Page 31 of The Love Operation

Her lips part. “But my boss—”

“If your boss has a problem with my instructions,” I say, locking eyes with her, “call me. I’ll remind him of your rights—and his obligations. I’ll remind him that you’re a hard worker, and this job caused your disc herniation. You are owed. I won’t let you back down, and I won’t let him undo my work.” I smile. “I will drop everything to make sure he understands that.”

Better to be bold than for us both to break down crying.

She blinks fast. “Thank you.” Just two words. But they hit.

It won’t fix the system. But for one second, she’s not fighting alone.

And that matters.

When she leaves, something heavy settles inside me. That familiar weight—power and powerlessness, knotted together. All this knowledge. All this training. And I still can’t stop the world from grinding people down.

But that’s why I do what I do, why I want chief so badly.

Once again, I hear my mother in my ear, quoting my grandmother like she always did when things got hard: Today’s mighty oak is yesterday’s nut that held its ground.

It didn’t always mean what it does to me now. Now, it makes me press my shoulders back. I don’t have to be the tree yet. But I do have to plant something.

After I finish her chart, it’s lunchtime, but I still need to make rounds.

Anna intercepts me. “The pain cream rep is in the break room and wants to see you. She brought Chick-fil-A.”

Dahlia happens to be in the hallway, having just stepped out of a patient room with Elizabeth. Our student was supposed to be with me today, but I had her shadow Dahlia instead because . . . I just couldn’t.

We make eye contact, and she must read something there.

“I’ll talk to Karen,” she says. “You go do rounds.” She says it like she’s doing me a favor, which she is. I like rounds, but I don’t love reps, unless it’s my spine rep, Ezra. He knows how to make my job easier and never slows me down.

I nod and leave before anyone else can catch me.

I power walk through the connector to the hospital to check on my post-op patients. Everything goes fine until I get to my last patient on the post-op floor.

Because she demands I see her . . . while she’s on the toilet.

“I’m just sitting here,” she insists, sniffling dramatically.

But from the bathroom doorway—as far as I’m going—I smell things.

She’s crying because the nurses haven’t adequately controlled her pain. She tears off a giant wad of toilet paper, blows her nose violently, then . . . wipes herself with it.

I gag. I’m usually composed, but this one gets me.

I bite down—hard—on the inside of my cheek to anchor myself. I can’t lose it in front of a patient, especially this patient. She’s particular, at least about some things. So, before I start rolling on her disgusting floor, I mutter an excuse and head toward the computers to update orders.

A mistake because two nurses immediately materialize.

“We need to talk to you about your patient in room twelve—”

“Her pain?” I cut them off. “I’m adjusting her meds now. Call me or Dahlia if the issue continues.”

They want to tell me about how much she’s complaining, but I already know this patient, so I nod and tell them I have to get back to clinic.

It’s true, but I don’t head back right away. I slip into the bathroom, tuck myself into a stall, close the toilet lid, and sit.

I need the beach. One of our family vacations. I need to feel the sun warming my skin. I need to hear the waves crash, the gulls call. I need something warm. Something alive.

I close my eyes and concentrate.