Page 449 of Rosetti Family New York
I brush past her toward the sink, starting my ritual. Hot water, surgical soap, scrub each finger methodically. The routine grounds me. I'm here, not there. I'm saving lives, not watching them slip away.
"Dr.Reyes." The charge nurse appears, clipboard in hand. "We need you to brief the family."
"Morrison can handle it."
"The family specifically asked for you. And Administrator Coleman wants to see you about the Rudd complaint."
Christ. "The patient who wanted aromatherapy during trauma surgery?"
"The one whose feelings you hurt when you said, and I quote, 'essential oils won't stop internal bleeding.'"
I turn back to the sink and start washing again. Hot water, surgical soap, methodical scrubbing.
"You just washed."
"Missed a spot."
We both know it's a lie. But the washing helps. I scrub each finger, each nail bed, until my skin is raw.
"Van." Her voice softens. "The girl is stable. You saved her."
I dry my hands and head for the administrator's office, already knowing how this will go. Another lecture about patient satisfaction scores, another reminder that healing involves more than surgical precision.
Coleman's office smells like fake leather and ambition. She sits behind a desk too large for someone who's never held a scalpel, her smile as practiced as a politician's.
"Dr.Reyes, thank you for coming." She gestures to a chair I don't take. "We need to discuss your patient interaction scores."
"My surgical success rate is ninety-four percent."
"Your bedside manner score is twelve percent."
"Patients don't need a friend. They need a surgeon."
She shuffles papers, a gesture meant to convey authority. "Mr.Rudd filed a formal complaint. He says you were dismissive and rude when he asked about alternative therapies."
"He wanted to burn sage while I removed shrapnel from his lung."
"You could have been more diplomatic."
"Diplomacy doesn't save lives. Competence does."
Coleman's smile tightens. "Dr.Reyes, you're an exceptional surgeon. No one disputes that. But this hospital values patient satisfaction as much as surgical outcomes."
"Then this hospital has confused priorities."
"That attitude is exactly the problem." She leans forward, trying for stern but achieving anxious. "You need to make an effort. Smile occasionally. Show empathy. Pretend you care about something besides the procedure."
"I care about keeping people alive."
"That's not enough anymore."
I look at her—really look. Soft hands that have never felt life slip away beneath them. Eyes that have never watched someone bleed out while you're helpless to stop it. She talks about satisfaction scores while I count lives saved against lives lost, a tally that never balances.
"Are we done?"
"Dr. Reyes—"
"I have post-ops to check."
