Bad Doctor

IV

I’m the last guy you want to meet in the hospital-and not because I’m a vindictive son of a bitch.

I am a vindictive son of a bitch, but the reason you don’t want to meet me is I’m your child’s last hope for survival. When they wheel your kid into my operating room, it means his problems are so severe no one else can perform the surgery.

That’s because I’m the most technically gifted congenital/cardiothoracic surgeon in the world.

That’s right, in the world.

Think I’m bragging?

I’m not.

I take no pleasure in being the world’s greatest surgeon.

Someone in the world makes the best flapjacks. Someone else is the best seamstress. And someone owns the world’s biggest ranch, truck, or penis.

I’d rather be any of them.

Especially the guy with the biggest penis.

But it’s my job to be the best surgeon.

My skill is my curse, and forces me to work in hell, under excruciating pressure. I say that and you think, yeah, there probably is a lot of stress in what I do, operating on infants and children.

No.

You think you know, but you don’t.

You have no idea.

Want a glimpse into my world? That’s me in the operating room, standing in the corner, crying silently so the others won’t know. They think I’m psyching myself up for the six-hour procedure I’m about to perform.

See that tiny blue object on the table, surrounded by two highly-skilled nurses, a pediatric anesthesiologist, and assisting surgeon?

My patient, Lainey Sue Calfee.

Five pounds, less than a month old, structurally abnormal heart. It would take five minutes to tell you what’s wrong with her, but she’ll be dead by then. And anyway, those are only the problems I know about. You can bet I’ll find more bad news when I open her chest in a few minutes.

I always do.

What you need to know about Lainey is she’s not going to make it.

It’s okay, I already told her parents.