkles to form around the edges.

His usually pristine cufflinks were undone, not to mention the dark circles concealed beneath his glasses and the fine lines around his mouth from frowning.

This disheveled appearance was nothing out of the ordinary for Stark, who often stayed up late conducting experiments and eschewed formal attire. But on Strange, it was highly abnormal.

Schiller knew both he and the proud Strange were meticulous about their appearance. If something could make them look disheveled, it had to be a significant event.

Strange picked up the glass Schiller handed him, but his hand trembled, causing water to splash onto the desktop. This worsened his discomfort, and Schiller keenly observed his symptoms. He swiftly retrieved a cup with a lid and straw meant for psychiatric patients from a cabinet.

However, Strange seemed triggered, slapping the table with his palm, "I'm not a psychiatric patient! Why are you giving me a safety cup? I can take care of myself! I can..."

He reached for a regular water glass on the table, but his tremors intensified, causing him to fling the glass away. It landed with a crash, shattering into pieces and spilling water.

Furrowing his brows, Schiller realized he had underestimated Strange's condition. It wasn't just an anxiety attack; it seemed to hint at signs of bipolar disorder. His outburst was sudden, and his behavior shifted too quickly.

As Schiller turned to fetch cleaning supplies to tidy up the spilled water, he noticed Strange bending down to pick up the glass shards. He rushed over and stopped him, and Strange seemed to realize something, covering his mouth with his hand and leaning on the table, breathing deeply.

Once Schiller finished tidying up, he poured another glass of water for Strange but didn't hand it to him. Instead, he placed it between them. Strange's attention was quickly drawn to the calm surface of the water, and he seemed to calm down somewhat.

"Tell me what's going on," Schiller prompted.

"My father's health is deteriorating..." Strange's voice trembled slightly, but then he gritted his teeth, "But he deserves it! He smokes, drinks excessively, and does drugs, spending his days in the casino!"

Strange took a deep breath, his tone turning sorrowful, "But it's not entirely his fault. My mother passed away, my sister got injured, I left home for education, and my younger brother is rebellious. He has too much pent-up frustration but refuses to see a psychologist because he thinks he's not sick..."

"But in reality, both physically and mentally, he's very ill. Alcohol has corroded his brain, nicotine has damaged his lungs. Colleagues in the medical field say his lungs are beyond saving; he smoked too many cigarettes and resorted to marijuana to numb himself when the pain set in..."

Strange fell silent abruptly, transitioning from rapid disclosure of his family's secrets to complete silence, like a machine gun running out of bullets.

"How does he see you?" Schiller asked a crucial question, knowing it might upset Strange but needing to ask because it could be key to understanding his condition.

"He'd rather rot at home, let his lungs shrink to two-thirds their function, than come see his son who works at a major hospital in New York! I'm his eldest son!" Another punch landed on the desktop as Strange continued, "Those damn country doctors lied to him! They must have told him he's fine, which is why he let it get this bad. I knew it, those ignorant, stupid fools..."
"Stephen," Schiller called his name, and Strange fell silent. Schiller then turned to him and asked, "Can you give me the telephone number of the doctor at your father's clinic?"

"I think there might have been a lack of calm communication between you and them before. This might have caused you to miss some details about your father's illness. If you can't control your emotions, I can make the call for you and inquire carefully. Who knows, there might be a breakthrough?"

"What's the point of asking them?!" Strange lowered his voice and roared, "They're just a bunch of incompetent drifters! They chose to work in a small clinic because they couldn't get into a big medical college!"

"Oh! I see!" Strange made a strange noise with his mouth and continued, "I know what they'll say, 'We just have different roles, but we're all saving lives. You're no better than me,' damn it!"

"These fools refuse to acknowledge their medical incompetence! Why should I bother to have a rational conversation with them? They don't know anything! A bunch of street punks who attended a few days of training and dare to call themselves primary care doctors?!"

