Chapter 11
Collins
I was enjoying a quiet moment at the workstation, coffee in hand, when Chantelle burst through the doors.
She stopped abruptly when she saw me, her eyes wide.
“Sorry,” she said, “I’m a mess.”
I frowned. “Why, what happened?”
She shook her head, trying to steady herself. “My heart nearly leapt out of my chest,” she said. “We just had a couple rushed into the ER. Severe injuries. Life-threatening.”
The words made my grip on the cup tighten slightly.
“What kind of trauma?”
“Motor vehicle accident,” Chantelle said. “On their wedding day.”
I paused mid-sip.
“Twenty-nine-year-old woman. " A thirty-year-old man,” she continued. “She was still in her wedding dress when they wheeled her in.”
I lowered the cup slowly.
“Both of them critical?”
“I managed to stabilise the man,” she said. “He’s bad, but he’s holding. The woman…” Chantelle swallowed. “She took the worst of it. Severe head trauma. Possible internal bleeding.”
My chest tightened.
“Tim’s with her now,” Chantelle added. “He’s going to need a neuro consult.”
The pager at my hip vibrated before I could respond.
Dr Collins. Urgent neuro consult. Trauma unit.
Female patient, 29 years old. Severe head injury. ETA five minutes.
I didn’t hesitate. I set the coffee down and reached for my scrubs.
“I’m on my way.”
By the time I reached trauma prep, the ER team had already moved the patient. The doors to the operating theatre were closed, red light glowing overhead.
Tim stepped out moments later, pulling off his mask. His face was grim.
“Man…” he muttered, shaking his head. “Of all the patients tonight.”
He met my eyes.
“You’ll never believe who’s on the table. She’s prepped,” he replied. “Intubated. On the table. We’re ready when you are.”
The doors to Theatre Three swung open with a soft hiss.
I stepped inside already gloved, already focused. The room smelled like antiseptic and metal—familiar, grounding. Monitors beeped steadily. Controlled. Predictable.
I took my place at the head of the table, eyes scanning vitals out of habit rather than intent. Blood pressure: unstable. Oxygen: borderline. Head trauma: severe.
Then I looked at the patient.
I took a sharp breath.
Not visibly. Not dramatically. Just enough that I felt it—sharp and unmistakable, like missing a step on a staircase you’ve walked your whole life.
Anna.
Her hair was stuck together with dried blood, and her face was pale in the harsh theatre lights. A faint bruise bloomed along her temple. She looked smaller than I remembered. Fragile in a way she’d never seemed before.
For half a second, the room tilted.
My chest tightened.
You can’t do this.
Every protocol screamed in my head. Emotional involvement. Conflict of interest. Step away.
But there was no time.
“CT confirms acute subdural hematoma,” Tim said, steady, professional—mercifully normal. “Midline shift. We’re losing her.”
The words snapped something back into place. I swallowed hard.
“Prep for emergency craniectomy,” I said.
My voice was steady, but I was freaking out internally.
As I scrubbed in, I avoided her face. Focused on muscle memory. Incision points. Procedure steps.
When I finally looked at her again, just before the drape went up, I leaned in close enough that only I could hear myself.
“Stay with us,” I said quietly.
Not as a doctor.
As a man who suddenly had far too much to lose.
Then the drapes came up.
And Anna became a patient.
I let out a long, tired sigh as I stepped out of the OR, my body still humming from the tension of the past four hours.
The surgery had gone smoothly—Anna’s injuries were severe, but we had managed to stabilize the damage and restore as much function as possible.
Relief washed over me, but there was no time to linger.
I made my way to the locker room, peeled off the blood-stained scrubs, and changed into a fresh set. The clean fabric felt like a small reward, a brief moment of normalcy after the chaos of the OR.
As I passed her husband’s room, I noticed Marlon reviewing a chart by the bedside. I paused, resting a hand lightly on the doorframe. “How’s he doing?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm, professional.
Marlon looked up, eyes tired but focused. “He’s still unconscious, but stable,” he said. “Spinal cord function is intact, sensory response is normal, and there’s no sign of paralysis.”
I nodded, scanning the monitors outside the room. “Let me run a few checks on his brain,” I suggested, my mind already running through the assessments I wanted to perform.
Marlon gave a short, approving nod. “That would be a good idea.”
I stepped inside, letting the quiet hum of the machines and the soft beeping of the monitors ground me despite the fatigue weighing down my shoulders.
Soon, his family arrived, rushing through the sliding doors.
“Oh, my baby!” the mother cried out, tears streaking her face as she ran toward the bedside. She turned to Marlon, voice trembling. “How is he?”
Marlon straightened, calm and measured. “He’s stable. Dr. Collins ran a full check on his brain. Nothing to worry about. He’ll survive.”
She blinked, took a deep breath, and then her eyes landed on a visitor. Recognition sparked. “Veronica?” she asked, surprise evident in her tone.
Veronica, standing awkwardly among the family, nodded.
“Yes… um.”
“How’s Anna doing?” The Groom’s mother asked.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, looking slightly uneasy. “I haven’t been by her yet.”
It clicked in my mind—Anna’s friend from the bar. Odd, I thought, that she came to check on the husband first rather than her friend.
The mother turned sharply to Marlon, urgency in her voice. “Dr. Branson, where is her room? I want to see how she’s doing.”
“I’m heading that way to check on her,” I said firmly. “You can come with me if you’d like.”
She nodded, and we left Michael’s room together, while his father, sister, and Veronica lingered by the bed.
“How is she? Is she awake?” The Groom’s mom asked softly, following my lead.
I shook my head slightly. “Her condition is critical. I just performed brain surgery on her. She may be in a coma for a while.”
Her face fell, and I could see the grief pooling in her eyes. “That’s going to devastate Michael when he wakes up… my baby is going to be so heartbroken,” she whispered, voice breaking. “He loved her so much.”
“We’re doing everything we can,” I reassured her, keeping my tone steady and professional.
As we arrived at Anna’s unit, I saw her sister pacing nervously and an elderly man seated near the door—I assumed her father. I offered a polite nod of greeting, careful not to alarm them further. One of the attending doctors had already briefed them, but their eyes followed me expectantly.
I stepped closer and gave them the details of the brain surgery, keeping my voice calm yet clear.
“The surgery went as well as we could hope. Her vitals are stable. There’s no new bleeding, and the pressure in her brain is under control.
She may remain unconscious for some time as her brain recovers, but she’s survived the critical stage. ”
Her sister exhaled shakily, grasping the man’s arm for support. Thank God, she signed.
I nodded. “We’ll continue close monitoring, and I’ll be checking on her regularly. I will update you immediately with any changes.