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James
As expected, my day is off to a horrible start. Why is this expected? Well, because it seems that any time I have a really important surgery- my day just so happens to be terrible. You’d think the world would be thanking me for going to work every day and saving lives- not cursing me.
Anyways, my day actually started out fine at first. My morning coffee was perfect, I drank it on my balcony overlooking the ocean. The morning air was perfect, and I was feeling prepared for work today.
Everything only began to fall apart when I couldn’t find my lucky scrub cap. I’m not really superstitious or anything, I just like to wear a specific one when I have a harder than normal surgery.
Today’s surgery is big because I’ve only performed it three other times. Which is more than most cardio surgeons in the country, but it’s not enough for me to be comfortable with it yet. Even worse, the Chief of Surgery will be watching it from the gallery. So, obviously that adds at least a few pounds of extra stress.
After searching everywhere it could possibly be with no luck, I end up having to just say fuck it, and leave for work without it. So here I am, an hour away from the surgery- and still no scrub cap. I looked in the attendings lounge, asked around the nurses’ stations, everywhere. At a certain point, I come to the conclusion that it got thrown out.
I know I probably sound crazy, but honestly a lot of surgeons have what they call their “lucky scrub cap” that they put on for extra luck during a really big surgery. In reality, I know I don’t need it. But I’d definitely feel better if I had it.
I’m a cardiothoracic surgeon and I love my job, more than anything in the world. I’ve worked at this same hospital since my residency- did my fellowship here and everything. I can’t imagine leaving the San Diego Central Hospital at any time during my career- I’d honestly be perfectly happy retiring here.
Anyways, I make my way to the scrub room, accepting defeat in my search for the scrub cap. It’s fifteen minutes til the surgery starts and my patient is already being prepped. I walk in to start scrubbing to see that Oliver is already doing the same.
Oliver is the other cardiothoracic surgeon in the hospital. He transferred to San Diego from some small practice he worked for in Nevada. I tried to be his friend when he first arrived- but unfortunately, he came in guns blazing, like he was trying to mark his territory or something.
We’ve pretty much been enemies ever since, and I try to avoid working with him as much as possible. As I approach the sinks, I remember exactly why. Because Oliver is standing next to me… wearing my lucky scrub cap.
Iknowhe did this on purpose to try to get a rise out of me- he feeds off of that kind of thing. He feeds off of your insecurities and the things he knows tic you off. And I hate him for that.
I honestly don’t think I’ve ever met a cockier surgeon than him. I mean, most of us are cocky- you kind of have to be to survive as a surgeon- but he takes it to a whole new level.
Fighting the urge to punch him, I turn in his direction. But before I can even say anything, he’s through the doors and into the sterile field. Once I’m finished scrubbing, I make a promise to myself that I won’t let him get to me during this seven-hour surgery, and then I enter the OR. Oliver has already begun opening her up- of course.
This surgery means a lot to me because the woman on the table has been a patient of mine since my second year of residency. We see her a few times a year, and she’s had tons of surgeries. She’s a twenty-five-year-old first grade teacher. I can’t help but have a bit of a soft spot for her. Who wouldn’t?
Not only that, but she’s the Chief of Surgery’s stepdaughter. Hence, why he is up in the gallery watching. As if the surgery itself isn’t enough pressure.
The surgery begins, and things go as planned for the first three hours. And then all of a sudden, our patient begins bleeding much more than she should be. My heart rate speeds up and I’m terrified. I can’t lose this patient.
“Did you nick something? I don’t understand.”
“No, I didn’tnicksomething, I’m not an amateur.”
“Even experienced surgeons can nick things sometimes, Oliver.”
“Not me. Never.”
“Someone run down and get more O neg, now! Hurry!” I shout.
“Got it!!” someone yells, leaving the OR.
“I say we try to get in there and see what’s going on.”
“Well I say that we don’t know where the bleeder is, and we can’t just go in blindly and possibly make it worse. Suction, please.”
“We can’t wait any longer. We need to make a decision now. By the time the blood gets here she won’t even be alive to receive it.”
“I’ve seen bleeders like this before. They start off bad, like a big gush of blood, but then it clears up. We just have to wait for it to do its thing and meanwhile, more suction please.”
“She’ll bedeadby then; don’t you get it??”
“Well your idea isn’t any better, okay?”
I glance up at the gallery, where the Chief is on the edge of his seat, panic written all over his face. We really don’t have that much time.
