Page 6 of The Night Shift
Holly
October 28th, 2022
The entire room smells of death, blood, and plastic and everyone in the OR stares at me.
“Time of death, nine forty-seven p.m.”
The incessant, steady beeping of the anesthesia machine gnaws into my skull. Dr. Corbin, my semi-bald, fifty-seven-year-old attending, throws me a glance as if to say “it’s okay.” He probably feels guilty for letting me take the lead on this case. Well, he shouldn’t. The only reason he even let me, a third-year surgical resident, take the lead was because he knew this procedure was doomed from the start.
The patient—a twenty-four-year-old sexual assault victim—was brought to the ER with multiple trauma wounds to her stomach. After being intubated by the anaesthesiologist, she was placed on a breathing machine, and we began the surgery by performing an exploratory laparotomy for potential abdominal sepsis. From the first incision to the last, every step of this procedure was supposed to be performed as though saving her was still possible. Until it wasn’t.
The hospital I work at is one of the largest in the country. It has a Level-I trauma center with an impeccable reputation. The mortality rate is among the top ten lowest in the country. We hardly, if ever lose a patient. But this one? No one could’ve saved her. In addition to abdominal sepsis, she had several broken ribs, major intestinal damage, and internal hemorrhage. Her face was bruised and disfigured beyond recognition. The only distinguishable mark on her body that still remains is a tiny butterfly-shaped tattoo on her right shoulder.
I stare at my hands sheathed in surgical gloves. The OR lights reflect off the latex, making my hands glisten with her blood. A strange hum vibrates behind my eyes.
I’ve never lost a patient before. It’s an odd feeling. Like some twisted rite of passage. I feel like I’ve just become a part of an exclusive sorority for surgeons or a member of one of those Midsommar-type cults.
“Take the night off,” Dr. Corbin says, giving me a gentle pat on the shoulder. “It’s the rule,” he states firmly.
My entire body tenses up. I don’t like it when people touch me without permission.
My fingers curl into fists and I have to make a conscious effort tonotgrab the bloody scalpel from the operating table and stab the hand that’s resting on my left shoulder.
Carefully taking a step back from his touch, I tell him that I still have four hours of my night shift left.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get someone to cover for you. Go get some rest. You look like hell, Dr. Moore.”
Well, that’s always nice to know.
Too tired to argue, I “begrudgingly” agree, watching as he and the rest of the surgical team trickle out of the OR, and in their place, two orderlies dressed in dark blue scrubs stroll in. They roll away the operating table with Jane Doe hidden under the blue sheet, hauling away my failure to the morgue. I watchthem roll her away and a mild lack-of-sleep-induced headache gnaws at my brain. I walk out of the operating room, peeling off my gloves and mask, followed by my disposable gown, and chuck all of it in the large bin by the exit. I rinse my hands by the sink, breathing in the scent of disinfectant soap, and make my way to the doctor’s lounge.
A fresh pot of coffee awaits my arrival along with some clean mugs on the wiped-down counter. The sight makes me smile. The aroma of premium dark roast will always be more soothing than a bottle of aspirin. I pour myself a full cup and falter toward the large sofa that has welcomed me numerous times after long surgeries. It’s not until I sink into the soft leather cushion that I realize how tired I actually am. My eyes feel like they’re on fucking fire. There’s a blanket hanging off the armrest on the other end of the couch. It’s pink and fuzzy with little strawberries all over it. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. Instead, I wrap the strawberry blanket around myself and close my eyes, trying to forget for a few merciful minutes.
Forget, forget, forget.
It’s not like I’m the first surgeon to lose a patient. Stuff like this happens every day. Death is inevitable. That’s a universal truth. I just feel odd not being in control. And I don’t like that. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t feel bad or anything, nor do I feel guilty. None of this is my fault. I know that.I do. If anything, it’s Dr. Corbin’s fault for not even trying to operate on her before letting me take the lead. My chest is tight, and my thoughts are too loud, cycling through everything I could’ve done differently. I could have saved her, but I wasn’t enough. She’s gone, and there’s nothing I can do to change that.
Eyes still shut, my grip around the porcelain coffee mug tightens, its heat emanating into the skin of my palm, easing the tension in my chest. I breathe through my mouth and keep thinking ominous thoughts, then disregarding them like Ialways do. The fatigue in my limbs slowly fades, giving way to a growing agitation. Anitch, if you will.
A sharp ringing pierces the air, disrupting my peace. My eyes snap open. It’s my phone. I reach into my pocket to pull it out. “Hello?”
“Wig or no wig?” April says, her voice crackling through the speaker, warm and familiar. A burst of sunshine to my storm-cloud mood.
“What?”
“I’m costume shopping.”
“Aren’t we a little old for Halloween?”
“Okay firstly, that’s never going to be a thing. And secondly, this isn’t for Halloween. It’s for my bachelorette.”
Fuck. Instant shame slithers through me like a guilty pang, coiling around the ache in my head and the exhaustion in my bones. I cannot believe I forgot about my sister’s bachelorette for the second time this month.
“You forgot again, didn’t you?” Her soft tone makes me feel like the world’s worst sister.
“Sorry, it’s been a really long day at work today.”
A tiny pause. “Is everything okay?”
