ASTON
Isquint at the monitor, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. Or not seeing in this case. The laparoscopic images flicker, blur, then clear for a moment before distorting again. What the absolute fuck? This is the third time in the last few weeks something like this has happened to me, and it’s a different machine than the last one I had an issue with.
My jaw clenches, and I take a deep breath to rein in my ire. “The image is unstable,” I announce to the OR team, keeping my voice calm despite the frustration building in my chest. “Can someone check the connections?”
The scrub tech immediately moves to inspect the equipment while I hold my position, the freaking laparoscope inside this kid’s belly. It’s a simple exploratory laparotomy following a fall, and I should be close to finished by now.
“Everything appears connected properly,” the tech offers after a moment.
Josh shifts his weight across from me. “Maybe it’s your technique. Or your eyes, perhaps.” His voice drips withfalse concern. “Have you had your vision checked lately? It appears to me as though you’re putting too much tension on the scope.”
I ignore him, focusing on the screen as the image stabilizes. “There we go. Let’s continue.”
“I’m just saying,” Josh persists, “it seems as though these incidents have happened a lot with your cases lately. Perhaps you should consider?—”
“Dr. Wesley,” I cut him off sharply. “I need suction here, not useless babbling and commentary from the peanut gallery.”
The OR falls silent except for the steady beep of the monitors and the soft hiss of the ventilator. I proceed carefully, localizing a bleeder near the spleen, but just as I set up to apply a clip, the applicator refuses to grip.
“What the hell?” I bark, pulling back slightly. “The jaw isn’t grasping.”
Josh sighs dramatically. “We should have been done by now, don’t you think?”
I swear, this motherfucker will die if he doesn’t shut up. I glance up at the clock. It’s been forty minutes, and I don’t like this little guy under this long. I try again, but it’s still not gripping, which means I can’t apply the clip where I need it.
“I’m going to open him up. I’m not going to risk this kid’s safety with malfunctioning equipment. Ten blade, please.”
“Are you sure that’s necessary?” Josh challenges loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Maybe if you try again with the right technique. Going open means longer recovery time, more pain?—”
“I didn’t ask for your thoughts, and last I checked, it’s my call.”
The scope is pulled from the abdomen, and everyone gets into gear to switch procedures. I’m handed a scalpel, and given where I saw the bleeder, I make the smallest incision possible that will allow me to get where I need to be to stop the bleeding.
The next twenty minutes are tense. Converting mid-procedure always is, but with Josh questioning my every move, it’s worse. I feel the eyes of the entire team barreling down on me, but I’m able to locate the source of the bleeding, and with a few sutures, the leak is stopped, and the kid’s vitals are pristine. Thank fuck for that.
“You can close up,” I tell the intern beside me, and I stand over her as she silently works.
“Equipment fails sometimes,” Josh muses with a shrug. “But three times in as many weeks, always during your procedures and no one else’s? People are starting to talk.”
I glare up at him, making sure the light from my headlamp flashes in his eyes. “About what?”
He squints against the light but holds steady. “About whether you’re still at the top of your game. As we all know, stress can affect performance. I heard your home life is… complicated.”
I laugh. “My home life has nothing to do with equipment failures,” I tell him evenly. “And maybe you should leave your jealousy for my home life outside of the OR instead of spreading bullshit rumors about my performance. As it is, Dr. Wesley, you have yet to show me anything regarding a decent, let alone good, performance. Maybe if you focused more on yourself and less on me, you’d be a better surgeon.”
Before he can respond, my phone goes off. The circulating nurse checks it. “There’s a problem with some orders for one of your patients, Dr. Hughes.”
That’s been another thing. I look over at the intern. “Dr. Wesley can help you finish.” Without another word, I walk out of the OR to scrub out, my jaw locked and my shoulders tense. For how amazing this week started with seeing the baby and being with Skylar, it all feels like it’s going to hell now. I just want this shift to end. I just want to be with my girls and relax.
But that’s not going to happen right now.
After I scrub out, I read through the text and check the orders on a computer near the nurses’ station. Holy shit. This has the patient getting ten milligrams per kilogram per hour of morphine instead of ten micrograms per kilogram per hour. That’s a dangerously high dose and a life-threatening mistake. How is that even possible that it was put in here like that? I didn’t order it that way. I’m positive I didn’t.
I always double-check my orders. Always.
Much like the equipment failure, this isn’t the first time my orders have been wrong, or more like they have seemingly been changed.
I rub my hand over my head and remove my surgical cap as ice slithers through my veins. After what just happened in the OR and now seeing this, I can’t help but think someone is actively trying to sabotage me. The first few times this happened, I figured it was exactly as it was. A mistake in orders. Faulty equipment. But no. This is intentional.
