FIFTY-FIVE
CALLUM
Missed call: Jordie.
Her name flashes across my screen just as I’m updating the surgical board. Instinct kicks in before reason does—I reach for the phone. Then stop.
Boundaries, I remind myself.
I’ll call her tomorrow.
7:01 p.m.
Ring.
Jordie. Again.
Orthopedics and Urology are in a full territorial pissing match over who gets to do their case first. The theater coordinator looks ready to throat-punch them both.
Three rings in—my hand halfway to the phone—when the obstetrics registrar barrels in, breathless, booking form in hand.
“Dr. Han! Cord prolapse, prolonged decels. Crash Caesar.”
“Bring her in. Theater Six. Now.” I’m on my feet.
She nods and bolts.
“Sorry, boys,” I say to the bickering surgeons. “Baby trumps leg and bladder.”
Jordie’s call drops.
7:12 p.m.
Case: Emergency Caesarean Section
Age: 29 y/o
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I don’t answer. Can’t.
The mother is screaming. The midwife calls NICU. The obstetrician barks for her tray setup.
I’m at the head of the bed, anesthetic mask in my hand, pressed to her face.
“Deep breaths,” I tell the patient, though she’s beyond hearing. “You’re going to sleep now.”
Push. Tube. Tape.
The buzzing in my phone has long stopped. But the buzzing in my chest hasn’t.
8:43 p.m.
Case: Wound Debridement of Burns to Bilateral Thighs
Age: 7 y/o
I coach the new night registrar, Amanda, through intubation. “Watch for loose teeth.”
Once the tube’s in, I step out and call Jordie.
Voicemail.
“This is Jordie. If this is a scammer, I hope you step on a Lego. If you—”
I hang up. Text her instead.
Callum
you ok?
“Dr. Han,” Amanda peeks out. “Can you check the tube? I feel that there might be a leak.”
I head back inside.
10:04 p.m.
Case: Right Femoral Nerve Block – Emergency Department
Age: 68 y/o
I guide the ultrasound probe over the patient’s groin until the nerve slides into view. My hand stays steady as the needle glides in. I inject the anesthetic, watching it bloom around the nerve.
“Should take effect soon,” I assure the patient.
At the nurse’s station, I finish my charting, tuning out the conversation around me.
“Discharging Bay Three. Her belongings are here—phone, wallet, handbag,” a nurse says, setting a brown paper bag near my elbow.
I glance at the clock. The night ticks forward in predictable beats . . .
. . . until the emergency buzzer splits it open.
“Bay Three!” someone yells.
“The gallbladder patient? Thought she was discharging!”
“She’s collapsed!”
I move toward the commotion, but a wall of bodies has already formed—nurses, doctors, orderlies. I know better than to add another pair of hands they don’t need.
I step back, pulling out my phone as I head for the lifts. I dial Jordie.
It rings. Voicemail again.
And something about that . . . doesn’t sit right.
11:58 p.m.
The call from ED comes through as I’m finalizing tomorrow’s surgical list.
“Dr. Han, we’re booking an emergency laparoscopy—hemoperitoneum. My nurse is already on with your coordinator.”
I grab a pen. “Details?”
“Female, twenty-eight. Fifty-three kilos. Presented with sharp right-sided abdominal pain. Initially thought to be gallbladder spasm. She was being prepped for discharge, but she collapsed on her way out.”
“Vitals?”
“BP 80 over 42. Heart rate 140. Chest pain post-collapse. Suspected pulmonary embolism. CT ruled it out. Instead, they found a massive intra-abdominal bleed.”
“Source?”
“Ruptured hemorrhagic ovarian cyst. Hemoglobin dropped from 104 to 68. Unresponsive to fluids. Started O-negative. On a Metaraminol infusion to keep her pressure up.”
I glance at the clock. “Is the patient fasted?”
“Yeah. Last ate around two but couldn’t keep it down.”
“Gynecologists?”
“En route.”
“Patient’s name?”
There’s a pause on the line, the shuffle of papers.
“She actually works here. Think her name’s Mitchell . . . hang on—yeah, Mitchell. Jordanna.”
Everything sharpens into one singular point.
Stabilize her. Save her.
I turn to Amanda. “Get Trevor.”
She hesitates. “But he’s not on call—”
“I know!” I snap. “Call him anyway. Tell him I’m asking.”
Because I’m not trusting anyone else to put her under.
I round the corner, issuing orders to the team. They move like clockwork instantly. My hands move faster than my head. Snapping vials out of the drug cart, drawing up syringes, checking labels twice and still feeling like I can’t go fast enough.
I head for the emergency lifts. Watching the numbers climb.
Level 1.
Level 2.
Come on. Come on. Come on.
My foot taps, heart thudding.
Level 3.
The lift dings. The doors part. I slip through—
—and then I see Jordie.
Curled on the stretcher. Pale. Breathing shallow and too fast under the oxygen mask. Her hand clutches the sheet. Hair plastered to her forehead. Lips drained. Skin ashen.
The monitor beside her blares numbers that shouldn’t belong to her.
Not my Jordie. Not even close.
This is someone fragile. Small. A stranger wearing her face.
I step in before the door even fully parts. I take her hand, push fentanyl into her IV line. Watch her ease, just slightly. Midazolam next. Her body slackens, brow smoothing. A flicker of relief.
“Theater Four!” I bark. “Move!”
The stretcher wheels shriek forward. I move with them, adjusting her infusion for her blood pressure. Her head lolls toward me. Lips part, eyes flutter—but don’t open.
The theater doors swing wide. Cold air. The metallic scent of antiseptic and adrenaline.
“Watch the lines,” I order. “Pat slide!”
Hands move fast around me. Familiar voices blur into noise.
“Transfer on three,” I call out, already bracing at her side. “One—two—three.”
The moment the team shifts her to the table, a horrific groan tears from her lips.
My heart fucking cleaves in two.
I inject another dose of analgesia fast.
The overhead lights snap on, washing her in harsh white. I step to the head of the table, and it takes everything in me not to fall apart.
“It’s okay, Jordie,” I murmur, brushing her hair back. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
The theater coordinator moves to the whiteboard, her marker squeaking as she writes. My eyes lift, tracking the words as they materialize:
12:21 a.m.
Case: Emergency Laparoscopy for Control of Abdominal Hemorrhage +/- Laparotomy +/- Right OophorectomyPatient: Jordanna Marie Mitchell
Age: 28 y/o
Her name. Stark and clinical in black ink. Surrounded by language that talks about incisions and procedures like it’s just paperwork.
I stare at it, and something inside me shreds.
Because that’s not just a patient on the table.
She’s not a chart. Or a shift swap. Or a clinical entry in someone’s discharge summary.
She’s laughter echoing off the elevator walls. She’s second-hand books, and peanut butter and Sriracha toast. She’s the ache I never wanted and the love I never saw coming.
She’s my person.
She’s my everything.