Strange's arrogance was evident in his words, but he indeed had the credentials to back it up. After graduating from New York Medical College, he swiftly entered Columbia University and New York Presbyterian Hospital at a record pace.

To put it simply for those unaware of his prowess, in the world of surgical medicine, Strange was hailed as a "gift from God." There was no neurosurgery he couldn't flawlessly perform. In the realm of neurosurgery, and even in the entire surgical field, he was undoubtedly the best.

"Do you remember our first meeting?" Schiller smiled as he looked at Strange. "It was at a consultation. The night before, I was late because I drank too much, and you said psychologists are charlatans..."

Strange, who was previously angrily cursing other doctors, suddenly paused, then awkwardly turned his head away. Schiller continued, "But I don't blame you because I know that's how surgeons are. Surgeons simply don't understand medicine; you only know how to perform surgery."

Like a cat whose tail was stepped on, Strange almost jumped out of his chair. "I graduated from New York Medical College at a record pace..."

"You're foolish, arrogant, narrow-minded, have a bad temper, and overly conceited..."

"What did you say?!!!!"

"But you perform surgeries excellently."

"Oh... thank you."

Just as Strange was about to regain his smug expression, he froze again, looking at Schiller. Schiller wore a mischievous smile and said, "See, you don't actually care whether you understand medicine or not; you only care if your surgeries are successful."

Before Strange could speak, Schiller took a sip of water from the nearby glass and said, "But that's normal. Surgeons don't have prescribing rights, nor do they need to perform examinations and anesthesia. All you need to do is perform surgeries. Everyone has their own responsibilities, right?"

"You see psychologists as charlatans because comforting patients and prescribing psychiatric drugs are not within your scope of duties. I think surgery isn't difficult because I've never been on an operating table."

"Those rural doctors are the same. Their duties don't include comforting patients or performing surgeries. They only handle simple examinations. If there's a case beyond their abilities, all they can do is refer the patient to a big hospital."

Just like that, using himself as an example, Schiller explained that surgeons, psychologists, and rural primary care doctors all had different responsibilities, and everyone only did what was within their scope. After all, even the best surgeon, like Strange, couldn't prescribe medication; they couldn't even prescribe.

Based on this reality, Strange could only acknowledge that everyone had different responsibilities, and their advice could be listened to.

So, with reluctance, Strange opened the contacts on his mobile phone, found the telephone number of the doctor he had contacted before, and sent it to Schiller. Schiller didn't immediately call but sent a text message first. After a while, the doctor called back.

"Oh, hello, yes, that's right, I sent it. I'm Mr. Strange's psychologist. I think he might have been rude to you earlier, so I apologize on his behalf. His mental state isn't very good right now..."

"Yes, I've worked at Presbyterian Hospital before and used to be his colleague. But rest assured, I'm not a surgeon. They don't understand anything other than surgery, do they?"

"Oh, you flatter me. I believe calm communication is something every normal adult should do."

"Yes, while treating Mr. Strange psychologically, I found he's very anxious about his father's condition. Since he didn't get many details from you during your previous irrational communication, I called to inquire about more details..."

Schiller hadn't even asked a question yet, but the doctor on the other end poured out all the information like a bean spill. Schiller started jotting down notes as he listened.

"Is that so? Symptoms started three years ago? Difficulty breathing, you say? May I ask, did you suggest he seek medical treatment at a major hospital? Yes, I know you probably did, but what about their attitude?"

"Yes, we all know Dr. Strange works at the best hospital in New York. Did old Mr. Strange not mention this to you? Did he mention his eldest son to you?"

Schiller, who was jotting down notes, could clearly see from the corner of his eye that Strange's arm muscles tensed instantly, and his breathing became faster. It seemed he both anticipated and feared this answer.

[Read at www.patreon.com/shanefreak, and thanks for the invaluable support!]

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Next Chapter>>Chapter 1028: Astonishing Mortals (Part Five)