Thank god, Jason knows me so well and insisted on finding the right doctor. When they spoke to this center, we hit a blip. Thanks to my football fame, Dr. Richard obliged. The team management agreed to send their private jet to fetch her. Every minute of the wait for her to arrive is a pain. "What do you think, Doc?"
Dr. Thomas pauses his examination before continuing his task. He takes pictures of the wound from his phone. Then he places a probe, attached to what is some sort of scanning machine, on my leg.
"The injury justifies your worry but as Sharon always says, let us take it one step at a time. Our first task is to put this together." Dr. Thomas points to my leg and walks out.
Amidst all the preparations, Dr. Richard comes over to check on me. He brings good news. "She is about to land. We should be able to start soon."
Chapter 4: Operation Fix Him Up
Sharon
By the time I land at the Boston airport, I have reviewed all the medical records and the video footage of the game. After landing, I access the close-up images of the wound sent by Tom on the shared drive. They confirm my fears. On the way to the hospital, I chart out the surgical plan and brief Tom. This case will need a lot of hard work and patience. I wonder if Mr. Footsy has it in him to walk the difficult path post-surgery.
I hate to admit it, but Richard was right. Mr. Hayes needs me or at least the We-TO repair. Short for Wells-Tom repair. I and Tom came up with the name on a crazy night. We were celebrating the return to competition of an Olympic gymnast after she wrecked her ankle while landing from a somersault on her floor routine. Her coach came up to us to thank us for the hundredth time. She asked us about what we call the surgery. Weto came out of my and Tom's mouth at the same time.
When we published the results, we modified it to We-TO to give a fancy spin to the name. I had researched different materials for surgical grafts. Tom had been studying different angles and threads on screws and metal plates. When I joined B and N. Care, we combined our efforts. If we do go ahead with this surgery, Mr. Hayes will be the fourth major athlete and the nineteenth patient to have this procedure under us. I can't wait to see the results. From our case series published six months back, we had demonstrated a reduction in recovery time and better return to activities with lesser complications.
From the airport, a helicopter takes me to the hospital. If the circumstances had been different, I would have enjoyed the ride and spent time taking a short tutorial from the pilot. Some other day, I rein in the adventure junkie inside.
About a dozen people are waiting at the makeshift helipad made in a park near the hospital. Before Richard begins his PR drama, I have to stop him. Every minute is precious and there is no time to lose.
"Richard, there is no time for this welcoming party. I only need the immediate family."
In the group, I recognize Mrs. Hayes. Her face resembling the one on Jonathan's medical records. A sixty-year-old female version. I did not have time to check Jon's social media profile. Not that I am some kind of stalker, but I like to be familiar with my patients' faces and the social environment they live in.
Under normal circumstances, I would gather all this information during my work up in the run-up to the surgery. I believe what is happening in a patient's life and inside their head contributes to the speed of recovery. This scenario was unusual; I have not met him or spoken to him, though something is familiar. With Mrs. Hayes' hand in mine, we walk to the department. Others follow.
"Will he be all right?" A mother's voice of concern. I hug Mrs. Hayes. Oh yes, I am that kind of doctor. The touchy-feely type.
As a doctor, I find this part of my work difficult. How do you balance optimism and pragmatism, without disappointing the patient or the family? It has to be done. So, I walk the tightrope with my words.
"Let me examine his leg. It is a complicated injury. We expect a lot of tissue and nerve damage. But you need to be strong during this time. Your son will need all his mental strength to walk out of this."
Mrs. Hayes eyes are teary as she speaks, "Jon is a strong boy but this time, the injury worries him. Football is his life. Since the injury tonight, everyone keeps telling him he has no chance of playing again."
We stop outside the Operating room. I take her hands in mine and squeeze them. "Have faith, Mrs. Hayes. We will work with Jonathan and you to help him recover from this injury." As a doctor, I know I can't promise a hundred percent recovery, but in my heart, I swear to do my best. God help me.
