Page 4 of The Love Operation

The music changes instantly. My playlist never survives my exit.

No one likes my go-to styles:

Classical: mathematical, intricate, surgical.

Jazz: structured chaos with discipline.

Movie soundtracks: bold momentum for cases that stretch hours.

Fortunately, they have no choice when I’m in the room.

I pull out my phone, decide I’ll tell my family the exciting news in person, and then text my best friend.

Me: I’m coming by your office after I see my patient’s family. With lunch. Want anything?

Delenn: Ooh. Yeah. A salad. Any kind and a brownie.

I smile and head to the post-op waiting room.

“Mary’s surgery went great,” I tell her husband and adult daughter after pulling them into a small consultation room just off the waiting area. Their tight expressions soften—worry melting into relief.

There’s nothing better than the moment a family exhales.

Mary’s husband throws his arms around me and squeezes.

“Dad!” the daughter hisses, reaching for him like he’s committed a felony.

Experience has taught me that boundaries matter—some patients get too attached—but this isn’t that.

I wave her off. “It’s fine.”

The man was trembling when I met the family in pre-op, wringing his hands, like he was trying to squeeze out the fear. His wife, my patient, kept telling him that she was going to be fine, that she was in good hands. And suddenly, it hit me: Those hands were mine.

As his eyes connected with mine right before I walked away from his wife’s pre-op bed, I saw how deeply he needed her to be okay. I saw in that one look how much he adored her, how terrified he was of losing her.

So, no, I don’t begrudge him an honest hug.

He squeezes tighter, as if I saved his whole world, and for a second, I wish someone would love me like this man loves his wife. The sentiment feels thick in my throat, bordering on inappropriate—me thinking of myself in this beautiful, tender moment of raw love—and now I think I’ve held on too long.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” he says, tears in his eyes.

“Thank me after we see that her pain is gone,” I tell him, then ease out of the room and make my way to the doctors’ lounge for a plate of food before heading to see Delenn.

As soon as I pull open her office door, I’m hit with the scent: rosemary, sage, lavender, peppermint—Delenn’s signature essential oil blend. Meant to boost mental clarity and memory. Mildly nauseating.

She looks up. Brightens. Like a flower dropped into a fresh vase of water.

I don’t hate being the reason someone lights up.

The best friend: Delenn Lochley. Thirty-five-year-old neuroscientist at Lockewood University Medical Center.

Chief identifying characteristics: A mind sharp enough to slice through anybody’s bullshit, an unwavering belief that science will eventually solve everything, and a mild-to-moderate obsession with optimizing every aspect of life (former alcoholic, currently addicted to data). One of my biggest supporters and has been since we were teenagers, when a tenth-grade chemistry lab debate over proper procedure created a covalent bond between us that’s never broken. We’ve somehow managed to follow each other everywhere since.

Physical exam: Tall, wiry, White female. Curly auburn hair she pretends isn’t stunning. Posture that suggests she’s always on the verge of a discovery. Green eyes that miss nothing. Tailored suits that hug her slim frame. Chic beauty mark above the left side of her mouth. Scent scientifically calibrated.

Impression: Loyal. Brilliant. Cutting-edge. More likely to defend someone else than herself. By comparison, most people find her less “arrogant” than me. She’ll chase the truth until it surrenders.

“How was the date last night?” Her eagerness is appalling.