Page 83 of Six Month Wife
“Seven a.m. sharp. Open cholecystectomy. Should be quick.”
Quick for him, maybe. For me, it’s a test I didn’t see coming. And maybe the first step toward something I’m not sure I want.
The tightness in my chest lessens as I get ready for this. An open cholecystectomy is straightforward, in theory. It's the surgical removal of the gallbladder through an abdominal incision. It’s what you do when the laparoscopic route isn’t an option due to too much inflammation or possible complications.
I’ve assisted on a few. I did more during my general surgery fellowship than residency.
ER was the original plan. I matched into a strong program at Tulane, thrived in trauma, and loved the pace. But when a last-minute fellowship spot opened there at the end of my residency, I went for it. Figured if I had thechance to sharpen a scalpel and open someone up, I should take it.
By the time I wrapped the year fellowship, I had credentials in both. Surgery felt like the next step, but I wasn't opposed to doing either.
When I got into the job search, nowhere I wanted to live was hiring for general surgery.
Palm Beach made for a good temporary stop. A solid ER gig, until the right OR position opened somewhere else.
And now there’s a chance to get back in without moving at all. I should be all in. But for some reason, it gives me pause.
But that doesn't mean I can’t scrub in for surgery.
"Between you and me, Kowalski’s been asking about you a lot.”
“Is that so?” I shift in my seat, trying to ignore the sudden pressure blooming in my chest. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Just the usual,” he says. “He's asked about your fellowship and asked for your transcripts. He knows how you handle pressure based on your work in the ER. If you’re planning to stick around, that is. He's looking for someone for the long term.”
I nod, even though he can’t see it. Dreaming about this job is one thing. Realizing you might be standing on the edge of it? That’s a different beast altogether.
“Well, that's promising,” I say, keeping my tone steady.
We go over the logistics of the case, patient history, OR setup, and what Kowalski might expect from me. Gunner’s voice is calm and confident. He's encouraging in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
By the time we hang up, I’m parked outside my condo. The soft porch light casts a glow across the walk. My pulseis still ticking a little faster than normal. It's hanging out somewhere between anticipation and dread.
I look around to see if I can spot Adair's car. It's not in her normal spot, but that could be because someone has a shiny black Hummer parked there.
Doing this case tomorrow could be the start of something solid. A shot at an OR role without having to uproot my entire life again. Why wouldn't I keep working once this inheritance comes through? I'm too young to retire.
After years of bouncing between residency and fellowship, waiting for the right job in the right city, maybe I’ve finally landed in it without even realizing it.
I scroll through my messages. Nothing from Adair.
Her silence is louder than any voicemail. It’s not the absence of texts, it’s the absence of her. Her quick comebacks, her laugh, the way she says my name when she’s half-mocking, half-soft.
Inside, I drop my keys and grab a glass of water. My condo is quiet in that way that makes it obvious she’s not here.
No footsteps. No TV. No sarcastic voice through the wall.
And yeah, I can’t help it.
I wonder where she is.
I take a long sip, trying to shake it off. But I know how this goes. I’ll end up pacing, checking the window like an idiot every time a car drives by.
I need air. Movement. Distance from these four walls.
So I change and lace up my shoes.
And head out before I can talk myself out of it.