I take Mrs. Hayes to the counseling room outside the operating room. Tom is waiting for me with all the paperwork done, including the high-risk consent. I explain the procedure and risks in the cramped room, focusing all my attention on Jonathan's mother. His agent Stephen and sister Emily quiz me on the post-op recovery. It takes thirty minutes to answer their questions and settle their anxiety.
When I enter the pre-op room, I find Mr. Hayes in a foul mood. Some patients are difficult. Then there are difficult patients. The absolute worst is like the one throwing tantrums on the operation table. Jon is displaying all the symptoms of Very Irritating Patient syndrome. High-strung and demanding. They harass the staff, but not under my care. Mr. Jonathan Hayes may be MVP on the green grass, but this is my lair. He needs to stay on the ground and play ball on my rules.
"When will the damn surgeon arrive?" his voice booms across the OR.
"The 'damn surgeon' is here, Mr. Hayes." I try hard to subdue the volume, but the tone is as sharp as his. It has the desired effect. He turns his head and faces me.
He watches bug-eyed as I walk towards the stretcher. The first thing which catches my eye is his forearm. Then it hits me—the tattoo of the dragon breathing fire on the forearm, which had been etched in my mind from our last meeting ages ago. His face on the medical records seemed familiar, but I had dismissed it. He was famous. Might have seen his pic in the news. But now, with him in front of me, despite the drapes and the IV lines, my mind races back to the flat tire.
"YOU!"
Our voices boomed in unison. Mine in panic and surprise. His in excitement, like a child who got his greatest Christmas present. Our volume draws everyone's attention.
How the hell did Fred from the highway end up in my OR? I mean, Fred, who is Jon from the interstate. This is trouble. You remember, right? Yes, the boy-girl type. I bite my lip. Oh, God. What am I going to do?
"Hi Tigress, do Kung Fu masters mend bones?" The cocky custard with a 'b'. He doesn't hide the smirk when he addresses me. The dimple on his left cheek is killing. Last time, a thirty-minute meeting made me drool for a week.
Go suck a sucker. Alarms go off inside my head. Pull yourself together, Sharon. This is no time for a romance novel. Don't you go rolling your eyes! Even an uptight girl like me needs to unwind sometimes. I am allowed to play a few games in my mind with a certain 6-foot plus tattooed reference point, but that was when we were never expected to meet again.
What now? How do I deal with this situation? You tell me because those mind games are now taboo. He is my patient. My inner voice emerges on the scene. A la Lara Croft style. Yup, she is a badass about to bite my ass off. She stands arms crossed giving me the glares. You better focus on the case, missy. Get the unprofessional smoochy images out of your head, Dr. Sharon.
A snarky retort to Jon's quip is on the tip of my tongue, but I roll it back and instead grunt my frustration. No use feeding Tom's suspicion laced squinting eyes and the uncompromising gun-wielding Ms. Croft. I busy myself with examining his leg. Even with the wounds cleaned, the injury is worse than what the images suggested.
"Fuck. Did you growl at me?"
"Mind your language, Mr. Hayes." I cross my hands to stop them from squeezing his neck.
Jon relents. " Sorry, but can you fix this?"
Did he just question my ability? How infuriating. "Is something bothering you here?" My face heats up. Not sure at what exactly—his ability to get under my skin or the frustration at having to be near him till he recovers.
> "No, I want to know if you can fix this, so I can get back to the playing field." Jon won't let go. Somehow, I get a feeling that this will be a running thread throughout his care.
I should be straight with him. "I can fix this, but going back to football is something only time will tell."
"I don't want this surgery if I can't play." Jon pouts and crosses his arms.
What is he? A child? Upset at not getting his favorite candy.
With this attitude, he will bring the worst out of me. He is stepping on all my wrong nerves. I count till ten before I respond, "I understand your concern, but it is a difficult choice. Either we operate, or you lose more time finding another doctor. What do you want?"
That did not come out the way I wanted it to. Two can play this stubborn ass game, so I mimic him and cross my arms over my chest, daring him to refuse the surgery.
