Nick
Present
My seventy-four-year-old hip-replacement patient just called me ‘daddy.’
Well, okay, Mrs. Snider didn’t actually use the word daddy, but she did call me ‘father,’ clearly confusing me in her anesthetic haze as her priest. Now she is confessing a laundry list of expletives she uses against Seymore, her blind miniature poodle and—from what I gather—a succulent named Steve.
“Seymore really is a good boy, but dadgummit, he frustrates the shit out of me—oh! Pardon my French, Father.”
“You’re okay, Mrs. Snider.” I steer her stretcher into the semi-private post-anesthesia care unit before engaging the brake. I offer her a grin. “I’ve heard worse—”
“Now, Father, I’ve told you,” she coos, patting my arm. “Please call me Maude.” She turns to her new nurse, Diwa. “He’s a handsome one, ain’t he? It’s too bad about the—” she flicks her hand toward my crotch—“the whole celibacy thing.”
Diwa stifles a giggle, busying herself with untangling IV lines.
The irony doesn’t escape me; I am anything but holy.
But maybe I have more in common with a priest than I realize.
Being an anesthesiologist for over a decade has made me privy to plenty of patient secrets.
Validity is questionable, of course, but I still listen and advise.
I even have to answer to a higher power—the Texas medical board.
After connecting cords to monitors, the steady chirp of soft bells and beeps fill the small space. Diwa grabs a warm blanket, and before we can finish tucking the covers around her petite frame, Mrs. Snider’s jaw falls slack, her breathing returning to an even pace.
I make a few notes in her chart. “What’s that initial set of vitals?”
“BP 92/54. Heart rate 77. Temperature is …” Diwa gently glides a temporal artery thermometer across Mrs. Snider’s forehead. “97.1—”
“What’s that in—?”
“Celsius? 36.2.”
“Diwa …” I croon, jotting down the readings. “This is why you’re my favorite.”
“Uh-huh,” she murmurs as she uses her badge to access the computer charting system. “Save your shmoozing for someone else, iho. I’m immune to that Crawford charm.”
“So is that a no to my date invitation? Your husband can come.”
She glares at me for a beat, then melts into soft chuckles. “Don't you have some new cases? Get out of here. Go.”
Diwa could be my mother. When I was hired eight years ago, she was celebrating her twentieth anniversary with Gulf Waters Regional.
But the silver strands and pilot-style glasses are just an illusion: she’s a damn fine nurse who’s quick on her toes.
She threatens to retire so she can move back to Manila; I threaten to follow her.
Flashing her a wink, I hand her the patient’s physical chart and head toward pre-op.
I hardly make it ten feet down the bustling corridor before I am abruptly surrounded by a gaggle of preening women, singsonging their morning chorus of Good morning, Dr. Crawford.
The suggestive lilt from the otherwise innocent greeting isn’t missed as each lady vies for my attention.
The surgical intern from the east coast bats her eyelashes.
The unit secretary puckers her freshly glossed lips.
If they’re not fluffing their hair or straightening their posture, they’re giving me a once-over, undressing me with their eyes.
Subtle, ladies …
I know, I know. Poor Nick, getting the attention from all the ladies. What a terrible way to start each and every day.
Honestly, it isn’t a bad gig to be objectively handsome. I’m quite comfortable with what I see in the mirror—a lifetime of positive reinforcement will do that to a guy. Compliments, free drinks, no attachments. And all I have to do is simply exist.
Except that’s the problem. My looks have become my only personality trait.
For as long as I can remember, people have always taken special notice of my appearance. No one cares that I went to Debakey School of Medicine or that I’m an anesthesiologist. It’s like an afterthought, a garnish to my “hot” looks. Can you believe it? Braun and brains!
Wait until they find out I have a heart.
I acknowledge each hello with a nod and smile, pretending not to notice the snorts and whispers as I pass by. They either assume I can’t hear them or that I’m complacent.
Neither is true..
“I thought I heard your fan club.”
I freeze, recognizing the saccharine-sweet voice of Casey Frazier. She’s a pharmacist I met during a perioperative medication review three—maybe four years ago. I took her out for drinks; she took me back to her place.
I slowly pivot, flashing her a smile—that promptly falls. She gestures toward the sleazy suit standing next to her. “Nick, I'd like to introduce you to—”
“Declan,” I say, jaw clenched with a tight grin.
Ugh. This smarmy chode … He is the quintessential pharmaceutical representative, the epitome of why they have a bad rap. He’s never actually done anything wrong to me. I just don’t like his smug ass.
He takes my hand, shaking it earnestly. “Good to see you again, Dr. Crawford.”
“You too,” I lie. “Didn’t realize you were back. Run out of balloons in the sewer?”
He lets out a boisterous laugh, his teeth a little too large, too white for his mouth. He slings his arm around my back, not quite tall enough to reach over my shoulders. “Can you believe this guy?” He pats my chest. “Always a hoot!”
Casey nervously chuckles, glancing back and forth between us. “I didn’t realize you already knew each other.”
“Unfortunately,” I murmur, casually shrugging out of his chummy bro-hug.
“I made a few stops here when Rockstyn was your primary supplier.”
“Oh … are you not from Houston?” Casey asks.
“I am—right down the road, actually … but I was never really home before. I spent more nights in hotel rooms than at home with my wife.” He grows serious, adjusting his necktie. “Fortunately … for all of us—” he chuckles—“Aquila had a home-based position.”
“Declan is our newly assigned representative with Aquila BioSolutions,” Casey clarifies. “He’ll serve as our primary point of contact going forward.”
“Lucky us,” I grumble.
“And since I’m here in town, if y’all need anything—and I mean anything—you just give me a call on my cell.” He hands me a business card, which reads, ‘I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.’
