I wanted to launch myself over the table between us, gather her in my arms, and squeeze until I’d put her back together again. “Fuck, I…I’m sorry.”
“I sat there and I watched it happen. Instead of fixing the problem, I told her how to fix herself. As if being able to dissociate from abuse is an essential surgical skill.” She gave a slow, tired nod. “So, itispersonal. The absolute least I can do is take this seriously.”
I reached over and covered her clasped hands with mine. She didn’t pull away.
The regional hospital in St.Johnsbury was smaller than one of our parking garages back in Boston. When the driver pulled up at the front entrance, Whit leaned forward, saying, “Is there a side door? A staff entrance? Somewhere around back, maybe?”
While the driver spoke to the people on the other end of his earbud, I asked, “What’s wrong with this?”
She waved a finger at the hospital logos on our jackets and the bright red ice chest stamped withhuman organson both sides. “The last thing this donor’s family needs to see is us walking in right after they’ve said goodbye.”
That…was not a lesson I’d learned yet. I knew most of these transplants were the result of a donor at the end of their life, but until now I hadn’t drawn a straight line between these points.
“There’s a side door,” the driver said.
“Thank you,” Whit said. To me, she added, “If there’s one thing you do today, let it be extending the greatest amount of grace to the family. If they need more time, give it. If they need to hear about the recipients, tell them as much as privacy will allow. If they want to know that we’ll care for the donor like they’re family, promise them that. And then do it.”
I studied Whit as we filed into the staff entrance and up to the surgical floor. I’d always known her to be serious. Even at the wedding, she was fun, but she wasseriousfun. She committed to it, she played hard. Here, at work, she was seriously skilled. Competent in ways that knocked me back a few steps and made me want to stop people in the halls, saying,Have you seen this badass woman?
And she felt everything in deep, serious ways.
It was easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. I knew I’d missed it a few times. I’d also filed it away as stubbornness, avoidance, even apathy. But I knew better now. I knew there was a great big emotional world right under her surface yet she barely let it show. Almost like she was afraid to get caught feeling too much.
We scrubbed in and lined up in the OR in the order that the organs would be retrieved. I’d done this several times with Salas and Hirano. I thought I knew what to expect. I was wrong.
Whitney wasted no time telling the team retrieving the donor heart how to do it more efficiently. She stepped right up andshowed them, critiqued their work, and then waved me over to learn along with everyone else.
The heart cupped in the palm of her hands as she examined it, Whit said, “This is a good one. It has many more years left in it. Take care of it.”
I stared at her across the table as she moved along to retrieving the lungs, knowing I loved her and that I’d never recover from it.
The procedure wrappedup quickly and we were out the door, heading for the airport. When we boarded the jet, I sat down beside her. She didn’t object.
“You know,” I said as we taxied the runway, “you’rereallyfast. Have you considered the possibility that not everyone can be as quick as you?”
“Please don’t tell me you’re not up to the challenge.”
“You know that’s not the case.” I nudged her with my elbow. “You just walked in there and took the fuck over. Even the attending was like,Let me get out of your way.That team from Buffalo is going to talk about that for years. It’s going to come up at someone’s retirement party decades down the road. Those guys from Cornell were taking notes. Is there anything you can’t do?”
“Oh, yeah. For sure. So many things.”
“Name them. I’m making a list.”
She held out her hands and let them fall to her lap. “I’m terrible at diagnosing rashes. It’s all atopic dermatitis to me.”
“No. Not nearly enough. I need you to be actually bad at something other than rashes and softball.”
“Wow, you just had to bring up softball, didn’t you?”
“The scales needed balancing.” I shrugged. “Had to be done.”
“Well, I guess I’m actually bad at relationships.”
It got real like the music going out at the club and the lights coming on. “Okay,” I managed. “That’s better than rashes.”
“I don’t have a lot of experience,” she continued. “Things never really worked out and then I stopped looking.” She glanced at me. “And here I am.”
“Here we are.”
