Page 2 of His to Protect
Before relief could settle in my chest, the monitor's pitch shifted. My stomach dropped.
"V-fib!" Dr. Leigh, our newest resident, called out, panic threading her voice.
"Internal paddles," Dr. Cross snapped.
I passed the internal defibrillator into his waiting hands while he barked out the joules. Arthur’s heart jolted violently. Once. Twice. But the monitor showed a weakening, chaotic rhythm that made my own heart hammer against my ribs.
Come on. Come on.
Dr. Cross’ face stayed calm, but his hands moved faster. “Again.”
Another shock. The heart twitched.
The monitor beeped. Once. Twice. Then it settled into a steady rhythm. The collective exhale was audible even through our masks.
“We’ve got a stronger rhythm,” anesthesia said.
Dr. Cross didn't acknowledge the victory. He was already repositioning, preparing to bypass the remaining coronary blockages. "Suction. Retractor. Stay sharp, people."
I gripped the retractor, my hands rock-steady now that the worst had passed. This was my element. When lives hung in the balance and split-second decisions meant survival or death, my body knew exactly what to do.
Even when my mind screamed I was exhausted.
The surgery dragged on for hours. My feet throbbed inside flattened sneakers and my lower back ached with every minute I stayed locked in place. Somewhere around hour nine, my stomach stopped growling altogether. The protein bar in my pocket stayed untouched.
Food could wait. Sleep could wait.
Arthur Graves couldn’t.
Dr. Cross worked mostly in silence, using words and gestures I had learned to read like a second language. Right hand extended meant delicate graft work. A two-second pause preceded critical dissections. He existed solely for the beating heart beneath his gloved hands.
When he finally stepped back and took off his gloves, the snap echoed in the quiet OR. Arthur’s heart beat steadily on the monitor. The grafts looked clean. Good.
Only then did I allow my shoulders to drop, the tension bleeding out of me as the case officially ended. I caught Sarah's exhausted smile behind her mask.
“Excellent work, everyone,” Dr. Cross said curtly, exiting the OR.
I stayed to help Dr. Leigh close, my hands moving through layers of tissue with muscle memory that let my mind drift. When I finally stepped away from the table, black spots danced in my vision and my knees buckled.
Sarah caught my elbow. “You okay, Mireya?”
“I’m fine.” I leaned against the instrument tray, willing the world to stop tilting. “Just need water.”
“You needsleep,” she said to me with a sharp look. “When was the last time you went home?”
I genuinely couldn’t remember. Yesterday? The day before? Time had blurred, one shift running into the next until I didn’t know where one ended and another began. I lost count of the meals I skipped and the fragmented naps I managed to steal in between surgeries.
I peeled off my gloves and left the OR, the adrenaline that had sustained me finally draining away. Reality crashed down as I trudged toward the locker room, every step an effort.
My reflection in the locker room mirror told the brutal truth. Dark circles had formed under my eyes. My skin looked gray and waxy under the fluorescent lights. Sweat-dampened strands of brown hair had escaped my surgical cap, plastered to my temples.
I looked like someone who'd forgotten what rest felt like.
Metal scraped softly as I pulled my locker open. My phone screen lit up immediately—five missed calls. Two from my landlord. One from hospital billing.
I sighed as I deleted the voicemails. I already knew what they were all about.
Past due. Final notice. Pay or get out.
