Hotshot Doc(10)
He knows what he’s doing. The second floor is where the hand surgeons operate. I’d be assisting on outpatient carpal tunnel procedures day in and day out, and I would bash my head against a hard object within the first few days.
As the day progresses and the deadline to make my decision looms closer and closer, I try to mostly ignore his words of wisdom, but I can’t. He’s striving to do better, to be better. Right. That’s all well and good, but Kirt had to pop TUMS like they were candy while he was working for him. Word on the street is the guy’s currently in therapy for PTSD.
Still, a small part of me wonders if Kirt might have been exaggerating. It occurs to me that I’ve let the rumors about Dr. Russell taint my perception of him past the point of logic. I mean, most of them aren’t even believable. Making device reps cry? Firing surgical assistants in the middle of a procedure? That one time he was supposedly so mean to a nurse she sued the company for subjecting her to a hostile work environment and won the case? According to urban legend, she lives on a private island near St. Barts. Even I can admit that’s probably unlikely.
So, I decide to do some investigating of my own and carve out time to watch Dr. Russell operate. That way, I’ll know exactly what I could be dealing with—except, when I arrive at his surgery after I wrap things up with Dr. Lopez on Monday, the viewing gallery is so packed I can’t even make it past the door. The next day, I try to shove my way in, and one particularly overzealous fellow elbows me in the ribs and rudely suggests I should get there earlier if I want a good view. I resist the urge to stomp on his foot.
On Wednesday, I finally catch a break. Dr. Lopez’s case gets canceled so I take advantage of the opportunity and show up to Dr. Russell’s gallery as early as possible. I’m the first one there. I have snacks and a front-row seat. I also have mace in my purse just in case some stupid medical student thinks they deserve this spot more than I do.
Within a few minutes, the gallery fills around me. There are conversations about the planned case and idle chatter about some party they were all at last night, but I sit quietly, talking to no one, waiting for the show to begin. The viewing window stretches from one side of the room to the other, almost like a movie screen. We’re up on the second floor looking down on the auxiliary staff trickling into the operating room.
Exactly on schedule, down to the minute, the patient—a young boy—is wheeled in and transferred to the operating table. After the anesthesia kicks in, there’s a flurry of activity as nurses and scrub techs unpack the instrument sets. Sterile trays are arranged and placed around the operating table and then, once the drape is covering everything but the center of the patient’s back, Hotshot makes his entrance.
The swinging door is pushed open and Dr. Russell steps in, arms bent at ninety degrees as water drips to the floor.
A hush falls around me.
My gut clenches as if I’m watching an Olympic athlete enter the arena. Everyone in the gallery and everyone in the operating room is laser-focused on him. His presence is larger than life. He’s larger than life. It’s not necessarily because of his size, though he is tall and broad-shouldered. It’s more in the way he carries himself, the defiant tilt of his chin.
With his surgical mask and protective glasses on, his chiseled jaw, intriguing mouth, and piercing blue gaze are all out of sight. If I’m honest, though, I could close my eyes and easily visualize them.
A nurse rushes over with a sterile towel so he can dry his hands off. Then she holds up a gown so he can push his arms through. It’s tied behind his back and his gloves are carefully added next. It’s funny, really—with all the surgical gear on, he should look like an amorphous blob, but in reality, he’s as formidable as I’ve ever seen him.
It’s the hair. Just like with Dr. McDreamy, a lot of his power lies in those short, slightly curly brown locks. Their allure cannot be dulled by that light blue scrub cap.
The beginning of every surgery always starts with a roll call—or as we call it, a time-out. It’s a way to ensure everyone in the room is on the same page and surgeons don’t accidentally operate on the wrong limb—or worse, the wrong person. Scary, but…it happens.
The neuromonitoring tech sitting at a computer in the corner of the room checks in, then the circulating nurse and the device rep. They continue to go around, and I try to imagine myself standing there beside him, proudly proclaiming to be Bailey Jennings, Dr. Russell’s surgical assistant, and a shiver runs down my spine. I’m not convinced I’m up to the task.
Today, he has a resident beside him at the operating table. Kirt’s two weeks has expired and apparently Dr. Russell has yet to find a replacement.
The anesthesiologist stands up and speaks confidently. “We’re doing a general with an endotracheal tube. Antibiotics have been administered. We have two units of blood available.”
Then all eyes fall back on Dr. Russell as it’s his turn to address the room. His booming voice easily reaches us in the gallery and, like everything else, it inspires awe. Also, if I’m honest, a teensy bit of fear.
“Our patient is Jeffrey Lewis. Eleven years old. He’s here today for a hemivertebra excision. He also has hardware placed in L3 and L4 from a previous procedure. We’ll be removing and replacing that hardware. Does everyone agree?”
They do.
The anesthesiologist declares the surgical start time. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, Dr. Russell is handed a ten blade. It glints under the bright lights of the operating room. He takes a deep breath and then, determinedly, he begins. Scalpel meets skin.