A Failed Operation
Edward staggered out of the car rather than stepped. He’d only performed three routine surgeries, yet he felt as if he’d lugged sacks around all shift. His back ached, his head throbbed, and his eyes burned with exhaustion.
At home, he collapsed onto the sofa without undressing, closed his eyes, and instantly fell asleep. He woke to the shrill melody of his phone, drilling into his skull. His neck was stiff from the awkward position, and he barely had the strength to move. “Damn. Think I’m coming down with something,” he thought, forcing his eyelids open.
The phone fell silent for a few seconds before erupting again with that same grating tune. “Should’ve changed that ages ago.” Reluctantly, he fished the device from his coat pocket.
“Yeah,” he croaked, clearing his throat. “Yeah,” he repeated, firmer this time.
“Ed, I’m at Heathrow. Flight’s in an hour. My dad’s in hospital—heart attack. Mate, cover for me, yeah? No one else to ask,” came the voice of his colleague and friend, Greg Stevens.
“Not… feeling great myself. Call Jake.”
“Don’t be daft. Grab a coffee, some paracetamol. You know Jake’s wife—overtime’s practically adultery to her. Ian’s too green. Pete can’t pull two shifts in a row at his age. I’ll be back day after tomorrow. Do me this solid? I’ll owe you one.”
*So, die if you must, but don’t let a mate down. Brilliant timing.*
“Fine,” Edward sighed, resigned.
“Sorry, what?” Greg pressed.
“I said alright. I’ll cover. Safe flight.”
“You’re a lifesaver. I’ll make it up—” Greg’s relieved babble was cut off as Edward ended the call.
He still had time before the night shift. A shower, a shave, and a strong coffee later, he felt marginally better. The thought of returning to the hospital he’d just left hours ago was grim. *I’ll manage. Maybe it’ll be quiet.*
For a few hours, the ward was indeed still. Sleep clawed at him, his heavy head nodding toward the desk. He jerked upright, shaking off the drowsiness. Another coffee bought him a brief reprieve.
“Edward,” a distant voice called. Someone shook his shoulder.
He’d dozed off. Lifting his head, he found nurse Emily standing over him.
“Edward, there’s a boy just arrived—”
“Yeah, I’ll be right down.”
He splashed cold water on his face, dumped three spoonfuls of coffee into a mug while the kettle boiled, then gulped it down, scalding his tongue. Adjusting his scrub cap, he headed to A&E.
A boy of about twelve lay curled on the gurney. Edward examined him carefully.
“You’re the mother?” he asked the pale, slight woman beside him.
“What’s wrong with him, Doctor?” Her wide eyes locked onto his.
“Why didn’t you call an ambulance sooner?” His tone was sharp, accusatory.
“I—I got home from work, he was doing homework. Then he was sick. His temperature spiked. He hid the stomach pain for days. What’s wrong?” Her fingers clutched his arm.
“Emily, get a trolley!” Edward barked, pulling free. “Sign the consent for surgery.” He thrust the form at her.
“Surgery? Appendicitis?”
“Peritonitis.” His gaze was heavy with pity.
Horror froze her expression.
“Sign. We can’t wait.”
She scribbled her name without reading and seized his hand again. “Doctor, please save him!”
“I’ll do everything I can. Don’t interfere.”
Emily wheeled the trolley over. Together, they lifted the boy and hurried toward the lifts, their footsteps and the trolley’s creaky wheels echoing in the empty corridor.
The mother trailed behind, pleading, but Edward tuned her out, mentally preparing for the operation.
In the theatre, the boy lay anaesthetised. Everything else faded. Edward’s hands moved with practised precision, his mind razor-focused. Two hours in, he closed his eyes for just a second—until Emily’s cry snapped him back.
Blood gushed from the incision site.
“Pressure’s dropping!” the anaesthetist shouted.
Edward stepped out of the theatre later, drenched in sweat, his legs trembling. He leaned against the cold wall, shutting his eyes—until hurried footsteps approached. *The mother.*
She stopped a pace away, as if hitting an invisible barrier. Her face was bloodless, her eyes hollow with dread.
