Surprise Delivery(30)

I nod. “You’re right, Ida. You’re right,” I say.

“And once you know for sure, you can either breathe a hell of a lot easier,” she says. “Or, you can start making your plans for your life moving forward.”

“I’m scared,” I whisper as tears well in my eyes.

“I know you are, hon,” she says softly. “And you’d be a fool not to be. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about you these last couple of years, it’s that you are strong, Lexi. Stronger than you give yourself credit for. Maybe even stronger than you actually know. And I know that no matter what happens, that strength is gonna carry you through. You are going to be okay. No matter what. I know this about you.”

My smile is weak and forced as a tear rolls down my cheek. “I wish I had your confidence about that.”

“That’s okay, hon,” she says, gripping my hand a little tighter. “I’ll be confident enough in it for the both of us until you come around to that realization yourself. That strength is in you, Lexi. You just need to figure out how to find it, then tap in to it.”

Though I appreciate her sentiment, the only thing I’m sure of at the moment is that I sure as hell don’t feel strong.

I don’t feel strong at all.





With a sigh, I take off my bloody gown and mask, then drop them into the receptacle. Today was a tough day. I had four people come through my operating theater and I was only able to save one of them. The injuries on the other three were just way too extensive and they’d lost too much blood by the time I got them on my table.

Days like today suck.

“You okay?”

I turn and give Sandra a nod. “Yeah, just a tough one today.”

“Yeah,” she replies. “I hear that.”

I wash my hands thoroughly, wanting nothing more in that minute than a stiff drink. Or twelve. Grabbing a towel, I dry my hands as Sandra steps to the sink and washes her own hands. I throw my towel into the hamper with some heat on it, drawing her attention.

“You can’t win every time, Duncan,” she says softly. “In a place like this, the deck is stacked against us from the start. There’s only so much we can do.”

“Yeah, I know,” I sigh. “Doesn’t make it suck any less.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she replies. “But, for whatever it’s worth, I think you’re winning more of the fights than you’re losing.”

“We are,” I correct her. “We’re winning more fights than we’re losing. I can’t do what I do without a good team. And I certainly hope we are.”

A small smile touches her lips and I see color flaring in her cheeks, the praise obviously pleasing to her. I glance at my watch. My surgical rotation is over for the day, but I still have work to do. In a strange way, I enjoy the frenetic energy of this place, but it also doesn’t ever seem to stop. Honestly, I could do with a couple of days off in a row – just a little time to get away from all of the blood and recharge my batteries.

Unfortunately, I don’t see the fighting stopping anytime soon, which kind of precludes that from ever happening.

“I’ve got rounds to make,” I tell her.

“Catch you later,” she says.

I nod and push through the door and head down the corridor toward the recovery unit. After such a shit day filled with nothing but death, being able to sit and talk to some of our success stories might do me some good. It will hopefully lift my spirits a bit. I can sure as hell use something to pick me up.

I walk down the long hallway that leads from the operating theaters to the recovery unit, passing a man using a powerful smelling disinfectant as he mops the floor. The walls are chipped, scarred, and in dire need of some paint. It’s the exact opposite of the hospital I came from – almost prehistoric in its conditions. But the staff does everything in their power to keep it up and running. It’s clean – spotless, really – so, at least it has that going for it. I’ve been impressed with how dedicated the staff here is. The funding isn’t great, the conditions are worse, but everybody who works for this outfit is devoted. Committed. Passionate. That much I can get behind.

I push through the swinging doors and step into the recovery unit. I walk down the aisle, beds with patients in various states of recovery on either side of me. I stop and check the charts and have a few words with of a few of the more seriously injured I’d operated on, pleased to see that they seem to be improving. I obviously can’t communicate with some of them, given the fact that I can’t speak Arabic, but more than a few know passable English.

After almost an hour of checking in with everybody, I find myself standing at the foot of the bed of the boy whose leg I managed to save. He’s propped up on his pillows reading a comic book, his leg held up in a suspended sling from above. He finally realizes I’m standing there and puts the comic book down, favoring me with a wide smile.

“Doctor Duncan,” he greets, his English surprisingly strong.

“Nizar,” I say and return his smile. “How are you feeling today?”

He nods. “I’m doing okay,” he says, then points to his leg. “It still hurts.”

I sit down on the edge of the bed beside him and look at his leg. The bandages are fresh, so the nurses are keeping up with it and helping guard against infection, which is good.