Hotshot Doc(4)
“You know they have a picture of Dr. Russell up in the staff lounge?” he continues, turning to the group with a shit-eating smirk on his face. “They added devil horns and a red tail. I’m thinking of asking one of them to give it to me so I can have it framed.”
I offer a wry smile. “As always, gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure.”
I wouldn’t bother with the doctors’ lounge at all, but the gourmet catering is usually pretty good and it saves me from having to worry about lunch. I pile up a plate with grilled salmon, sautéed vegetables, and a cheesy potato dish that has my mouth watering, and then I find a quiet table in the corner.
The lounge operates a lot like a high school cafeteria. NEMC is a private hospital that consists of fifty-four surgeons covering fifteen specialties. Each specialty has its own quirks.
Here’s how to tell them apart:
The beer-drinking sports fans? Those are the general orthopedic surgeons. They do their fellowship in sports medicine and they’ve never met a protein supplement they didn’t love.
The masochists, the men and women who enjoy being woken up at all hours so they can rush in and save the day? Those are the transplant surgeons.
If they like to hit on the nurses and tell everyone they make the most money, it’s a good chance they’re cardiothoracic surgeons.
The Ferrari drivers who want to be popular with the local celebrities, wear shiny suits, and do what we all refer to as “fake surgery”—plastic surgeons.
You catch my drift. We all have our idiosyncrasies, even me. I’m one part masochist, one part perfectionist. I have a little hero complex of my own and an ego that could fill this entire room, but it’s necessary. Who wants to put their kid’s spine in the hands of a simpering fool who buckles under pressure?
“Mind if I take a look?” Dr. Lopez asks.
I glance up from my plate to see him pointing to the files laid out in front of me.
I nod. “Go for it.” Then I think better of it and reach for the third one down—one from a particularly trying case I tackled last year. “Start with that one.”
He pulls out a chair opposite mine and sits down. “You intimidate Dr. Goddard. That’s why he acts like that.” I don’t reply. I didn’t sign up for a therapy session. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you, but he interviewed for the same fellowship as you and the program directors didn’t pick him.”
I muster up a half-interested hum then shove another bite of salmon in my mouth. He won’t succeed in convincing me that Dr. Goddard deserves my pity.
Dr. Lopez chuckles. “All right, I can see that you two won’t ever reach an understanding, so let’s focus on a different problem. How many surgical assistants have you run into the ground in the last year? Two? Three?”
Five, but I don’t correct him.
“I’ve had the same assistant for years and she’s great. She anticipates what I need in the operating room, she’s timely, and she’s sharp as a tack. She makes me a better surgeon. Do you catch my drift?”
I level him with a bored stare. He’s dangerously close to getting asked to leave my table. He might be one of the senior surgeons in this hospital, but he’s not my boss.
He trudges on, unmoved by the daggers I’m aiming at him. “You’re wasting your time training new assistants every few months. Your surgeries are hard enough without having someone green by your side. Think of how much more you could do with a team you trust.”
I’m annoyed to realize he does have a valid point, but it’s nothing new. I’ve come to this same conclusion myself. The problem is, I’ve yet to find an assistant who could last longer than a few weeks.
Chapter 3
BAILEY
Josie doesn’t believe me when I say it, but I actually love my job as a surgical assistant. It feels like the path I would have chosen even if life hadn’t forced my hand. Sure, some parts get tedious—pulling instruments, prepping sterile fields, cleaning the OR—but the rest of it is awesome.
This work isn’t for the faint of heart. I’m Dr. Lopez’s right-hand woman during his surgeries. I’ve seen more blood and guts than a medic on a Civil War battlefield. I’ve watched patients code, surgeons breakdown, device reps faint, and instruments go missing.
The case we have this morning starts as they usually do, with Dr. Lopez and me fighting over which playlist we should stream over the speakers.
“You’re seriously going to pick oldies again?” I groan. “Don’t you see you’re walking right into a cliché?”
He grins. “I operate better when I’m listening to The Eagles.”
“Uh huh, so it’s just my imagination that I saw you shaking your hips to Maroon 5 last week?”
The anesthesiologist clears his throat as a gentle way of forcing Dr. Lopez’s hand.
“Fine. Why don’t we just let the rep decide?”
All eyes shift to a young guy standing in the corner of the operating room. His eyes widen in fear. He exudes nervous energy from every pore. He doesn’t want this responsibility. He’s here because he’s a glorified salesman. He wants Dr. Lopez to continue using his company’s insanely expensive spinal implants, and from the look of sheer terror on his face, he assumes one wrong song choice will get him kicked out of the OR.