fic advent, december 25 for literary_critic
Title: It Came Upon A Midnight Clear
Pairing: Cristina/Surgery, mentions of Cristina/Burke, Cristina/Owen
Rating: PG
Summary: He who has not Christmas in his heart will never find it under a tree.
He who has not Christmas in his heart will never find it under a tree.
Cristina rolls her eyes at the sentiment and drops the card on a stack sent by previous patients, addressed to the surgical staff of Seattle Grace. If she ever found Christmas in a patient’s heart she’d extract it and send it straight to biohazard. There’s no need to dissect it; she’s already been exposed to Christmas and she knows the hazards.
Burke had nicknamed her Scrooge. She used the opportunity to play her convenient Jewish heritage. Owen suggested- no, insisted- upon a celebration of Hanukkah when she pulled that stunt. Her brow furrows a bit when she thinks of that conversation. It was that conversation that deteriorated into his perception and subsequent description of the many shortcomings in her personality.
That conversation wasn’t the end but she likes to think of it as the beginning of the end. It’s not a negative memory; it was the key that unlocked her from the prison that she’d placed herself in.
Marlowe. Burke. Owen. They were all stifling in their own right, none of them truly understanding who she was and what she aspired to be. Cristina had no desire to make them, either. Truth be told, it was never anything that she wanted. Even when she was hiding behind bridal magazines and vague descriptions of city hall marriages, the only thing that she truly loved enough to commit herself to was surgery.
Owen had told her that surgery just a job. In forty years, it will simply be something that that she did when she was younger. The notion of defining herself as a surgeon and only a surgeon was absurd and there was so much more to life than that.
There’s so much more to life than saving the lives of others.
The idea that giving up a life of mediocrity to save the lives of others is a selfish notion is almost as absurd to Cristina as the idea of having Christmas in one’s heart.
When her pager goes off at her hip, she leaves her lamentations and heads straight for the OR. The glittering garlands and gaudy lights hanging from the OR board remind her of the date and she’s thankful that they’ll be down in the next few days. The Christmas, or holiday, decorations went up far too early and they can’t go away quickly enough.
When she tried to protest with her Judaism one of the nurses produced a Menorah to shut her up.
The OR is buzzing with activity that the rest of the hospital seems to lack and she’s glad for it. She starts to scrub in as one of the OR nurses comes in to brief her on the patient. A man, way too young, with a family falling apart in the waiting room. Cristina can feel emotions stir inside her, images flash quickly through her mind of her own childhood, her father slipping away beneath her palms. Now is not the time or the place for those memories so she tucks them away, looks to the task ahead.
“I want you to start pouring blood into him now and do not stop until I say so, do you understand me?” She asks, her voice stern.
The nurse nods and rushes back into the OR to get lab on the phone. Cristina finishes scrubbing in and crosses the OR with the elegance of royalty and the attitude to match. She’s the best and she knows it, the whole world knows it- but she also knows that right now, being the best doesn’t mean anything if she can’t save this man’s life.
With haste, she makes her first incision, cauterizes the flesh beneath though the capillary bleeding is minimal- he’s losing all of his blood internally at the moment. She works just as quickly with the saw and she takes half of a second to glance at her time as she gets the rib spreaders in place. Two minutes better than Burke’s time- she makes a mental note to email him later and let him know that she’s bested him yet again. That can be his Christmas present for the year.
Though Cristina rarely likes leaving her work to the hands of a fellow, she allows the fellow to cannulate while she goes straight to work on finding the dissection. Though she can’t perform a full repair without the patient on bypass if she can at least find the tear, get a set of hands in there to hold pressure until cannulation and bypass is complete then maybe this man will have a chance.
She feels it then, a rush of warmth and a pause, followed by another. She runs her hand along the smooth vessel feeling for the source of the leak but suddenly the rush of warmth disappears and there’s nothing but a pool of blood around her hands. Her eyes widen and she looks up at the monitor and there’s nothing. Her eyes trace to the bypass machine and then to the fellow, “Would you mind warning me before you initiate bypass next time?”
The fellow mumbles an apology but Cristina isn’t hearing any of it. Instead she directs the less than considerate assistant to clear her field as she continues to feel for the dissection. Finally she finds the disruption in the tissue and she gets to work. Each stitch is delicate and precise, yet done with a speed that many cannot obtain. She knows that her patient is at greater risk for complication the longer he’s on bypass due to his prior compromise.
When she’s satisfied with her work, she pauses to take stock of his vital signs, confirming the numbers for herself that the nurses have been rattling off at her. The blood pressure is still too low for her preferences and she refuses to use vasoactive drips now, “I thought I told you to pour blood into him and not to stop until I said so?”
“Blood bank is getting us another unit,” the nurse rambles off nervously at her and Cristina’s eyes narrow.
“Go. Get. The. Blood. Yourself.” Cristina pauses for a second and then adds in a barking voice, “Now.”
The nurse disappears and Cristina smiles to herself, satisfied that despite their hatred for her, the nurses are still scared of her.
--
Cristina looks on with satisfaction as her patient’s wife bends over to kiss their children and tell them that daddy is going to be okay. She rarely lingers to see the reaction of the families, offers to answer questions after the patient is settled in the ICU and when the initial response of relief has settled- the danger of hugs has typically diminished by then.
Tonight is different though.
There’s an eleven year old boy standing in front of her and tugging on her jacket. He looks up at her and smiles, “You saved my dad’s life. You are way cooler than stupid Santa Claus.”
A rare smile crosses her lips and thankfully it’s enough, because she doesn’t know how to respond. She watches as the family shares their elation and turns to walk away.
