**The Botched Operation**
Edward didn’t step out of the car—he practically spilled out of it. Three routine surgeries shouldn’t have left him feeling like he’d hauled sacks all shift. His back ached, his head throbbed, and his eyes burned as if set with matchsticks.
At home, he collapsed onto the sofa, fully dressed, shut his eyes, and sank into sleep instantly. He woke to the shrill ringing of his phone, the cheery tune drilling into his skull. His neck was stiff from the awkward position, and standing felt impossible. *Bloody hell. Coming down with something.* He forced his sticky eyelids open.
The phone stopped for a few seconds, then erupted again. *Should’ve changed that ringtone ages ago.* Reluctantly, he fished the mobile from his jacket pocket.
“Yes,” he rasped, still groggy. He cleared his throat. “Yes,” he repeated firmly.
“Ed, mate, I’m at Heathrow. Flight’s in an hour. My dad’s had a heart attack—he’s in hospital. Cover for me, yeah? No one else I can ask,” came the voice of his colleague and friend, Geoff Wilkins.
“I… don’t feel great. Think I’m ill. Call Dan.”
“Come off it. Down some coffee, take paracetamol. Dan’s missus—you know how she is, extra shifts are like cheating to her. And Tom’s still green. Old Harris can’t pull two shifts, not at his age. I’ll be back day after tomorrow. Help me out, yeah? I’ll owe you.”
*So die if you must, but don’t let a mate down. Perfect timing.*
“Yeah,” Edward sighed, resigned.
“What was that?” Geoff pressed.
“I said fine. I’ll cover. Safe flight.”
“You’re a lifesaver! I’ll make it up—” Geoff babbled, but Edward hung up.
He had time before the night shift. A shower, a shave, and strong coffee later, he felt slightly better. The thought of returning to the hospital so soon made his gut twist. *I’ll manage. Might be quiet.* He dressed mechanically.
For hours, the ward was eerily still. Exhaustion clawed at him, his head drooping toward the desk. He jerked awake, shaking off the daze. Another cup of coffee bought him a brief reprieve.
“Dr. Whitmore?” The voice seemed distant. Someone shook his shoulder.
He’d nodded off. Raising his head, he saw Nurse Emily standing over him.
“Dr. Whitmore, there’s a boy just been admitted—”
“Right. I’ll be down.” He scrubbed the sleep from his face.
Splashing cold water on his cheeks, he dumped two scoops of instant coffee into a mug—then added a third for good measure. He gulped the scalding brew, adjusted his surgical cap, and headed to A&E.
A boy of about twelve lay curled on the gurney. Edward examined him carefully.
“You’re his mother?” he asked the pale, thin woman beside him.
“What’s wrong with him, Doctor?” Her enormous eyes locked onto his.
“Why didn’t you call an ambulance sooner?” His tone was sharp, accusatory.
“I—I came home from work, he was doing homework. Then he vomited. His fever spiked. He hid the stomach pain for days. What’s happening?” Her fingers dug into his arm.
“Emily, get a trolley!” Edward snapped, still staring at the woman’s ashen face. He wrenched his arm free. “Sign the consent for surgery.” He thrust the form at her.
“Surgery? Appendicitis?”
“Peritonitis.” His gaze was heavy with pity.
Horror filled her eyes.
“Sign. We can’t wait.”
She scrawled her name without reading and grabbed him again. “Doctor, save my boy!”
“I’ll do everything I can. Now let me work.”
Emily wheeled the trolley in. Together, they transferred the boy and rushed toward the lift, their hurried footsteps and the trolley’s squeaky wheels echoing down the empty corridor.
The woman followed, pleading, but Edward tuned her out, his mind already on the procedure.
In the OR, the boy lay anaesthetised. Everything else faded. His hands moved on autopilot, his mind razor-focused. Two hours in, exhaustion flickered at the edges of his concentration—until Emily’s cry snapped him back.
Blood gushed beneath his fingers, flooding the field.
“BP’s crashing!” the anaesthetist shouted.
