Hotshot Doc(20)

It’s not the worst thing a surgeon has said to me, I know that, but it’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. I’m not good at taking criticism. I thrive on positive feedback and try my hardest to be a good employee. I don’t like getting in trouble, and I definitely don’t like being scolded in front of my peers.

It’s too much. Maybe I can take one shot or even two, but I can’t stand in front of a freaking firing squad and pretend like I’m not getting destroyed. Worse, every person in this operating room has a front-row seat to my humiliation. I feel everyone’s eyes on me, judging. I know they feel bad for me, and then, because my brain loves me, it chirps up and reminds me there’s a whole slew of people up in the viewing gallery too. Wonderful.

I think of all the effort I put into preparing for this case. I didn’t want to let Dr. Russell down. I wanted to be better than all the failed assistants who came before me, but it turns out I’m worse.

I’m grateful for my protective glasses as a tear works its way down my cheek. It soaks into the corner of the blue mask covering my mouth and I scream at myself to get it together. Just like with baseball, there’s no crying in surgery.

Stop! Stop! STOP!

Except, the floodgates are now open, and sure, I’m not sobbing, but my eyes are welling with tears enough that I have to blink quickly to clear them away so they don’t obscure my vision. That’s just what I need: a tear dripping from my face onto the surgical field. I would melt into the floor.

In all, I think I’m doing an okay job of hiding my distress by spacing out a few necessary sniffs so they can be chalked up to nothing more than allergies, but I’m not.

“Do I need to have someone relieve you?” Dr. Russell asks.

I shake my head, knowing if I speak, an errant sob will sneak out. I won’t give either of them the satisfaction.

Dr. Collins is staring at me. He knows I’m crying, and his opinion of me has hit an all-time low. My eyes narrow on him, daring him to call me out.

“I need you to communicate,” Dr. Russell says harshly. “My attention is on my patient. If you need to be excused then say so.”

I want to scream at him to leave me alone, but I can’t. Instead, I take his angry, sharp words and use them to evaporate my remaining tears.

“I’m fine,” I bite out with a shockingly steady voice. “Would you like me to ask Kendra to start preparing tray three?”

“Yes.”

That’s all. No Thank you for being efficient and attentive even as two overbearing surgeons berate you in front of all of your coworkers. No Thank you for salvaging this situation as best you could even though I’ve put so much pressure on you that you’re liable to have a nervous breakdown.

Though they’re both treating me like I am, I’m not an idiot. Just like Dr. Russell requested on Friday, I memorized every step of this surgery. I know every detail of Fiona’s case. I know her spine curves in a particularly difficult way, which is likely why Dr. Collins flew in to assist. I know why he’s chosen to shave off that specific section of vertebrae in her lumbar spine and why it’s imperative that Dr. Russell gets it exactly right, down to the millimeter. I know that even though this has been the most trying, worst day I’ve ever had in the operating room, difficulties aside, I’m enjoying the case. I’m completely enthralled by Dr. Russell’s skill and expertise, the detail with which he performs this surgery. It’s like I’m standing right beside Einstein as he works through an equation or Muhammad Ali as he prepares to enter the ring.

Dr. Collins is completely unnecessary.

Dr. Russell is single-handedly repairing this girl’s spine, and in a few hours, when she wakes up and asks her parents how the surgery went, they’ll be able to look her in the eye and tell her Dr. Russell did it. He gave her the very thing she wants the most: a normal childhood.

It’s unfortunate I screwed up so badly.

I overslept. I ruined my one shot. Then I cried at the operating table. CRIED. I might as well pack my metaphorical bags; I get that.

Near the end of the surgery, I glance up at the clock and see that it’s not yet noon. Dr. Collins will make his flight. Dr. Russell made up for the lost time. I’ve never been more relieved. He tells me to close and dress the sutures and then leaves the room with Dr. Collins on his tail.

I’m the only one left at the operating table. I have never taken such a deep, clearing breath in my life.

I love this part. I’m good at it. My hand is steady and my work is clean. Every suture is placed with care and attention to minimize Fiona’s scar.

When I’m done, Kendra compliments my technique, placing her hand on my shoulder as I strip off my gloves and toss them in the trash.

“Usually Dr. Russell is picky about sutures. You did a good job.”

I half-laugh, half-grunt. “Yeah? And what about the rest of it?”

She laughs. “Let’s just say it was fun while it lasted, right?”





I’m eating alone in the lounge like a loser. I have an untouched bag of pretzels and an apple. I’m trying to force a sandwich into my mouth, but it’s too dry. My body is using all my fluids for tear production. Every bite is a struggle. What I really want to do is sling the stupid sandwich against the wall—or better yet, at Dr. Russell’s head.

“There she is!” someone calls from the doorway, and I glance up to see a group of surgical assistants walk into the lunchroom. We always eat lunch together. They’re my work friends, the people who laughed when I drew the devil horns on Dr. Russell.