He sighs and lies back. Jon stares at the ceiling, his face tense. Fear and pain surface when his eyebrows bunch together as he pinches the bridge of his nose. My hands itch to reach out and comfort him, but I hold them steady. Instead, I use words to get him out of his funk. "It will get better from here on."
The show of vulnerability disappears in a flash.
"Fine, have your way." He is back to his snarky ways.
"Great. I hope my colleagues here explained to you what we will be doing."
I wait for his nod. What now, a staring match? Jonny boy, you can't win this one. He relents and agrees to go ahead.
"Sleep well, Mr. Hayes," Tom chimes in. Jon ignores him keeping his attention on me. "Are you nervous, Doc?"
His question throws me off. I stare at him in confusion. He points to my hand twirling my curls. "You play with your hair a lot or is it a means to quieten your unease. You did it a lot in our last meeting."
Cocky custard to the 'b' square. My finger releases the curl wrapped around it. Ignore him my brain warns. I turn to get ready for the operation and mumble to myself, "jerk."
"Heard you, Doc." Gosh, can't this man keep his volume down? Attention seeking disorderly behavior. Oh, don't go getting ideas now. It is not a disease. It's a personality trait. This man has loads of that attitude.
I try to ignore his words, but can't as I feel Jon's eyes on my back. God help me for what I do next. I turn to stare at him and then stick my tongue out. What am I, an eight-year-old? The blood rushes back to my face. It becomes hot when he smiles and winks. I walked right into it and made a mockery of my pride. Hand me a spade. A five-foot-six hole will be enough for me.
"You hitting on me, Tigress?"
My restraint snaps. Jon's words elicit an instant reaction from me, "Shut up, Po." Whoa! Way to go girl. A perfect riposte for your age bracket.
The OR goes still. Great, now we have an audience. The man about to go under the knife gives a gleeful chuckle.
The blame lies on your shoulders. Free entertainment, huh. Wait for a while, you will pay for what you have done. I asked for a spade you handed me the keys to an excavator enabling me to dig myself deeper. Now be kind and hand me your invisibility cloak. You don't have it. Oh, hell. Where is Scotty when you need him to beam you out? Now I am stuck here with a sports jock smiling away and an operating room full of eyes peeping at me from between their head caps and face masks.
I need to disengage before I burn myself by saying something stupid. I shuffle my way out of the tattooed popsicle's trance. Shit, the image sends dirty emojis trampolining in my mind. Distraction alert. The pre-op checklist catches my eye. I take it from Carla, the anesthetist. She is making the final preps.
Tom joins us as we discuss the surgical path. This will be a perfect case for the We-TO procedure. The surgery will take time and team effort. Dr. Bradford, the neurosurgeon, and Dr. Henry, the vascular surgeon, are washing up to join us.
When I lift my eyes, Jon is staring at me. I am used to the temperature in the OR but still, a shiver runs through me. Some nervous energy, probably because of all the stares Jon is giving me. I divert my attention and address the team, "Let me speak to the family and change. We will begin in fifteen minutes."
"Hey, what about me? Don't I have a right to know?" Jon goes off the instant I step away.
Will this guy leave me alone? If the table were made of glass, I am sure the edge would have snapped under my grip. Years of professional training comes handy.
"Yes, you do." I put on my best doctor's voice and go through all the steps of the surgery. Again. He keeps butting in between with his questions. Most of them which I answered before. He wears my patience thin. Before Jon can ask another question, I rush out to speak to the family.
When I come back, Jon is under sedation and has been given spinal anesthesia. We start the surgery. I am not a talkative person. Not during surgery. But the late-night call from Richard and the flight have taken away precious sleep. Fatigue hits my brain. To break the silence, I ask Tom about his girlfriend.
"How was your night out with Maddy?"
"No progress," Tom speaks from the other side of the operating table. He doesn't enjoy speaking about his personal life. He has his reasons, for I give him hell on his behavior.
I begin the debridement. "What does that mean?"
"Well, I don't think she is the one." I find him shrugging when I look up for a second.
"Tom, you have been dating her for over two years. Stop fooling around and playing with that girl's life. Why do you men run away from committing in a relationship?" Sometimes I play Tom's mother to fluster him.
