Fellowship (2 of 5)
There’s something about being in an operating room that gives you chills. In that one room, which consists of a floor and four walls, it holds the power of life. People come in and out every day; some cases severe, others less serious. Surgeons shouldn’t feel like gods, but when you step into that room, knowing full well that you hold the life of the person inside, in your hands; it’s indescribable. In that moment, you are god; whether they live or die is up to you. The high you get from that is like no other. Your heart races; you can feel the sweat drip down your back and catch in your brow; your hands are always steady. They have to be. They must always be steady. It’s amazing; except when it’s not.
‘Time of death……11:15’
*
Losing a patient is never easy. That is the first thing Reid learned about being a doctor. Whether it’s someone who’s old and gray or someone young and vibrant; it doesn’t matter. Everyone is someone’s child or parent, lover or friend. Everyone is a person, an individual. Everyone is a human being. But despite that, everyone is also just a speck. A speck of roughly six billion people, to which the loss of one doesn’t even penetrate. Whether we want to acknowledge it or not, we’re all just a number; a lonely statistic.
That is something Reid has had to remind himself on a daily basis. It started with his very first surgical patient at Cedars-Sinai; Marilyn Adams, an eighteen year old track star who had received a scholarship to USC. She was hit by a drunk driver the night of her high school graduation. Reid and his attending were in surgery with her; his superior standing right next to him walking him through each step of what needed to be done. Of course it was a lost cause. The attending knew that straight away from her scans, and if he didn’t, he definitely did once they had her open on the table. Reid however, didn’t know this, and in his mind she could still be saved. Sadly though, she couldn’t. Marilyn Adams died that night, before her life even really began.
Reid remembers the look on her parents faces vividly. He can imagine it was the same look he had on his face when he learned of his own parents’ death. It was at that moment, when he knew that personal feelings could never mix with professional. It was at that moment he knew that losing a patient couldn’t be something to dwell on. Whatever he did feel, would have to be compartmentalized for the greater good. He would take the loss of each patient and learn from it. He would study what went wrong and what he could do to ensure that it wouldn’t happen again; and if there was no such treatment or solution, then he would keep studying and working until he created one. So he took a picture of Marilyn from the newspaper, cut it out and promised himself that he’d do better; for her, for himself, and for whomever was next to grace that same table.
*
Back in the break room, he screwed on the cap to the bottle of Excedrin in his hand and placed it on the top shelf of his locker, while resting his head against the cool, metal surface.
“Tough break in there today Oliver.”
Reid grunted in response.
“You can’t save them all.”
“Not yet.”
William laughed. “You really are one of the cockiest things I’ve ever seen. You’re good, I’ll give you that much.”
“I’m better than good.”
“Hmm,” he smirked, “that you are.”
Reid rolled his eyes. “Listen,” he said while taking off his lab coat and shoving it into his locker, “I just want to go home so whatever you want to say, just say it, quit trying to make small talk.”
“It was a hard day, you just lost a patient. I thought maybe you’d want to go to mine and have a drink.”
“No thanks Dr. Channing. Once was enough.” He slammed his locker shut and walked out of the doctor’s lounge, down the corridor of the hospital.
The second thing Reid had learned about being a doctor is to never, ever fuck your attending during your first week. It never ends well.