That’s a lot of pressure.
After a few years, it gets to your head.
Makes you do crazy things in order to cope.
So that’s what I do, perform one or two of these horrific, impossible operations, then go bat shit crazy and run out into the world and do stupid, dangerous things, like breaking into people’s houses when they’re on vacation, and assuming their lives.
VI
The Calfees are a young, pretty couple, with tons of money. This situation with Lainey Sue is probably the first bad thing that’s ever happened to them that couldn’t be solved with cash and a phone call.
After failing to find reassurance in my eyes, Jordan falls into her husband’s arms and sobs.
I’d love to give this couple hope, but like I said, I don’t get the easy cases. When I get the call it means a child’s condition has passed critical. It means hope has left the building.
Like most dads before him, Will says, “We want Lainey Sue to have the finest treatment available. Spare no expense. Money’s no object.”
This probably impresses Jordan, but in my experience it’s complete and utter bullshit.
After the fact, he’ll complain about the bill, the access, the forms, rules and regulations, the nurses in the recovery unit, and everything else that inconveniences him in the slightest. He’ll threaten to sue me and the hospital over our fees.
After all, I killed his kid. Why should he pay me two hundred grand?
Or I saved his kid, which means I did my job, like the world’s greatest plumber does his job unclogging the family toilet.
So sure, the hospital and I deserve something, but two hundred grand?
How can we possibly charge two hundred grand for a days’ work?
In most cases it’s not even their money at stake, it’s an insurance issue. But he’ll threaten to sue over the deductible, or the overage, or the out-of-pocket, or the increased future premium assessment.
Before the operation we’re all supposed to hold hands and be friends. Afterward, he won’t give a rat’s ass about me, or what I had to go through to save his child.
And neither will Jordan.
I don’t say any of this to the Calfees, which proves I’m getting better at these parent conferences despite the stack of complaints in my personnel file.
“Everyone says you’re the best,” Jordan says. “I know it’s bad, but you’ll save Lainey, right? You will, won’t you?”
When they beg, it’s like I’m drinking the chalk. I’ll need a toilet soon.
Jordan pulls away from her husband and gets right up in my face. Could there be any emotion on earth more raw and heartbreaking than a mother’s love for her dying child? Jordan’s red eyes and wet cheeks are love’s battlefield. When she speaks, her hot, sweet breath fans my lips and fills my nostrils.
“Please, Dr. Box.”
Despite the dire situation, despite Jordan’s considerable beauty, wealth, and status, I see exactly what she wants me to see.
She’s a good person.
By extension, her husband and daughter are good, worthy people.
Of course, I already know this.
She grips my wrist. “I need to know there’s hope.”
I glance at Nurse Sally’s baleful look before responding. She’s Mike Tyson in a dress, only angrier.
Sally’s told me time and again the moms need something to cling to. Something to get them through the multi-hour ordeal that lies ahead. But I won’t give any parent false hope. Sally knows this, but the look in her face says she’s ready to leap across the room and royally fuck…me…up.
I ignore Sally’s look as I always do, and tell Jordan what I tell all the moms.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Calfee. There’s no hope. You need to spend the next few hours adjusting to life without Lainey Sue.”
Jordan backs away slowly, drops to the couch, stunned.
Nurse Sally shouts, “ Oh no, you didn’t! ” And comes out of her chair like a rocket. She launches a meaty fist toward my throat. Joe steps between us, catches the blow on his forearm, and ushers me from the room.
VII
I don’t hear what happens next, but the routine’s always the same. The dads get angry. The moms cry. They demand to speak to the hospital administrator, Bruce Luce. They want a replacement surgeon, refusing to trust their child’s operation to one who’s already given up.
Bruce is on standby when I meet the parents, so he shows up quickly, finds Nurse Sally hugging Jordan to her ample bosom, Security Joe staring straight ahead with dead eyes while Will curses and threatens to physically assault me.
Bruce says, “We warned you in advance Dr. Box has a terrible bedside manner. He’s a genius, not a communicator. But remember, he’s never lost a patient at this hospital, or any other.”
“Never?” they say.
“Around here he’s called ‘The Miracle,’ and for good reason. Thirty-two hopeless cases. No fatalities.”
“I don’t like him!” Jordan says.
“I don’t either,” Bruce says. “In fact, I hate his guts. But he’ll find a way to save Lainey.”
“How could he stand there and say there’s no hope?” Will asks.
“It takes the pressure off him to be perfect.”
Nurse Sally pipes in, “The truth is Doc Box ain’t fit to be in the company of man nor beast. The good Lord pulled every ounce of useful goodness outta that man at birth, and stuck a lump of coal where his heart should be.”
“But?” Jordan says.
“But he’s the one you want in that room with Lainey, because he never gives up. He’ll fight the devil to save your child. And he will save her. But after he does, leave him be. Don’t go looking for him. Don’t try to thank him.”
“Why?”
“This ain’t a celebratin’ sort of man. You’ve seen him at his best, not his worst. Trust me, you’ll do well to leave him to his lonely miserableness.”
Jordan and Will grudgingly sign off on the surgical procedure, and for the next six to eight hours, I reside in hell.
Of course, Lainey Sue died.
VIII
Lainey Sue died several times on my table, but with her walnut-sized heart in my skilled hands, she came back to life again and again. You’d think this kid was Joan of Arc, the way she fought so valiantly! I got into it like I always do, hurling blood-curdling insults at my colleagues, my hospital, Lainey Sue, her innards, her parents, and even Calfee Coffee, which I actually like.
By the time it was over the nurses were sobbing with joy, and I’d gone through my entire repertoire of oaths and cuss words at least six times, having used them in every possible combination.
My hands were cramped beyond use, my nerves frayed, and the tendons in my back and neck were twisted and gnarled like Gordian Knots from the mental and physical exhaustion that comes from total concentration while standing in a precise position for hours at a time. Like always, the pain in my head felt life-threatening.
On the table, Lainey Sue was resting quietly, pink and fit.
Nurse Janet gushed, “What an amazing little girl! She absolutely refused to die!”
To me she said, “I’m filing a grievance against you for sexual harassment and verbal abuse.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “You’ve worked with me before. You know how I am.”
“Never again. I’m done.”
“We just saved a life here. Do you really care about a few cuss words?”
“You’re getting worse.”
“How?”
“You’re a complete psychopath. You called me the C-word. You barked like a dog.”
“Which C-word?”
“All of them. You called me things that didn’t even make sense.”
“I was in a zone!”
Nurse Margaret said, “She’s right. I’ve never heard such vile language. You should be ashamed of yourself!”
She shook her head. “And the things you said to that poor child? And the names you called her?”
She crossed herself.