Doctor Dearest

After lunch, I write post-op notes in the call room, check on tasks I doled out to residents during morning rounds, follow up with patients recovering in the PACU, lecture medical students on a topic they’ll need to understand for their boards, and then follow it all up with afternoon rounds.

Occasionally, an attending will lead an educational meeting, or a journal club, as we call it. We’re meant to stay on top of research and published literature. Especially in the field of burns, methods of care are always changing and getting better. We can’t rest on our laurels.

The hardest part of my job is that I usually operate on children. The second hardest part of my job is that we’re forced to operate in heated rooms to keep our patients from becoming hypothermic. No other surgeon faces an obstacle like this. In all other units in the hospital, the thermostats are kept at comfortable temperatures. Here, we’re all sweating, all the time.

The new residents aren’t used to it.

I shove Gatorades into their hands at the end of their first day and tell them to stay hydrated. I’ve seen good doctors pass out on the job because they weren’t used to the heat.

After he gratefully chugs some of his drink, one of the residents asks me if they’ll have a chance to work with Dr. Easton during their month-long rotation in the BICU. The question comes from one of the quieter guys on my service. I think he’s been slightly intimidated all day, but to his credit, when he presented his patients during rounds, he did a great job.

“He’s the whole reason I interviewed at this program,” he continues, offering a small smile. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a little hero worship in his eyes.

Connor…I haven’t seen him all day. Dr. Garza is the attending I’ll work with the most this year as she’s my fellowship supervisor.

Still, I know where Connor is.

I nod and tell him to follow me. “The rest of you can come too or knock off early. Your choice.”

Earlier in the day, I saw Connor’s name up on the surgical board. Usually he operates in the mornings, but there must have been a backup in the ORs, because he’s still in there when I lead the residents up into the viewing gallery. None of them took me up on the offer to leave.

Down below, Connor’s features are nearly impossible to make out under all his surgical gear. His tall frame is encased in scrubs and a pale blue protective gown. He’s wearing a surgical mask and glasses to cover his face. He moves at the operating table with the dexterity of a dancer, fluid and never wavering. It’s entrancing to watch.

His operating room runs like a well-oiled machine. His first assist stands across the table, carefully observing every one of his steps.

One of my residents steps closer to get a better look, and I’m suddenly reminded of why I brought them here.

“Who can tell me why certain cases require plastic surgeons instead of a generalist, like me, who’s training in critical care?”

The young guy who asked me about Dr. Easton is the one to reply first. He’s standing up at the front, face nearly pressed to the glass. I can see the awe etched on his features. “General burn trauma surgeons come in immediately after the injury, while plastic surgeons often don’t see patients for reconstructive surgery until after the initial wounds have healed. They’re also better at the small details.” He blanches as he turns back to meet my gaze. “Or rather, they’ve been trained in the small details,” he amends. I nod for him to continue, taking no offense. “Facial burns, especially, and toes, fingers, joint releases. Occasionally some patients will heal and develop hypertrophic scars. That’s what Dr. Easton is working on now for that patient in the operating room—he’s using a laser to reduce scarring and preserve range of motion.”

Day one and already I know he will be my favorite resident this month.

“Good. Remind me of your name.”

“Thomas. Err…Dr. Lee.”

He blushes.

“Good work. You’ll scrub in with me in the morning.” Then I turn for the door. “I encourage you all to stay and watch as long as you can. Out of all the attendings at BHUMB, Dr. Easton is one of the best.”

I don’t stay and watch his surgery; the residents don’t need to see me ogle him. Instead, I head into the locker room, glad to strip off another pair of sweaty scrubs before I rinse off and dress in a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt.

Noah’s requested I make spaghetti and meatballs for dinner tonight. He says it’ll be just us. Connor has to work late, or he has a social thing—Noah couldn’t remember. I find his lapse in memory exasperating. Which is it? Work or a date?!