Edward looked away. She gasped—or maybe sobbed—clapped a hand over her mouth, and swayed. He caught her before she hit the ground, guiding her to a chair.
“Emily, smelling salts!”
Emily rushed over, pressing the ammonia-soaked pad under the woman’s nose. She jerked away, swatting weakly before sagging back into consciousness.
“You alright?” Edward studied her pallor.
She didn’t answer. Stood slowly and walked away down the hall. Edward watched her go. *Only a woman could endure like that.*
In the staff room, he sat for a long time, head in hands, then began documenting the operation. Honestly.
“Edward…” Emily hovered in the doorway.
“What now?” he snapped, not looking up.
“It wasn’t your fault. The boy—”
“Make coffee. Strong.”
The kettle hissed. The coffee’s bitterness turned his stomach. He poured it down the sink.
As he rinsed the mug, a dull ache spread through his chest. It swelled, threatening to crack his ribs. His vision dimmed—
“Awake?” a familiar voice asked.
He peeled his eyes open. Round-faced, worried Dr. Margaret Davies peered down at him.
“Lie still,” she ordered as he tried to rise. “You’re ill. Operating in this state? We need an ECG—”
“I’m fine.” He gritted his teeth against the stabbing pain.
“How many coffees today?”
“Lost count.”
“At your age? Your heart won’t take it. Thank goodness Emily called me.”
“Heart attack?”
“Not yet. But keep this up, and yes. I gave you a sedative. You’ve slept hours. *Stay down.*” She softened. “Rest.”
Exhaustion dragged him under again.
He woke refreshed but headachy—and remembered everything. He retrieved his resignation letter from the desk and marched to the department head’s office.
“What’s this?” Dr. Harold Wilson scanned it. “Running away? Admitting defeat?” His stare was stern.
“I can’t operate. Not like this.”
“Oh? Who’ll replace you?” Harold tore the paper to shreds. “I know what happened. The boy’s death wasn’t your error. Unforeseen complications.”
“I should’ve known.”
“Every surgeon has ghosts. We’re not gods. Wait for the autopsy. Failure’s the best teacher.”
“Ford.”
“Eh?”
“Henry Ford said that.”
“Then act like you believe it. If every surgeon quit after losing a patient, who’d be left? Think of the lives you’ve saved.” Harold rose, gripping Edward’s shoulders. “Two weeks’ leave. Take more if needed. Then come back. *Pull yourself together.*”
Driving home, Edward saw the boy’s contorted body, the mother’s blanched face. *He shouldn’t have died.*
For two days, he paced his flat, replaying the surgery, dozing fitfully before jerking awake to pace again.
On the third day, he called Emily.
“Edward! Thank God! The coroner ruled it wasn’t your—”
“Text me the boy’s address.” He hung up.
Two hours later, the doorbell rang. Emily stood there, bright-eyed.
“I asked for the address.”
“I thought—”
“I’m fine. Where is it?”
She handed him a slip of paper. He shut the door without thanks. Harsh, but he knew she fancied him. No point leading her on. He had nothing left to give.
In the bathroom mirror, a gaunt, hollow-eyed stranger stared back. He washed, shaved, brewed tea instead of coffee—Margaret’s warning ringing in his ears—then left.
The block was easy to find. The lift shuddered to the eighth floor. He rang the bell, unsure what to say.
She opened the door. Her pallor shocked him. *Not sleeping. Not eating.*
“You’re here for me?” Her voice was flat.
“Yes. I… operated on your son.”
She flinched, stepped close.
“You—you killed him!” Her fists pounded weakly against his chest. He let her exhaust herself before catching her as she crumpled, sobbing into his shirt.
“I couldn’t save him. Believe me.”
She pushed away, glaring through tears. “Go.”
Her whisper hit like a shout.
He watched her hunched shoulders, then toed off his shoes and followed her inside. She sat on the sofa, kneesShe looked up at him, and for the first time in weeks, he saw something like hope flicker in her eyes.
