Grumpy Doctor

Her hands were swift and steady. She entered the first stitch, then the next, working slowly, breathing deep. She reached the halfway point, paused, then kept going. The tiny slice in the valve slowly closed down, until—

“Stop,” I hissed, and she went dead still.

She was about to stitch too low. One more, and it would’ve impaired the valve’s functioning. I took the instruments from her and closed off the stitches, then finished the surgery myself, putting in place the annuloplasty band.

The rest of the procedure went smoothly. Lori hadn’t made a massive mistake, but only because I was there, watching like a hawk. If I hadn’t been, she might’ve done something monumentally stupid—all because she was inexperienced, or tired, or any number of things.

I closed the patient up myself and when we were finished, I cleaned myself up then stood in the hallway. Lori joined me a few moments later, looking nervous, staring down at the floor.

“Do you know why I stopped you?” I asked.

She glanced up. “I think so.”

“Tell me.”

“I was about to stitch too low.”

“And why was that bad?”

“It would’ve stitched the valve to the wall and impeded the band, but—”

“There’s no but,” I said, my voice hard and I struggled to keep the anger at bay.

She met my gaze, and I saw a hint of outrage. “You didn’t tell me what we were doing,” she said. “No prep, no nothing. You didn’t tell me you were going to let me actually operate on a woman.”

“And why does that matter?” I asked. “What would you have done differently? You’re a goddamn surgeon and a doctor, Lori. You need to be prepared to do whatever is takes every single time you come to work. It doesn’t matter if you didn’t get enough sleep, or you drank too much and you’re hungover. You need to perform.”

Her jaw clenched. I knew she wanted to lash out at me. She probably thought I wasn’t being fair.

But this was something even single new resident needed to hear: their life was no longer their own.

“I understand that,” she said.

“I don’t think you do.” I moved closer to her, and she backed up against a wall. We were alone in a quiet part of the hospital, the other operating rooms silent. The nurses wheeled the patient past, heading to the recovery section, but I barely noticed them.

I was entirely locked on Lori.

“You think I got into this because it’s fun?” she asked. “I want to be a surgeon because I take it seriously.”

“Then why were you yawning in my operating room?”

“Yawning?” She made a face then rolled her eyes. “I yawned once because I didn’t have time to drink coffee this morning, you rushed me into work earlier than I expected.”

“You need to be ready, no matter what. If you need coffee to function, you’d better have some prepared at all times. Get cold brew and keep it frozen if you have to, I don’t care, but figure it out.”

She wanted to lash out, and I didn’t blame her. I was being harder on her than was strictly necessary, but I remembered my time as a resident, and I wished someone had given me this speech.

Being a doctor was a constant job. It never stopped and never slowed, no matter what. I needed her to be ready for that, and the best thing I could do for her now was to be honest and tough.

“I was ready,” she said.

“Then why did you make a mistake?”

She didn’t answer. We locked eyes, alone, the world gone around us. I stood inches from her, and I knew something shifted as our bodies were tugged closer, by gravity, by desire, I wasn’t sure. My annoyance and anger drove me into this, pushed me into wanting to touch her cheek, even if it was wrong, and I knew everything could come tumbling apart if I gave in to this stupid need.

I wanted to teach her, and most of all, I wanted her to learn.

“It won’t happen again,” she said.

She walked a few feet away and leaned up against the wall with her fist, staring down at the floor—and I had a sudden and visceral memory hit me. I could almost feel what it was like to go through my first procedure with my attending standing at my shoulder. I felt the sweat all over again, the nerves tumble through my gut, and I knew that was what she felt, or something worse, or something like it at least. I took her from closing wounds to sewing up a heart valve, and that was too steep of a jump.

“Maybe that was my fault,” I said softly.

She looked back at me and let out a single, frustrated laugh. “How exactly?”

I took a moment to choose my words. “That was an intense operation,” I said. “And it was your first one, correct?”