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“Beatrice, I’m headed to the doctors’ lounge a little early. The OR asked if I could move my next case up about an hour.” I reread the text from the pre-op nurse, Patricia, stating they needed to adjust the schedule to make room for an unstable ER patient.
“Don’t forget, Dr. Weston, they’re…”
Making my way to the elevator, I quickly text back a reply informing Patricia I’ll come to the operating room as soon as I can. It’s tempting to dive right in and get things moving when there’s a crisis. Yet, in this hospital, there’s always a crisis. It’s best I grab something to eat before jumping headfirst into the next case. Otherwise, I’ll likely go all day without more than a cup of coffee in my system.
I should know. I’ve worked as a general surgeon at St. Luke’s Hospital in Hanover, Virginia, for over ten years now. After finishing residency, I was so eager to start my career that I hit the ground running and never looked back. However, I’ve learned the hard way about the toll this career can take on you. And not just physically.
As I approach the doctors’ lounge, my eyes narrow at the large sign taped to the door. That’s odd. Coming closer, I read the bright yellow paper.
This shouldn’t come as a surprise. That doctors’ lounge has definitely seen better days. Scratching the back of my head, I seem to recall Beatrice and Pearl, our office manager, chatting about this. Yet I thought they were merely bantering about what might be coming in the future. But then again, it could’ve been months ago they were having this conversation. I admit I get fixated on my patients, and the never-ending meetings I’m required to attend. These details don’t stay on my radar.
“Well, well, if it isn’ttheBroadie Weston. Renowned general surgeon and frequent winner of Richmond Magazine’s Annual Top Docs in Surgery award. I wouldn’t have thought you’d know the way here. Did someone escort you?” Jarod snickers.
“Ha ha. I come to the cafeteria.”
“Oh yeah? When’s the last time?”
I actually have to stop and think. But it’s not because I think I’m above coming here. It’s just more convenient to run in and grab a coffee or fix something off the buffet in the doctors’ lounge before heading back to work. Not to mention, I skip many meals. It’s just the nature of the beast in this line of work. “About six months ago, I missed lunch because a case ran long.”
“I’m just shitting with you, man. How’ve you been?”
“I’m good. Just busy.” It’s odd, really. My good friend, Jarod Snow, and I have worked together in our practice alongside five other surgeons for years, but we rarely see each other unless we’re in a meeting due to our OR schedules. “Finished a scheduled hernia repair before completing a lumpectomy on a twenty-six-year-old.” Jarod’s facial expression mirrors my concern regarding malignancy for that sweet young girl. We try to detach emotions to these cases as often as possible, but some just tug at your heartstrings. “I thought I had an hour before my next case, until the OR called. They have a patient in the emergency room they’re trying to squeeze in. Thought I’d grab something before I head back to it.”
“I don’t know how you do it, Broadie.” Jarod shakes his head.
“What? Your schedule is as insane as mine.”
“No. It’s not. I turn cases down when it gets too much. I’ve trained people not to come at me for more. But they know you’ll do whatever it takes.”
This statement has me pausing for a moment. He’s probably right. But it’s just the way I’ve always operated. I never want to keep anyone waiting; time can be crucial in this line of work.
“Hi, Dr. Weston,” a young brunette in navy blue scrubs greets from across the salad bar. Her smile is served with a side of flirtation.
Jarod snickers, reaching for a packet of salad dressing.
“Good afternoon,” I answer with a cordial grin as I grab what I think is a chicken salad sandwich wrapped in cellophane. Yet, prior visits to this cafeteria have proven I could be wrong. I have no earthly idea what this nurse’s name is and don’t want to encourage continued conversation by looking at her nametag. Lifting the sandwich to my nose, I take a deep inhale. It can’t be tuna. Must be chicken.What else could it be?
“Hell. I just got back from vacation with the family. I haven’t managed to get my mind back in work mode. I definitely wouldn’t be able to keep up with your pace.”
Jarod and his wife, Mandy, have two young boys. I don’t get to see as much of him as I did when we were both single. It goes without saying that we’re always here for one another, but there just aren’t enough hours in the day for spending bro-time outside of work.
There are days I’m jealous of his life. Coming home to a wife and kids, attending little league games. But it’s my own doing. If I want the life he has, I need to make it a priority. And I’ve already failed at it once. Not going to do that again until I’m all in.
“Oh, yeah? Where’d you go?” I ask as I examine a fruit cup and decide against it. Who am I kidding? I’ll be lucky to choke down this sandwich if I don’t’ get moving.
“Jamaica. It was amazing. But any island is that way for me. Sun, surf, and all the fresh seafood you can eat. I haven’t finished my first day back, and I’m already planning our next island getaway.”
We head to the refrigerator to grab water when something grabs my attention from the corner of my eye, and I do a double take.
Who is that?
A striking blonde in a long white lab coat stands in line for the cashier. She’s holding a plastic container and what seems to be a bottle of lemonade, staring off into space as if deep in thought. I’m not one to be taken in easily by an attractive female, especially one who works at the same hospital. However, something about her makes it nearly impossible to turn away. Is she new to St. Luke’s? I’d remember meeting a woman who looks like that.
She’s probably about five foot eight. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a loose bun, allowing an unobstructed view of her slender neck. Her skin is fair, and besides those glossy red lips, she doesn’t appear to be wearing much makeup. As I continue to observe her, her face remains expressionless. I wonder what’s going through that pretty head.
“Who is that?”
“Who?” Jarod answers, startling me. I hadn’t realized I’d asked it aloud. I watch as he follows the trajectory of my gaze. “Poppy?” His voice carries an odd tone of disbelief.
