Devilish Prince (The Wounded Hearts) by Lydia Hall

Author:Lydia Hall [Hall, Lydia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

17

SOFIA

It wasn’t the smack so much as it was knowing a man died that got me. I stood there over him working on him, knowing there was no way he’d survive. I did my best. I did everything I was taught to do in training, though I had no pain meds to ease his distress, or an operating room to actually provide life-saving care. With my limited resources, I was doomed—and so was he—from the beginning. So why is it hitting me so hard now?

The water is scalding hot, nearly burning my hands as I scrub them for the third time. Three nurses have come in, scrubbed, and left this tiny little room already but I’m here, watching the water pour over my bright red skin, wondering if that man had been in my OR would he still have died? Did he die simply because I didn’t have the right tools and conditions? Or did I make a mistake?

I’ve lost patients before, very sick ones, ones who lost too much blood, even a few children. But I’d never seen something so grotesque and graphic. The image of his back split open, oozing pus and blood, organs exposed and bone matter peppered through the filth—it gave me nightmares last night. And now I can’t focus. My hand trembles in the flow of water and I grasp it with my other hand to stop the shaking.

I blink hard, pushing the thoughts away again. This is my OR. It’s my hospital. Surgery for this person has been scheduled for two days now. I’m just putting a rod and six pins in a teenager's femur after a bad basketball accident. I can do this. It’s routine. I’ve done a million of these or something.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and replay the surgery in my head. Closed reduction, then incision from just below the femoral head descending four inches into the femur. Insert the rod using x-ray guidance. Fix the screws in place. Hold the bone in place as I make an incision four inches below the break location to… Who the fuck am I kidding?

My hand shakes again and I grip the edge of the sink, leaving the water running. My stomach churns and my shoulders tense. Even with my eyes closed and my breathing deep and steady, I can’t see anything except that infection. I can’t do this surgery. My hands are shaking too badly. My patient could suffer because of my emotional state and I can’t put them at risk like this.

I shut the water off and pull the mask off my face. I don’t know any of the perioperatives, so I step out of the scrub room and pull my phone out of my pocket, shooting Dr. Baker a 9-1-1 message. Within seconds my phone rings and his name shows on my screen’s caller ID.

“I got your text, Sofia, what’s wrong?” We often use the code to indicate a lesser emergency, but considering my patient is already drugged and waiting, I know this one is important.

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