Is this douche for real? He actually quoted the damn Bible … on his fucking business card. He passes this shit out to clients—hospitals and rehabilitation facilities with multi-million-dollar contracts.
I clear my throat. “Well, this has been riveting, but surgeons generally prefer their patients asleep during procedures.”
Declan laughs again, slugging my arm. “What did I tell ya, eh? Hey, we’ll do drinks soon.”
We will not do drinks soon.
Casey pinches her eyebrows together before giving me a lazy grin. “I’ll text you later,” she whispers.
I glance at my watch before high-tailing it to the central nurse’s station to check out the surgery board. Our surgery center has sixteen operating rooms, and with our full schedule of procedures, I’m one of six MDAs working today along with our staff of nurse anesthetists.
Most patients I meet the morning of their surgery, but occasionally, I'll have a repeat—sometimes a complete fluke, but oftentimes because they want me to take care of them again.
“She's excited to see you,” the surgery coordinator mentions quietly, handing me paperwork for my next case.
I'm excited to see her, too.
I give a small salute before I strut over to the second-to-last bay—and my heart instantly warms when I hear the laughter inside. I rip open the curtain. “Who's making all that racket in here?”
“Doctor Nick!” Ainsley St. James beams from behind her pink frames, her dark hair a chaotic explosion of curls. Her parents jump to their feet along with Rory, one of the hospital's child life specialists.
“It’s so good to see you, Dr. Crawford,” Mrs. St. James says as I shake her husband's hand.
“Likewise, but we really need to stop meeting like this. Dinner would be a much cheaper co-pay.” This earns me a room full of laughs as I grab a rolling stool and take a seat.
Ainsley was an infant patient I observed during one of the lowest times of my life.
She was born with a cleft lip and palate, and at just a few months old, she had her first reconstructive surgery.
During her hospital recovery, the St. Jameses were exhausted, but felt a parental need—and guilt—to stay awake to watch their daughter.
Chart audits were keeping me company late into the night, so I offered to keep an eye on Ainsley while they napped.
It couldn’t be that hard, plus I was a doctor; I was ready for anything.
Except I wasn’t prepared. Not to hold her or rock her or count her chunky little fingers that would grip my thumb so tightly. But most of all, I wasn't prepared to want a memory so badly.
Her parents returned a couple of hours later, and since then, we've kept in touch. Ainsley has now had three other surgeries, including an alveolar bone graft two years ago. I don’t provide anesthesia care for younger pediatric patients, but I always made it a point to visit her in the hospital, a salve in its own right to my heart.
Today is the first time she’s under my care, and even though I never take my responsibilities lightly, this case is different. Personal.
“Did Miss Rory go over the details of your maxillary advancement today?” I ask.
“You kidding?” Rory snorts. “Ainsley has been teaching me. What were you telling me about bone grafting research?”
“Oh!” Ainsley's eyes brighten. “Researchers are testing this fiber stuff to make 3-D bone grafts. They say it might help grafts last longer.”
“Wow …” I nod. “That probably means better outcomes—”
“Exactly!” She squeals, pushing up her glasses. “That's what they're predicting anyway.”
“That probably means no more painful graft retrievals, huh?”
Ainsley groans, scrunching up her face. “That was the worst.”
I gently squeeze her foot. “Well, the good news is we aren’t doing any of that today.”
She huffs out a breath. “Because plates and screws are so much better,” she mumbles.
“Yeah … I guess it is still surgery, huh.”
“Yep—” she pops the P. “Before you know it, I’m going to be setting off metal detectors and complaining about the weather like my grandma.”
“Man, youngest little old lady ever,” I joke. “How old are you now? Thirty-two? Thirty-three?”
“Doctor Nick …” She rolls her eyes. “I'm almost thirteen which means I'm almost driving.”
“Almost.” I wink at her parents. “Well, almost-thirteen, let's chat about your anesthesia.”
Rory stands up, excusing herself. “If y’all need me for anything, you have my card. Ainsley, I’ll see you in a couple of days when you’re moved into your room.”
I run through my checklist, discussing her health and illness history—all of which has already been dutifully updated in her chart. We ask again and again to ensure the patient hasn’t forgotten anything in particular or that we haven’t misheard something that was misinterpreted.
“So …” I clap my hands. “Do y’all have any questions for me?”
“I’m starving, Dr. Nick.”
I laugh. “Sorry, kid, no can-do. But tell you what: if you can hold on tight through surgery, I’ll let you have a delicious taste of an ice chip. Deal?”
She scoffs, flopping back on her pillow. “Oh, goody.”
Almost thirteen indeed. I squeeze her foot. “We’ll head back shortly—”
“Dr. Crawford?” her father interrupts, quickly following me outside the pre-op bay. “I’m sorry. I’m just full of so much anxious energy.”
I give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You’re her dad. It’s your job to worry.”
He hums knowingly. “One minute you're finding doctors and therapists so she can eat and communicate. And now …” He chuckles, a quiver under his breath as he searches for words. “You know? She wants to be a doctor.”
“No kidding?”
“She's pretty remarkable.” He smiles proudly.
“Pediatricians and specialists have always talked about risks and potential setbacks with each procedure, so much so that now I'm a nervous wreck when we step into this place.” He sighs, meeting my gaze.
“We trust you. Ainsley trusts you. Just—make sure she's okay back there today.”
I slowly nod. “Yes, sir.”
The corner of his mouth lifts as he squeezes my shoulder. “Are you a father yet?”
The question stuns me into silence as my heart constricts in my chest. Maybe once upon a time, I could wear that name like a badge of honor. But that’s not me; I have no right to call myself a dad.
“No, no, I’m not.”
“Today, you are.” He nods toward his daughter's room. “That little girl in there? Please treat her like your own.”
“You have my word.”