Page 40 of Beneath Her Hands
“Clamp,” she said. “Good. Suction. More lap pads.”
The room was a symphony of urgency: the soft swish of ventilator bellows, the quick exchanges of instruments, the steady beep of a monitor that seemed to echo her own heartbeat.Stay with me, Jane. Please.
Minutes bled into hours. Rosalind repaired a torn mesentery, packed a bleeding liver, resected a ruptured spleen. Each step was a war against time. Her back ached, her shoulders screamed, but she refused to relent. The team followed her lead, sensing the sheer force of will radiating from their attending surgeon. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, the bleeding slowed. The monitors steadied. Blood pressure climbed to a tenuous but acceptable level.
“Vitals are improving,” the anesthesiologist said, relief softening her voice.
Rosalind exhaled for the first time in hours. Her knees nearly buckled, but she forced herself upright. “Good. Let’s close for now. We’ll leave the abdomen open and plan for a second look in forty-eight hours. She needs to stabilize before we attempt definitive repair.” She stripped off her gloves, hands trembling faintly now that the crisis had passed. Jane was alive. Fragile, but alive.
Rosalind pulled off her gown and headed to the scrub area, tears flowing as she scrubbed her hands. There was nothing left for her to do at this point; it was up to Jane to pull through. She went to her office to shower and change, everything felt likeit was underwater. She glanced at the on-call room, but instead went down to the ICU.
It was quiet when Rosalind finally entered, scrubbed and changed but still carrying the metallic scent of blood in her hair. Jane lay in the bed, pale and still beneath a tangle of monitors and IV lines. The ventilator hissed with a steady rhythm, each breath an anchor to life.
Rosalind stood at the bedside, fingers curling around the rail. “You scared the hell out of me,” Rosalind whispered, voice breaking in the sterile silence. “You can’t just… walk out of my life like that. I’m not ready.” Her hand hovered over Jane’s, hesitant. Finally, she let her fingers rest lightly against Jane’s cool skin, a fragile bridge of warmth. The contact sent a shiver through her chest. “I love you,” Rosalind said, the words barely more than a breath. “And I need you to fight, because I can’t imagine this world without you in it.” For a long time, she simply stood there, listening to the steady rhythm of the machine, willing it to continue.
The next forty-eight hours were a blur of vigilant care. Jane survived the second surgery, her vitals stabilizing, but she remained unconscious. Rosalind visited between every case, unable to stay away. Nurses pretended not to notice the way the surgeon lingered, brushing a stray lock of hair from Jane’s forehead, murmuring encouragements meant only for her.
During all of this, Rosalind was also making arrangements for her father. His body was sent to the crematorium, and his memorial service scheduled for the weekend. Her mother was like a rock, surprising Rosalind with her vitality. She was almost happy to celebrate her husband’s life with all their friends and acquaintances. It was strange for Rosalind to watch, but her mind was never far from Jane.
Dr. Mars had allowed a cot to be placed in Jane’s room and Rosalind stayed by her side as often as possible. As Jane’s familycame by to pay their respects, she put on the doctor hat and explained in detail what was happening and how things would need to go. She explained that Jane should make a full recovery, as long as she made it through these next few days. Things were optimistic, but they weren’t out of the woods, yet. Recovery would be long and slow, but at least it was possible.
On the fourth day, finally, Rosalind looked up from Jane’s chart to see her patient stirring, lashes fluttering. “Jane?” Rosalind stepped forward, heart leaping. “Hey. Can you hear me?”
Jane’s eyes opened, dazed but aware. Her lips parted, a faint rasp escaping the breathing tube.
Rosalind squeezed her hand. “Don’t try to talk. You’re safe. You’re going to be okay.” Happiness threatened to burst from Rosalind’s chest. Jane blinked, and in that small, fragile gesture Rosalind felt the weight of everything she had nearly lost. Tears burned at the corners of Rosalind’s eyes, but she didn’t look away. Jane was alive. And that was everything. For the first time in a long time, Rosalind allowed herself to believe in a future—a future where love was no longer silent, where every heartbeat was a promise kept.
20
Jane
As the room slowly came into focus, Jane’s memory started to flicker. Vivid memories of the accident, the world spinning beneath her, the rush to the hospital.Rosalind. Rosalind was here, next to her. Jane’s eyes drifted to find Rosalind’s face hovering above her own. Pain was everywhere, and the skin of Rosalind’s face was tight.
“How long have I been out?” she croaked.
“Shh…” Rosalind admonished. “It’s been four days.”
Jane’s eyes widened in shock. “What happened?”
“You were…” Rosalind hesitated. “You were struck by a car, the driver ran a red light and you were in the intersection.”
“How bad is it?” Jane asked and then grimaced. The pain was tearing through her. Rosalind turned her attention to the IV where Jane’s medication was dispensed. She clicked a couple of buttons and a warm sensation flooded through Jane. Her eyes became heavy, but the pain dulled.
“You’re going to be fine,” Rosalind whispered and leaned over to kiss Jane on the forehead. The soft brush of Rosalind’s lips made her feel warm, though that could also be the morphine.
“If you say so,” Jane mumbled as the medication caused her mind to drift. “Have you been here the whole time?”
“Pretty much,” Rosalind said.
There was so much more that Jane wanted to say, but the medication wasn’t allowing for much. Slowly she drifted back to sleep.
The recovery was slow but steady. Weeks passed before Jane was strong enough to leave the ICU, but every day brought new victories: a stable heart rhythm, the first cautious sip of water, the tentative steps along the hallway with a walker. Rosalind remained a constant presence, professional but quietly devoted, only leaving to attend to her father’s funeral and to assist her mother with the sale of the house and businesses.
During this time, Jane had plenty of time to think. The nurses all told her about how hard Rosalind had fought to save her life and how happy they were that she was alright. Each evening, Rosalind would return and sleep on the cot next to her bed, despite her protests to go home.
One evening, as twilight painted the hospital windows in shades of violet and gold, Jane caught Rosalind’s hand in hers. “They told me,” Jane said, her voice soft but steady. “How you wouldn’t leave the OR. How you saved me.”
Rosalind shook her head, throat tight. “I just did my job, what I’m trained to do. You were the one who fought for your life, and I can’t thank you enough for that.”
