Page 93 of Holiday Love
I nod. I’ve rehearsed this part a thousand times. I’ve had months to prepare, with weeks of practice with Lindsey and her dad running mock interviews in my condo. “I understand the seriousness of what happened.” I draw in a steady breath. Not too shallow. Not too shaky. “A patient was in distress. My partner asked me to take the case, partly because he wasn’t prepared to handle a drowning victim.” I add, my voice even, “He hesitated. I didn’t.”
“You understood the hospital’s policy?”
“Yes, but I also understood what could happen if I didn’t intervene.”
Dr. North raises a dark eyebrow and gestures for me to continue.
“The patient, Theodore Wright, was unconscious, cyanotic, and in full cardiac arrest. I knew what steps needed to be taken,quickly and correctly. Delaying treatment in order to transfer his care would’ve cost critical time.”
Dr. Reynolds, my boss, studies me from the center seat, her expression unreadable. “So you broke the rules.”
“Yes, which is wrong, but I did it for the right reasons. I made a call in that split-second moment, not to protect someone I cared about, but because I’m a physician. I couldn’t stand by and watch him die.”
“Do you regret your choice?” she asks.
I pause.
“No. I regret the situation that forced me to choose but not saving him. If I were in that room again, with Mr. Wright oranypatient in the same condition, I would do the same thing.”
The third board member, Dr. Jamar, frowns slightly. “Policy exists for a reason. We can’t make exceptions based on emotion.”
“I agree,” I say. “We also can’t ignore when protocol fails to meet reality—”
Dr. Jamar cuts in. “You say that like it excuses your actions.”
“It doesn’t,” I say quickly. “It explains them. Not excuses them.”
He scowls at me, and I feel the old panic rising, the insecurity that makes my throat tighten, my skin flush, but I hold steady. There’s a long silence. Someone writes something down. A chair creaks.
Dr. Reynolds leans forward. “If we reinstate your privileges, how will things be different?”
I think of Teddy, his relentless honesty, his fierce loyalty, the way he pushes me to be brave even when I want to shut down. I’ve changed because of him, become bolder. More myself. I think of my mother, of watching someone I love fall apart and learning that care isn’t always clean or clinical.
“I won’t hide behind rules or fear,” I tell them. “I’ll ask the hard questions. Have the uncomfortable conversations patientsdeserve. These months away taught me how to better deal with the gray areas.”
The room is silent, and I tense as one of the board members leans forward, fingers steepled. “Doctor Chu, one final question. Were you romantically involved with the patient?”
A ripple of discomfort moves through the panel. I keep my spine straight, voice level. “At the time of treatment, no,” I say without hesitation. “And regardless, ACLS protocols don’t change based on personal history. My charting, and the team present that day, corroborate that every action taken was appropriate and in line with medical standards.”
The chair nods, exchanging glances with the others. A beat passes, as Dr. North inspects me with his head to the side, then finally nods. “Thank you, Dr. Chu. Please wait out in the hallway while we deliberate.”
I step out, forcing myself to breathe evenly.
Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen.
The door opens.
“Dr. Chu?”
I reenter the room and take the same seat. My stomach churns with anxiety, making me nauseous.
“The board has voted to reinstate your medical privileges, effective immediately,” Dr. North says. “You will be under a one-year probationary period with ethics coursework and quarterly reviews.”
I don’t cry. I don’t collapse. Instead, I thank the committee for their time, shake their hands, and leave.
Dr. Reynolds catches me in the hospital lobby. “Helen,” she says, “we’re so glad to have you back. You performed wonderfully during the review, good job.”
“Thank you.” I bob my head and add, “I appreciate that.”
