I hear Colt call over to Kari for music, “Theotherone,” and I’m about to ask him what other playlist he’s finally put together because I’m ready to listen to anything besides angry screams.
I wasn’t ready, however, to hear the electric piano intro to my favorite Survivor song leak through the ceiling speakers.
My movements freeze, and I stare at the drapes in front of me for a long moment, so long the intro turns into the first verse, and my head slowly swivels toward Colt. I lock eyes with his beefy chest, before letting myself look up, up to finally meet his navy blue eyes.
They bore into me, both of us fixated on each other while the rest of the OR fades into white noise.
“I thought you said you’d never play Survivor in your OR,” I manage to squeak out.
The crinkles along the sides of his eyes deepen. “Right now, it’syourOR, Dr. Keeton. I’m just a guest here.”
My OR.
My breath hitches, and I almost wheeze.Don’t let me fall for you, I think.Don’t make leaving here in a few months harder than it’s already going to be.
“Would you like to proceed, Dr. Keeton?”
Colt’s deep voice draws me back to the present, and I finally stop staring at him. I look around to the rest of the staff who appear to be curiously watching our interaction.
I force my eyes forward and back to my work, nodding to Colt’s question. “Yes, Dr. Andrews.”
I listen to the lyrics for another few seconds, feeling the sounds of my favorite song fill my veins and tamp the nervousness that had been swirling under my skin.
With the tools in place, we fill our patient’s belly with gas, allowing for more space to work. Muscle memory kicks in, and I use the bowel graspers to move the small intestine out of the way. Colt and I both watch the camera screen as I make my window, firing off a series of staples at the base of the appendix. I adjust my stance, moving to place the first set of staples at the mesoappendix to cut off blood supply when my gun misfires.
A splash of blood hits the laparoscope, and the camera screen goes red.
My own blood stills in my veins, and my hands freeze. My mind goes completely void of anything I have ever learned. All I see is red, and I imagine the vessel pumping blood, filling the cavity. I imagine the numbers on the monitor fall as my patient bleeds out, and I spiral.
Colt looks at me, his movement void of any real emotion, and he waits.
My stomach roils, a sour taste begging to lurch from my throat. I let go of the tools, ready to grab the laparoscope from his hands and let him take over, but his deep voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Your patient is bleeding, Dr. Keeton. What do you do?”
I freeze, my mind blanking with fear. The seconds feel like they’re racing by, and I look around to the support staff, expecting to see the same terrified expressions on their faces. My gaze then turns to Colt, and my eyes beg him to take over, to push me out of the way and save our patient, but he doesn’t move.
“Dr. Keeton,” Colt booms again. “Focus. Work the problem.”
The problem.
Pictures of my anatomy textbook flash in my mind. The appendix. The vessels that makeup the blood supply to the mesoappendix. I can picture the artery that the staple nicked. My options are limited. I know I can try to clip the part of the vessel that’s bleeding, or I can burn it closed.
“Cautery,” I rasp, clearing my throat as I reach for my tools again. “Cautery.”
We work in tandem to pull out one set of bowel grasps and I insert the cautery tool. With one grasper clamping the pumping vessel, I use the other to burn it closed. Minutes tick by, and it feels like an eternity before the bleeding slows down.
When it’s finally stopped and I stare at the mess on the camera, embarrassment burns my cheeks.
“We’re clear. Continue,” Colt says, his voice neutral.
I move through the rest of the procedure, removing the appendix and suctioning the cavity. Once suction is complete, and the view looks clear, I wait.
I watch for any further signs of bleeding before I look up toward anesthesia to review vitals. Once everything seems in place, I finally allow myself to exhale a painful breath then remove the tools to close the cavity.
The overhead lights flick on, and Colt backs away from the table. The team works quietly, efficiently, and I somehow can’t recall if it’s how they always work. Usually, once the seriousness of the procedure is over I’m already peppering Colt with questions. I don’t tend to notice the support staff as much when he’s around, so right now, with murmurs and soft expressions, my anxiety spikes.
My dad will likely hear about this.