Edward stepped out of the OR later, drenched in sweat, legs trembling. He leaned against the cool wall, spent. A woman sprinted toward him—*the mother*. She halted a step away, as if hitting glass. Her face was ghostly, eyes hollow with terror and hope.
Edward looked away. She gasped—or sobbed—clapped a hand over her mouth, and swayed. He caught her before she collapsed, guiding her to a chair.
“Emily, smelling salts!” he barked.
Emily dashed over, pressing ammonia-soaked cotton under the woman’s nose. She jerked back, swatting weakly, then blinked up at Edward.
“You all right?” he asked, studying her pallor.
She didn’t answer. Slowly, she stood and walked away down the sterile hallway. Edward watched her go. *Only a woman could bear that… and still stand.*
In the doctors’ lounge, he sat hunched over the desk, head in hands. Then he forced himself to document the surgery. Honestly.
“Dr. Whitmore…” Emily hovered in the doorway.
“What now?” he snapped, still writing.
“It wasn’t your fault. The boy—he was too far gone,” she whispered.
“Make coffee. Strong.” He didn’t look up.
The kettle hissed. The coffee tasted vile, bitter. He chucked the dregs in the sink.
As he washed the mug, a dull ache spread through his chest. It swelled, threatening to burst. His vision darkened…
“Welcome back,” a familiar voice said.
Edward peeled his eyes open. Dr. Mary Sullivan, the paediatrician, loomed over him, round face pinched with worry.
“Stay down,” she ordered when he tried to rise. “You’re ill. Operating in this state? We need an ECG—”
“I’m fine.” He sat up—and a stab of pain lanced through his ribs. He winced.
“How many coffees today?” Mary—a stout woman with sharp green eyes—crossed her arms.
“Lost count.”
“You’d better start. You’re not twenty. Your heart won’t take this.” She sighed. “Emily had the sense to call me.”
“Am I having a heart attack?”
“Not yet. But you will if you keep this up. I’ve given you a sedative. Rest.” Her voice softened. “Sleep.”
Fatigue swallowed him whole.
He woke the next morning, head pounding, memory flooding back. He grabbed the resignation letter from his desk and marched to the department head’s office.
“What’s this?” Dr. Henry Vaughn skimmed the page. “Running away? Admitting defeat?” His glare was stern.
“I can’t operate. Not after this.”
“Oh? Who’ll replace you?” Vaughn tore the letter to shreds. “I know what happened. The boy’s death wasn’t on you. Unforeseen complications.”
“I should’ve known.” Edward met his gaze squarely.
“Every surgeon has graves behind them. We’re not gods. Wait for the post-mortem. Failures teach more than successes.”
“Ford.”
“What?” Vaughn frowned.
“Henry Ford said that.”
“Then act like you believe it. If every surgeon quit after losing a patient, who’d be left? Think of the lives you’ve saved.” Vaughn stood, gripping Edward’s shoulders. “It’s part of the job. You couldn’t have saved him. Take two weeks. Come back when you’re ready.”
On the drive home, the boy’s contorted body and his mother’s blanched face haunted Edward. *He shouldn’t have died.*
For two days, he paced his flat, replaying the surgery, drifting into fitful sleep.
On the third day, he called Emily.
“Dr. Whitmore!” Her voice brightened. “The coroner’s report cleared you. Did you hear?”
“I heard. Text me the boy’s address.” He hung up.
Two hours later, his doorbell rang. Emily stood there, pretty and nervous.
“I asked for the address. Why come?” He didn’t invite her in.
“I thought—” She dropped her gaze.
“I’m fine. The address?”
She handed him a slip of paper. He shut the door without thanks. Harsh, but he knew she fancied him. No point leading her on.
In the bathroom mirror, a gaunt, wild-eyed stranger stared back. He washed, shaved, and brewed tea—no coffee—then left.
The flat was easy to find. The lift shuddered to the eighth floor. He rang the bell, unsure what toHe stepped into her flat, where the scent of stale grief lingered, and for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to breathe.
