Page 11 of Careless Whisper

She grinned. “He going out of his way to make your life hell?”

“No. But I’m sure if we give him time, he’ll get there,” I joked, not knowing that two weeks later, I’d be living that reality.

I was assisting with a pre-op central line placement. We were mid-procedure in the sterile procedure room, with more residents observing than necessary—honestly, too many.

The patient, a young woman scheduled for a valve replacement, was groggy but conscious. Her chest had already been prepped, and I’d just finished placing the sterile drape.

I reached to adjust her oxygen tubing, and in theprocess, a corner of the sterile field tugged, just a tiny movement, barely an inch.

I noticed it and followed protocol.

Repositioned. Re-gowned. Re-gloved. Re-prepped.

Clean recovery. No compromise.

But Elias decided to turn a routine misstep into a case study of how little he was willing to tolerate from me.

“Stop.” His voice cracked like a whip.

Everyone froze.

Elias stood across the room, arms crossed, surgical mask hanging loose around his neck.

“You broke the field, Reggie,” he admonished, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I corrected it,” I replied, calm. “It didn’t touch anything critical. The drape shifted. I?—”

“You should have started over entirely,” he snapped. “What part of sterile technique is unclear to you?”

I felt heat rise to my face. “I did start over. I re-prepped, re-gloved?—”

“You took too long to notice. And you let the field stay exposed. That is unacceptable in this department. Maybe this kind of substandard behavior was fine before, but not anymore.”

I swallowed hard. “With respect, Dr. Graham?—”

“There’s a reason I decide who scrubs in and who doesn’t. If you’re careless with setup, I don’t trust you in the OR.” The resident to my left shifted uncomfortably.The patient blinked up at us, confused. “You willnotbe scrubbing up for meagain. Now get out of my OR.”

“Yes, Dr. Graham.” I stripped off my gloves as I left the room with my head high, my stomach churning.

Back in the locker room, I changed in silence.

What hurt wasn’t the correction. I’d been in surgery long enough to know how to take criticism and learn from it. It washowhe said it. The volume. The intent.

That had been a message:You don’t belong here, and I will do whatever it takes to get you kicked out of here by humiliating you as much as I can.

A part of me wanted to quit. But I wasn’t going to run again, not because of Elias Graham. I hadchosento be a nurse because I wanted to help patients and do my part to make the world a better place.

Twenty minutes later, I sat in my stationary car, staring through the windshield at the slate-gray Seattle sky, and willed myself not to cry.

Let him hate me. Let him think I was careless, dangerous, disposable. I wouldn’t let him break me. I wouldn’t.

However, the next day, when Cindy called me into her office, I came close to it.

“Dr. Graham officially filed a complaint about what happened yesterday in the OR,” she said gently. “Now, I want you to know—everyone who was there felt he was being overly harsh. Yes, you made a mistake,but it’s the kind no other attending would dream of writing up, let alone making it official. But Dr. Graham is?—”

“Trying to get me fired,” I finished for her.

Once a complaint went through the proper channels, Cindy or anyone else could do nothing. I only needed two more legitimate write-ups, even if the infractions were minor—as long as they were documented, witnessed, and upheld—and I’d be out of a job.

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