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Natalie, meanwhile, is in charge of tackling a larger wound on the patient’s shin. It’s a much more cut-and-dry procedure, though no less important. The residents assigned to her team stick near her, listening as she guides them through the steps of harvesting donor skin from the patient’s thigh that they’ll then place on the shin. She’s different in the OR than she is anywhere else—a fucking vision. Confident, sure of herself in a way the residents respond to. She shoots them questions and they’re quick with their answers, trying to impress her. She rewards one, the only female among them, and tells her to step closer.
“You’ll help me suture.”
The second the autografts and dressings are in place, I step away from the table and address the team.
“We’re done here.”
I waste no time yanking off my gown and gloves, balling them up and dunking them into the trash can on my way out of the room.
We did our jobs well. The patient will need another surgery next week, but those grafts should perform nicely until then.
Out in the sterile core, I rip off my mask and surgical glasses, overheated from the warm operating room. Normally the temperature doesn’t get to me. Today, for some reason, it does. I lean down and brace myself on the edge of the scrub sink then blink, only now realizing how much I’ve been concentrating through the last hour. I wanted to make sure I minimized scarring as much as possible for the patient. I paid special attention to every single suture I applied. I feel the impending loom of a headache coming on just as something blue passes into my line of sight: an ice-cold Gatorade, held out to me by Natalie. She’s as sweaty as I am. Her cheeks have a ruddy glow, like she’s just finished one of her runs. She still has her surgical cap covering her dark hair, and I find her as beautiful as ever.
“Take it,” she says, wagging the drink in front of me.
I don’t hesitate. I reach out for it, twist the cap off, and drink half of it in one go.
Residents and medical students start filtering into the sterile core after us, immediately launching into questions.
“Dr. Easton, I noticed your approach was unique concerning the patient’s eye—”
I hold up my hand. “Five minutes. Give me five minutes.”
Then I turn and push open the door for the men’s locker room, in need of a shower.I walk by Jade’s room after lunch. Her grandmother is there with her, sitting beside her on the bed while an occupational therapist works with Jade on her range-of-motion exercises. With burns, cosmetic concerns come after functional considerations. Yesterday, I verified with her therapists that Jade was medically stable and cleared for mobility.
Jade grits her teeth as the therapist works. I know it’s painful for her to have to endure this, but it would be much worse if we let scar tissue build up and hinder the full function of her hand.
“Is this absolutely necessary?” her grandmother asks, looking on as Jade shoves her face against her grandmother’s chest.
“You’re doing really well, Jade,” the therapist says with a cheerful tone. “Just another minute.”
“My name is Ariel!”
Her small voice is muffled by her grandmother’s shirt.
“Wow. I’m impressed,” I say, walking into the room. Jade jerks her head in my direction when she hears me and she beams.
“I’m almost finished, Dr. Easton,” the therapist assures me. I nod, glad I caught her before she applied a new dressing to Jade’s hand. It’s healing really well. She could be discharged for continued outpatient care today, but I’m delaying that.
I’ve found myself in a gray zone as Jade’s physician. It might not technically be my place to assess her caregivers, but she was dumped in our ambulance bay, so I’m not exactly going to let her go with the first adult who raises their hand. I want to be absolutely certain she’s going somewhere safe when she leaves here.
I met her grandmother yesterday, and it’s clear she cares a lot about Jade. Apparently, she’s working with the courts to gain full custody of her granddaughter, a solution that seems like a good fit for everyone. After the events of this week, our child life team has agreed to assist her in the custody battle.
“Can I go home with my gammy?” Jade asks me, the tension easing in her brows now that she’s done with her exercises.
“Tomorrow,” I assure her, glancing at her grandmother. She’s young, probably in her fifties, with short blonde hair that’s a perfect match for Jade’s. She has a fuzzy purple shirt on and loose, outdated jeans. Her face is round and inviting, and there’s something inherently warm about her. I watch as she smooths Jade’s hair away from her face and glances down at her granddaughter with obvious affection.
