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“Call me Boxer.”
“Boxer,” I said with a nod.
“You’re my doctor?”
“Yes.”
He attempted a grin, but it came out as a grimace.
“What?”
Boxer grunted. “Nothing, I just—wow, okay.”
I pulled the curtain closed around the cot to give us privacy. After setting down the tablet on a stainless-steel tray next to the bed, I reached for a pair of Nitrile gloves.
“I looked at your chart, and I need to examine you. Will you please unbutton your pants and lift your shirt?”
“Your wish is my command,” he joked, but his smile was strained. His complexion was ashen and the blond hair at his temples was dark with sweat.
He lowered his jeans a couple of inches and raised his black shirt so that I could see his belly. I ignored the six-pack, the light dusting of blond fuzz, and the swirls of ink marking his skin. I gently palpitated his tender abdomen.
A hiss of air left his mouth.
“How long have you been in pain?” I asked.
“A few days. I took some ibuprofen, which seemed to help a bit, but today it got a lot worse. It’s not going away, Doc.”
“You can button your pants now. I’m ordering some scans to confirm what I believe is appendicitis, but I’d like to get you in to surgery as soon as—”
Boxer leaned over and vomited on my sneakers.
“Possible,” I finished with a sigh.
* * *
“His pressure is dropping, Dr. Ward,” Jackie said.
“Dr. Maxwell,” I called out to the anesthesiologist, my eyes still on Boxer, who was draped and unconscious on the table. “Talk to me.”
Dr. Maxwell had jumped off his stool at the beep.
I dropped the suture clamp onto the operating tray. The nurses rolled over the defibrillator setup in case I needed to jump start Boxer’s heart.
“Looks like he’s having an allergic reaction to the anesthesia,” Dr. Maxwell pronounced. “I’m administering epinephrine. Everybody take a deep breath and give it sixty seconds.”
Dr. Maxwell quickly prepared a syringe of epinephrine from the tray in front of his station and administered it to Boxer’s IV. After a few moments, the beeping stopped and Dr. Maxwell said, “His pressure’s stabilizing. I think we’re good.”
There was a collective sigh of relief in the room, and then Jackie rolled the defibrillator back to its position in the corner.
“Excellent,” I said. “Let’s finish flushing out the cavity, and then we can close.”
The operating room was my sanctuary. My haven.
I was good at this. Sometimes, I felt like it was theonlything I was good at.
“He was lucky,” Jackie said.
I looked up at her. Her brown eyes were crinkled at the corners, and I knew she was smiling behind her mask.
