Something about her provokes a familiar itch in my brain, a memory just beyond my reach. Have I met her before? Pissed her off somehow? But no, I would definitely remember her. I’m sure of it.
“It’s really cool that you get to work in two different settings here,” I tell her, aiming for some semblance of amicability. “I’ve never met another nurse in your position. You must have really impressed Dr. Planck.”
She grunts. Fucking grunts at me, like she can’t bear to utter words in my direction. She eyes Dr. Gambill, or George, as we call him, one of the other third-year residents and the most unrepentant asshole I’ve ever met.
“Does everything look okay here?” Kendall keeps her gaze on him, not offering the same courtesy to me.
George nods but doesn’t smile. I really don’t like the guy. Why is Kendall being nice to him and not me? Of the two of us, I’m much more polite to nurses. Hell, I’ve never had a complaint fromanystaff members about how I treat them.
Dr. Planck, the attending, a tall, solid man with a trimmed beard, scrubs in and positions himself across from me. He looks at me and George in turn. “Questions?”
I shake my head. “I’m ready.”
George responds in kind, and Kendall dips her chin. Even her mask doesn’t hide her frown as she maintains eye contact with everyone but me. She stands near me, but I’m surprisedthe side of my surgical gown hasn’t frozen with the force of her frigid disdain.
I shake off the concern. I’ve got a job to do, and I plan to be competent at it.
Dr. Planck allows me to have a lot of responsibility, given how routine the procedure is, with his occasional guidance. The scents of the operating room almost soothe me: antiseptic, surgical smoke, a little sweat. The sound of the drill whirring reminds me of the one on my tool bench at home. People joke about orthopedics being carpentry for the human body, and there might be truth to that. Some chatter rises up around me as I drill into the femur, and I get pulled into a conversation or two about weekend plans—being a resident, my response to the “what are you doing this weekend” question is usually “working,” but I provide a comment or two, anyway. One of the things that surprised me as a med student was the amount of talking going on during routine surgical procedures. The suite quiets during the more focused or sensitive parts of surgeries, or when someone’s life hangs in the balance, but otherwise the staff might as well be having lunch together. I’ve learned to tune things out.
Kendall, for her part, assists me with more wordless scorn. If I didn’t know better, I’d worry about her stabbing me with a scalpel. She’s all good-natured cheer with Dr. Planck, though, and she’s a phenomenal scrub nurse, anticipating my needs and talking through a few details of the surgery with Dr. Planck. I can see why the attending’s impressed with her.
“Thank you,” I tell her when we’re washing our hands at the scrub sink after the procedure. “You were amazing back there.”
She turns her head toward me. The little twitch of her lips makes me think she might be about to smile at me, but then she rolls her eyes. Sherolls her eyes.
“You’re welcome, Dr. Wyndham.” Her husky voice curlsaround my name like a boa constrictor squeezing the life out of something, like she wants to crush it with the force of her hatred.
What is wrong with this woman?
I corner Dr. Planck at the end of the day.
“I’ve done something to make Kendall mad,” I say, “and I can’t figure out what it is.”
Dr. Planck lifts his bushy brows. “If she doesn’t like you, then it would have to be something you’ve done. I haven’t seen that from her before.”
I hold back from huffing out a breath. That’s exactly what I said. “Should I try to clear the air?”
“I’ll talk to her about it.” The doctor thumps me on the shoulder, then walks away.
And what will I do if that doesn’t get us anywhere? I can’t work well with a nurse who hates me. Frankly, it’s pissing me off. What the hell is her problem?
By Friday night, I’m a zombie. Though the joint replacement rotation isn’t as grueling as some of my other rotations, I spent the night at the hospital last night, and I’m running on caffeine, protein bars, and fantasies involving my pillow and a solid five hours of sleep.
It’s the life of a resident: eighty hours or more each week, sleepless nights, and work conditions that should be illegal but are designed to harden you in the face of the realities of being a surgeon. Unlike my trauma rotation, which still haunts me, this one mostly involves patients who aren’t in mortal peril. I shudder as I think of an eleven-year-old I treated in my second year of residency who nearly lost a leg in a car accident. We managed to save him and his leg, but the kid nearly lost his life, and I picture the faces of his parents at least once a week.
The heat of the late evening air swamps me on my way from my car to my front door. It’s the part of summer that drags on, each week closer to the promise of cooler, drier days in the fall, but it still feels endless by the time September rolls around. I open my front door and stroll into the kitchen, where the sight of a woman’s nearly bare ass under a threadbare T-shirt greets me.
“Hello?” I stand in my own house, looking anywhere but at the woman in front of me.
She squawks and rushes to stretch her, or more likely my roommate’s, shirt over her ass. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. Adam told me you wouldn’t be here yet.”
“Ah. Yes. Well, I guess I’m here earlier than he thought.”
She hurries back to my roommate’s bedroom before slamming the door. I chuckle to myself.
Adam strolls out into the common area and stops by the kitchen, where I’m pulling a beer out of the fridge. One would think I would go straight to bed after an almost sleepless night, and even I don’t understand why I don’t just go collapse. All I know is that I’ll toss and turn if I don’t have an hour to sit and relax.
Adam’s paramour walks out behind him, and he plants a quick kiss on her cheek before she scurries to the door. He scratches at his bearded chin, aiming a sheepish look in my direction.
