Bad Doctor

8

Dr. Gideon Box

Friday, 8:45 a.m.

The auditorium at Wentworth Christian Academy is as packed as you’d expect on graduation day. I slip inside and try to blend in with the dads standing against the back wall. The principal introduces the faculty, and tells a lame joke that elicits polite chuckling.

The man on my right leans into my face space, practically touching my ear with his lips.

“Proud papa?”

“Friend of the family,” I say, staring straight ahead.

“Which one?”

“Excuse me?”

“Which kid are you here to see?”

Instead of answering, I say, “Which one’s yours?”

“The tall one, second row, all the way on the left.”

“Nice looking young lady,” I say.

“We’re going to keep her,” he says, chuckling.

Before he has a chance to annoy me further, the kids sing a song. Then another. Then the principal goes to the podium and announces the name of the little girl I came to see.

Shelby Lynn Meyers.

Valedictorian.

Who ever heard of a sixth-grade class having a valedictorian?

But Shelby’s special. She strolls to the podium full of life, and delivers a three-minute speech in a crisp, clear tone. She tells the audience how lucky she is to be alive, how seven years ago she came within an inch of dying. She talks about how she woke up in the hospital after her ordeal and realized every day is a precious blessing, a gift from God.

Little Shelby and I have a connection. It’s why I’m standing here, transfixed by her presence. She’s the reason I traveled all the way from Manhattan, where I live and work.

I wanted to see her.

Had to see her.

Shelby’s the first kid I saved, and the least likely to survive.

After eight hours of what can best be described as a surgical cluster fuck the two surgeons charged with assisting me attempted to pronounce Shelby dead.

I told them to fuck themselves. One gave me a stern warning, the other left the room in a huff.

But I was on a roll.

I cursed the surgeon who left and the one who remained equally. I cursed the nurses and called them terrible names. I even cursed Shelby Lynn, the little dead kid on my table. I made fun of her blue body and rotten internal organs. Called her a freak, a monster, and every other horrific name I could think of. I cursed her parents, her friends, relatives, and ancestors.

After calling her every name in the book, I yelled, “Don’t die on me, you little muff-munching bitch. If you even try to die I’ll set your parents on fire! I’ll kill your friends! I’ll celebrate your birthday each year by bludgeoning a child to death.”

You know, stuff like that.

Before you get all bent out of shape, remember, she was only five. There’s no way she could know what bludgeoning meant.

But the medical staff thought I was suffering a meltdown. They stayed in the room to chronicle my behavior so they could report me later. That changed when I poked Shelby’s dead body and slapped the bottoms of her feet while screaming at her. At that point the room cleared, save for the gas guy and a nurse, both of whom were yelling their own threats at me.

I didn’t care. This kid was simply not going to die on my watch.

I felt it.

I knew it.

I just figured I hadn’t put together the right combination of words yet.

I was right.

Because when I yelled, “Fine! Die on me, you little shit! I’m going to throw you in the trash and feed you to my dog for supper!”-her heart started beating.

From that day to this, I cussed every nurse, anesthesiologist, surgeon, robot, and child who entered my OR. The doctors and nurses don’t care for it, but the kids seem to respond.

Eventually.

Shelby Lynn responded, and now here she is, alive, standing before me, a valedictorian. She’s winding down her speech. There’s her smile, and her final words, “Thank you!”

A split-second pause occurs.

In that quiet moment after the end of her speech, before the audience rises to give her a standing ovation, she spots me in the back of the auditorium.

We lock eyes.

In that scant second of time I see her little mouth break into a grin, and suddenly my view and hers is blocked by three hundred cheering adults.

I don’t want to take the spotlight away from Shelby, or piss off her parents, who at one time threatened to kill me. I wouldn’t have come if they invited me, but it was Shelby who wrote the letter, and that made all the difference. Seeing her letter in my hands made me realize something important.

If I had allowed the other surgeons to pronounce her dead seven years ago, the world would still be spinning, but it wouldn’t be as special. Someone less deserving would be delivering the speech today, and someone else would marry the man Shelby’s meant to marry, and no one on earth would be here to create the amazing kids Shelby would have birthed.

Shelby lived.

And someday she’ll have children of her own, and her children will have children, and…

Yes, I’m a shitty person. I break into houses and fuck lap dancers and no one likes me, and yes, I poked five-year-old Shelby’s dead body around the table and slapped her feet and threatened to kill her parents and cussed her till my voice went hoarse.

But I saved Shelby’s life, and she’s going to make the world a better place to be.

I slip out the back and rush to my car before anyone else recognizes me.