"Hear, hear. Says the woman who has not had a relationship in five years." Trust Tom to bring this up every time we talk about settling down.
"Hey now, don't go after me because I showed you the mirror." I squint to dare him.
"Two can play the game", Tom sneers.
But I won't let him win this argument. "To answer your accusation, I have not been in a relationship because I have not found someone I wish to spend time with."
"Come on Sharon, who are you kidding? You push away anyone who makes a move. Remember my cousin, how many times he wanted to take you out, but you kept refusing." Carla jumps in with her two bits.
I roll my eyes at her. "Carla, I am sorry about that. At this stage, I am not sure I want a relationship. I come with a lot of baggage. Men don't want that."
"Hey, you've had a difficult past, but it does not mean that all men should be painted with the same color. If you are willing to explore, there are a few good ones in the world." Carla is the relationship expert in our team. I can't blame her for being married for the past fifteen years.
"Don't gang up on me, guys. I don't want to talk about relationships at this moment." I plead with both of them.
"Ok, but what is this thing about Kung fu coaching, 'Tigress'? Where did you meet this guy?" Tom emphasizes the Tigress in a sly tone. I should have known—Tom would not let such an opportunity go.
When I look up from the surgery, there are six pairs of eyes on me. My mouth dries up—what am I going to say? We are a close-knit bunch and I am in trouble. I have to explain, or they will speculate about Jon's antics.
"Remember that patient's wedding, when you loaned me your SUV?"
"You've got to be kidding me! You got the highest-paid NFL star to change tires?" The mischief is apparent in Tom's voice. "Oh my God, which tire was it? I will hang it in my house as a cherished souvenir."
I stare at Tom, dumbfounded. He is the most decent person I have met and yet here he is, acting silly. I sigh. Maybe I should let him live out his fanboy moment, because all Tom ever talks about, is patients and football. "The one on the rear, on the right side."
Tom does a fist pump. "A two-time MVP, a Super Bowl champion, changed the tires on my SUV. Boy, oh boy! The guys in my club will never believe it. How did you get him to do it, Sharon?"
"Waved a red flag. Then drugged him when he stopped." Under the surgeon's cap, Tom won't be able to see my eyebrows touching my hairline. " For the record, they offered. I did not ask for help." I n
arrate the incident to them. The smiles on Tom and Carla's face tell me where this is heading. "Can we talk about something else?" I change the topic before the talk deepens. "Tom, you are a football fan. Let's talk about Mr. Hayes's profession."
"Wow, look who wants to learn about the NFL now. . ." Tom narrows his eyes and moves them between me and Jon ending with a devious wink.
I ignore his implication and focus on the work at hand. The surgery progresses, amidst the chit-chat on the NFL. I have no clue about the game, was never into sports. "Which position does Jon play?"
"Quarterback," a groggy voice informs the room.
I look at Carla, confused. "Why isn't he sedated?"
"I don't know, the effect must have worn off. I could give another shot if you don't want him eavesdropping." Carla picks up the loaded syringe.
"No, I don't want to over sedate him." I stop her and turn to Jon. "Are you feeling anything?" Jon is drowsy and shakes his head confirming that there are no sensations.
"Great. Hold on, we will finish soon. Try to sleep." I nod at Carla to confirm we are good.
"You. . . talking." Jon mumbles.
"Ok, we will zip it. Now, can you close your dreamy blue eyes and try to sleep." The moment the words come out of my mouth; I sense my grave getting deeper. This patient and the surgery will become the talk of the town if it goes on like this. I sigh and peek at Jon. He smiles as he shuts his eyes. I need to clam up.
We work to reconstruct the injured tissues and bones. The blood vessels and damaged nerves are the most difficult to handle. Jon sleeps through the rest of the surgery. The sedative has taken effect. After four hours of painstaking work, we finish the surgery.
I remove my gloves. "Well, that's all we can do for now. Let's observe how his body reacts and recovers. I will brief the family and then hit the sack in my room. Wake me up when he comes around."
All the lines to cross Page 3