Page 3 of The Love Operation

“Well?” Lana’s eyes sparkle above her mask. The contents of the email are surely flashing across my forehead. One of three. One of three. One of three.

I inhale and meet her eyes. “I made the short list,” I say. Calm, too calm.

“Cord, what did you just say?” Dahlia asks from the OR table.

“I just got the email,” I repeat, louder this time, the words beating out a new, excited rhythm inside my chest. “I am one of three candidates still in the running for chief.”

Dahlia squeals, and the room bursts into applause. It’s brief—this is still a professional environment—but the adrenaline rush can only help the patient on the table.

For a second, I feel like the MVP being bounced in the air on the field.

“Who are the other two?” Dahlia asks.

When I tell her, Lana tsks. “You’d better be their choice.”

Dahlia makes a noise. “Shephard’s the unfortunate favorite,” she says, irritation curling around the words, and then she lays it out in usual Dahlia fashion, like she’s Sherlock Holmes solving a case study. “Cho’s a good surgeon, but I’m not sure he can handle the pressure of leading a department. Cord’s the best candidate, but let’s be real. Will this hospital be progressive enough to choose her? She’s the youngest finalist they’ve ever had. And she’s a woman. And biracial. Committees like this one—White, male, and established—tend to promote people who look like them. Women like us? We’re the tokens, not the choice.”

“Preach it, Dahlia,” I say, smiling. She’s not wrong.

“You’re biracial?” the scrub nurse asks. “I never knew that.”

I bristle like I always do when this subject comes up. The implication is clear: You don’t look like it. Like I’m trying to steal a minority’s spot. As if I need to pull up a photo of my Black mother to prove it.

“Yep,” I say curtly.

“This is a progressive hospital,” Lana says, as if needing to reassure herself. “I’d hope we’re past all that.”

“Hope doesn’t get the job,” I say. “Money and politics do.”

She rolls her eyes, then slaps her pen next to the keyboard. “Well, I’ll quit if they don’t pick you. You’re the best damn surgeon here.”

I want to hug her.

But I don’t. Not in this OR.

As a biracial woman in spine surgery, I’m in the minority on every level. It took years to earn this upper hand, and now that I have it, I know how quickly it can be lost.

Too friendly, and you’re not taken seriously. Too serious, and you’re cold. There’s no perfect ratio. But there is a double standard. I made sure I never had a Southern accent either—even growing up in the South—just to avoid the sweetheart stereotype.

A man in my position is respected just for showing up with something dangling in his scrubs. But I’m not here to waste energy on what’s fair and what isn’t. I’m here to win anyway.

Greatness is measured by the opposition one faces when pursuing goals. My mother’s voice, steady as ever.

I pat the floral fabric square in my breast pocket—embroidered with my grandmother’s words, passed down through my mom to me.

Go after what you want with skill and relentless determination. And when you get there, be the best. Move around those who stand in your way. When you’re a person of color, good isn’t enough.

Generational grit. Quiet, constant. Their words ground me. Grow me. I feel them rise in me now, warm and steady.

“No matter the outcome, don’t quit. They win if you do.” I wink at Lana. “If they’re thinking about patient care—and let’s be real, income—they’ll pick me.”

That might sound arrogant, but I’m frequently considered arrogant, as people often confuse confidence for arrogance, especially when you’re a woman in a male-dominated, high-risk specialty. But, male or female, a spine surgeon has to be confident. One wrong move, and the patient is paralyzed.

Spine procedures are also among the most profitable. If the past predicts the future, most of the committee will do what they always do: protect the revenue stream.

“I’ve got to run,” I say. “I’ll see the family, Dahlia.”

She’s already focused back on Elizabeth. I give a backward wave and step out of the OR.