I work faster. Clamp, clamp. Knot, knot.
“Just wait.” I start a baseball stitch along the torn pieces. Inside to outside, inside to outside.
“Two point five liters.”
Gradually, it comes back together, and the bleeding diminishes to nothing. White lets me work, proving to be a phenomenal first assist. When the uterus looks like a uterusagain—well, a Halloween-y version of one, anyway—White raises his blue eyes to take me in. Is that a twinkle I detect behind his eyewear? “Impressive work, Doctor.”
Impressive?
“I didn’t think we’d get it.” He holds his hand out for the needle drivers, throwing a few more sutures so we’ll both sleep better tonight.
I chuckle, cutting the thread for him. “She wanted to keep her uterus, right? Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Or some shit like that.”
He barks out a laugh. “Had a case like this before. Long time ago. I took her uterus.” He leans in closer. “She cried to me for weeks. It was such a headache.”
I nod, unsurprised. Stories like that are why we have terrible reputations now. Look at me, tearing down the system, one patient at a time.
“I like your style, son,” he says. “Heard you were good in the OR. Nice to see it’s actually true.”
He— He’d heard... what now?
“So much is changing around here, but looks like they’re still training doctors the right way.”
Well, perhaps a little more humanely than the old days, but yes. My training was excellent.
“Did you know they’re removing the transcription service?”
I didn’t even know we had a transcription service. Such an antiquated way to chart—dictate over the phone, so someone can type it out for you? Why would anyone do that? Faster just to type it myself, especially with templates.
I retract tissue so he can close the fascia. His technique is flawless, but I suppose that’s what thirty years of experience will get you. “I didn’t know,” I say. “Don’t really use it.”
He hums. “Us old guys never learned to type like you young’uns, you know. Why do you think I pushed so hard for them to pay for that Dragon software?”
Omg.
OMG.
Ha.
Of course.
All the puzzle pieces fall together in my mind. This old man with connections and clout doesn’t want to type, so he persuades some upper-management guy that the hospital needs a speech-driven charting tool. Because he’s old AF. Stuck in his ways. Stubborn.
His eyes glint playfully. “Convinced them they’ll save money this way.”
“Will they?”
He chuckles. “Probably not. But if they make me type my operative notes, I’m retiring, and I know several of the old guard will do the same. Told them if they want to prevent a mass exodus, they’ll help a fellow out.”
A laugh is all I can manage. Of course admin’s pushing it on us—they want to justify their investment. Here I thought this Dragon crap was being foisted upon us for nothing, when really, the hospital is begging us to appease those who can’t keep up with the times. I thought this man believed I was a child-doctor-idiot, but he’s just used to medical hazing.
He would have taken her uterus. I saved it.
Well, hell. I’m not inadequate after all, am I? I’m just young. I’m innovative. I can type seventy words per minute. I save uteruses.
I do things differently. Nothing wrong with that. Why did it take me so long to understand that? It’s... freeing.
Will probably still need the Tums, though. These aren’t beliefs that reverse overnight, and my job isn’t exactly a vacation. But hey, this is a fantastic start. Thanks, Dr. White, you decrepit bastard. Asher 2.0 will be the best one yet.