Who the hell needs Christmas in their hearts when they’re cooler than Santa Claus?
Pairing: Cristina/Surgery, mentions of Cristina/Burke, Cristina/Owen
Rating: PG
Summary: He who has not Christmas in his heart will never find it under a tree.
He who has not Christmas in his heart will never find it under a tree.
Cristina rolls her eyes at the sentiment and drops the card on a stack sent by previous patients, addressed to the surgical staff of Seattle Grace. If she ever found Christmas in a patient’s heart she’d extract it and send it straight to biohazard. There’s no need to dissect it; she’s already been exposed to Christmas and she knows the hazards.
Burke had nicknamed her Scrooge. She used the opportunity to play her convenient Jewish heritage. Owen suggested- no, insisted- upon a celebration of Hanukkah when she pulled that stunt. Her brow furrows a bit when she thinks of that conversation. It was that conversation that deteriorated into his perception and subsequent description of the many shortcomings in her personality.
That conversation wasn’t the end but she likes to think of it as the beginning of the end. It’s not a negative memory; it was the key that unlocked her from the prison that she’d placed herself in.
Marlowe. Burke. Owen. They were all stifling in their own right, none of them truly understanding who she was and what she aspired to be. Cristina had no desire to make them, either. Truth be told, it was never anything that she wanted. Even when she was hiding behind bridal magazines and vague descriptions of city hall marriages, the only thing that she truly loved enough to commit herself to was surgery.
Owen had told her that surgery just a job. In forty years, it will simply be something that that she did when she was younger. The notion of defining herself as a surgeon and only a surgeon was absurd and there was so much more to life than that.
There’s so much more to life than saving the lives of others.
The idea that giving up a life of mediocrity to save the lives of others is a selfish notion is almost as absurd to Cristina as the idea of having Christmas in one’s heart.
When her pager goes off at her hip, she leaves her lamentations and heads straight for the OR. The glittering garlands and gaudy lights hanging from the OR board remind her of the date and she’s thankful that they’ll be down in the next few days. The Christmas, or holiday, decorations went up far too early and they can’t go away quickly enough.
When she tried to protest with her Judaism one of the nurses produced a Menorah to shut her up.
The OR is buzzing with activity that the rest of the hospital seems to lack and she’s glad for it. She starts to scrub in as one of the OR nurses comes in to brief her on the patient. A man, way too young, with a family falling apart in the waiting room. Cristina can feel emotions stir inside her, images flash quickly through her mind of her own childhood, her father slipping away beneath her palms. Now is not the time or the place for those memories so she tucks them away, looks to the task ahead.
“I want you to start pouring blood into him now and do not stop until I say so, do you understand me?” She asks, her voice stern.
The nurse nods and rushes back into the OR to get lab on the phone. Cristina finishes scrubbing in and crosses the OR with the elegance of royalty and the attitude to match. She’s the best and she knows it, the whole world knows it- but she also knows that right now, being the best doesn’t mean anything if she can’t save this man’s life.
With haste, she makes her first incision, cauterizes the flesh beneath though the capillary bleeding is minimal- he’s losing all of his blood internally at the moment. She works just as quickly with the saw and she takes half of a second to glance at her time as she gets the rib spreaders in place. Two minutes better than Burke’s time- she makes a mental note to email him later and let him know that she’s bested him yet again. That can be his Christmas present for the year.
Though Cristina rarely likes leaving her work to the hands of a fellow, she allows the fellow to cannulate while she goes straight to work on finding the dissection. Though she can’t perform a full repair without the patient on bypass if she can at least find the tear, get a set of hands in there to hold pressure until cannulation and bypass is complete then maybe this man will have a chance.
She feels it then, a rush of warmth and a pause, followed by another. She runs her hand along the smooth vessel feeling for the source of the leak but suddenly the rush of warmth disappears and there’s nothing but a pool of blood around her hands. Her eyes widen and she looks up at the monitor and there’s nothing. Her eyes trace to the bypass machine and then to the fellow, “Would you mind warning me before you initiate bypass next time?”
The fellow mumbles an apology but Cristina isn’t hearing any of it. Instead she directs the less than considerate assistant to clear her field as she continues to feel for the dissection. Finally she finds the disruption in the tissue and she gets to work. Each stitch is delicate and precise, yet done with a speed that many cannot obtain. She knows that her patient is at greater risk for complication the longer he’s on bypass due to his prior compromise.
When she’s satisfied with her work, she pauses to take stock of his vital signs, confirming the numbers for herself that the nurses have been rattling off at her. The blood pressure is still too low for her preferences and she refuses to use vasoactive drips now, “I thought I told you to pour blood into him and not to stop until I said so?”
“Blood bank is getting us another unit,” the nurse rambles off nervously at her and Cristina’s eyes narrow.
“Go. Get. The. Blood. Yourself.” Cristina pauses for a second and then adds in a barking voice, “Now.”
The nurse disappears and Cristina smiles to herself, satisfied that despite their hatred for her, the nurses are still scared of her.
--
Cristina looks on with satisfaction as her patient’s wife bends over to kiss their children and tell them that daddy is going to be okay. She rarely lingers to see the reaction of the families, offers to answer questions after the patient is settled in the ICU and when the initial response of relief has settled- the danger of hugs has typically diminished by then.
Tonight is different though.
There’s an eleven year old boy standing in front of her and tugging on her jacket. He looks up at her and smiles, “You saved my dad’s life. You are way cooler than stupid Santa Claus.”
A rare smile crosses her lips and thankfully it’s enough, because she doesn’t know how to respond. She watches as the family shares their elation and turns to walk away.
Who the hell needs Christmas in their hearts when they’re cooler than Santa Claus?