The nurse who tried to heal a doctor

Hannah was an impetuous surgical nurse with violet eyes and thick black hair, who could pass as a 35 year-old Elizabeth Taylor. Brad had met her the previous year when she assisted him on one of his surgeries. She was so good that he always requested her as his assistant. He would never know that she always requested to work with him, too. They had gotten along so well that he had shared his misfortunes about Dr. Black ,and even his bankruptcy.

“How are things at the office these days, doc?” Hannah said. She loaded a suture and handed him the instrument so he could begin closing the skin after a tedious rotator cuff repair.

“Ummm, you had to ask,” he said. It was so bad, that he didn’t care if everyone in the OR heard. “My office manager just swindled me out of $20,000 and left town. She also left a stack of unsent bills and there is no money coming in.”

“Isn’t that the shits!” said Hannah. Her intense violet eyes, the only feature visible around her surgical mask, locked with his. “You poor dude, I can fix your problems. I would drop this damn job in a second, if you would hire me to be your practice manager. Ha!”

He didn’t say anything. It was music to his ears, but it would take more than a brag to convince him. They finished the case, extubated the patient who coughed violently enough to cause a stir at the head of the table. Brad waited, then helped transfer the groggy person to a gurney.

“Why don’t you come by my office and see what’s going on? I’ll buy you dinner after, and we can talk,” he said, when they were out of earshot.  Wanting to ask her out for months, his financial desperation broke the boundary against dating co-workers.

“You got it, boss.” Hannah was a sudden and heartfelt discovery. “I’ll be there tomorrow, it’s my day off. You’re at the Fremont Specialty Clinic, right?” she said.

“Yeah,” See you at five?” He said, calculating the time it would take to finish seeing his scheduled patients, and get things into order.

“I’m there, big guy, with bells and whistles,” she said. Her eyes seemed to get even brighter, even with her mask off. She pursed her lips and stuck her jaw out a bit, like she meant business. Or maybe it was meant to be a kiss. He wanted to believed her. Maybe she is The One, and I haven’t recognized it. The thought caught him off guard, but it had no energy to it, and was gone by the time he signed the post-op orders in the recovery room.

He was in the OR late that night with a trauma case. The thought of Hannah swooping in to rescue his office the next day, broke through his chronic tiredness.  Whacka, whacka went the sterile mallet on the stainless steel rod, driving it deeper into the tibia. The complex fracture that had been caused by a car bumper hitting a human leg at 35 mph, was almost fixed. Blood spattered across his surgery gown as the rod drove deeper.

The clock read 3 am. Suddenly, the life drained out of him, and he knew he was done.

Dr. Rosedale finished the surgery on autopilot. Most surgeons are trained to do that. It ensures a high standard when personal problems would otherwise get in the way. I helped someone, he thought, as he backed away from the table and turned to go to the recovery room, leaving the team to transport the patient.

But his discovery of Hannah was too late.  There was no word, no thought, and no person in the world that could get him to buck up, and keep toiling on another day.  He went home, and fell into a disturbed sleep, and didn’t get up except to call his office and tell them to cancel everything.

Hannah arrived at 5, got the news from his office staff, and went straight to his apartment where she banged on the door until he unlocked it.

“Hey man, you look like shit!” she said. “Go back to bed, we are going to fix this. You look like you need some tough love.” She went into the kitchen which was cluttered with dishes, books, and papers, and made him some tea. Then she declared that he was okay, he just needed more sleep.

She came back in the morning with food. The next day, she returned with a pile of papers to sign, and some Prozac. Two days later when he still wouldn’t get out of bed, she dragged his ass out of his apartment and took him to a psychiatrist.

The lifelong drive to be successful was over. So was his desire to help people. The human mission was a failure, and he was completely broken. Could Hannah fix him?