Bad Shift
Geoffrey didn’t just step out of the car—he practically oozed onto the pavement. Three routine surgeries, but his back throbbed like he’d spent the day hauling sacks of potatoes. His head buzzed, his eyes burned, and if someone had struck a match near them, it might have actually helped.
Home. Sofa. Collapse. He didn’t even bother kicking off his shoes before surrendering to sleep—until his phone erupted with the kind of cheerful ringtone that could wake the dead. His neck screamed from the awkward angle. “Blimey. I think I’m ill,” he groaned, peeling his eyelids apart.
The phone paused, then resumed its assault. “Should’ve changed that tune ages ago,” he muttered, fishing the mobile from his jacket pocket.
“Yes?” His voice was a croak. He cleared his throat. “Yes,” he repeated, firmer this time.
“Geoff, mate—I’m at Heathrow. Flight leaves in an hour. Dad’s in hospital with a heart attack. Cover for me, yeah? No one else to ask,” pleaded the voice of his colleague and mate, Harry Strickland.
“Not feeling top-notch myself. Call Martin.”
“Come off it. Down some coffee, pop a paracetamol. Martin’s missus would murder him if he pulled an extra shift—you know how she is. Peter’s too green. And old Thompson can’t handle two in a row—he’s past it. Quick trip—back day after. Do us a solid?”
Geoffrey sighed. So much for dying quietly in his sleep.
“Fine,” he grumbled.
“What was that?” Harry pressed.
“I said *fine*. Go. Safe flight.”
“You’re a legend, mate—”
Geoffrey hung up before the gratitude could drag on.
A lukewarm shower, a slash of aftershave, and a cup of coffee strong enough to strip paint. He felt marginally less like death. The idea of trudging back to the hospital so soon made his soul wilt, but duty called. “Might be a quiet one,” he lied to himself, shrugging on his coat.
For a blissful few hours, the ward stayed calm. His head drooped toward the desk—until a sharp nudge jolted him awake.
“Dr. Langley?” Nurse Emily hovered over him.
He blinked. “Right. Be right there.”
Cold water splashed his face. The kettle boiled. Three heaped spoons of instant coffee—why not? He scalded his throat gulping it down, adjusted his scrubs cap, and headed to A&E.
A boy of about twelve lay curled on the gurney. Geoffrey examined him gently before turning to the pale, thin woman beside him.
“His mother?”
“What’s wrong with him?” Her eyes were wide, frantic.
“Why didn’t you call sooner?” he snapped.
“I—I got home late. He was doing homework. Then he vomited, spiked a fever. He hid the pain for days. *What’s wrong?*” She clutched his arm.
“Emily—gurney!” He pried his arm free, thrusting a consent form at her. “Sign this. Now.”
“Is it appendicitis?”
“Peritonitis.” His voice softened.
Her face crumpled.
“Sign. No time.”
She scribbled blindly, then latched onto him again. “Please—save him!”
“I’ll do everything I can. *Move.*”
Emily wheeled the boy toward the lift, their footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. The mother trailed, babbling pleas Geoffrey tuned out. His mind was already in theatre.
Two hours in. Hands steady, mind sharp. Then—
“Bleeding’s uncontrolled—”
“BP’s crashing—”
A shout from Emily snapped him back. Blood pulsed under his fingers, flooding the field.
Geoffrey stepped out of theatre, sweat-soaked scrubs clinging to his back. His legs trembled. He leaned against the cool wall just as the boy’s mother sprinted toward him—then froze, a step away. Her face was ghostly, eyes hollow with terror.
He looked away. She gasped—or sobbed—then swayed. He caught her before she hit the floor, guiding her to a chair.
“Emily—smelling salts!”
The nurse darted over, waving the pungent vial under the woman’s nose. She jerked back, shoved Emily’s hand aside, and staggered to her feet.
“You alright?” Geoffrey asked.
She didn’t answer. Just walked off, spine straight, down the empty hall. *Women*, he thought. *Somehow, they endure.*
In the office, he cradled his head in his hands before forcing himself to document everything—honestly.
“Dr. Langley…” Emily hovered in the doorway.
“What *now*?” he growled.
“You couldn’t have saved him.”
“Coffee. Strong.”
The kettle hissed. The coffee tasted like tar. He dumped it in the sink.
Then—pain. His chest tightened, vision blurred. The room tilted—
“Awake?”
He peeled his eyes open. Dr. Margaret Shaw, the no-nonsense pediatrician, loomed over him.
“Lie still,” she ordered as he tried to rise. “You’re ill. Operating in this state—reckless. ECG next—”
“I’m fine.” He winced as his chest flared.
“How many coffees today?”
“Dunno.”
“Count next time. You’re not twenty. Heart won’t forgive you.” She sighed. “No infarction—yet. But keep this up, and you’ll earn one. Rest. Emily had the sense to call me.”
He slept.
Morning brought a clearer head—and the crushing weight of memory. He snatched the resignation letter off his desk and marched to the department head’s office.
“Running away?” Dr. Thompson skimmed it, then shredded it. “Signing your own failure?”
“I can’t operate like this.”
“And who’ll replace you?” Thompson scoffed. “I know what happened. Not your fault. An unforeseeable complication.”
“I should’ve—”
“Every surgeon buries mistakes. We’re not gods. Wait for the post-mortem. Learn from it.”
“Ford.”
“Eh?”
“Henry Ford said that. About failure.”
“Clever lad. Then act like one. Two weeks off. More if needed. Come back when you’re ready.” A firm hand gripped his shoulder. “You’re needed here.”
The drive home was a blur of the boy’s face, his mother’s hollow eyes. *He shouldn’t have died.*
Two days of pacing. Reliving the op. Crashing into fitful sleep.
On the third day, he called Emily.
“Dr. Langley! Autopsy cleared you—”
“Text me the boy’s address.” He hung up.
Two hours later, Emily stood on his doorstep, doe-eyed.
“I asked for an address. Not a visit.”
“I thought—”
“Don’t.” He took the slip and shut the door. No point leading her on. His reflection in the mirror was ghastly—pale, sunken-eyed, unshaven.
He washed. Shaved. Skipped coffee for tea—thanks, Margaret—then left.
The flat was on the eighth floor. The elevator groaned its way up. He rang the bell, unsure what he’d even say.
She opened the door. Gaunt. Exhausted.
“You.” Her voice was flat.
“Yes. I… operated on your son—”
Her fist struck his chest—weak, frantic. “You *killed* him!”
He let her hit him. Waited. Finally, she sagged against him, sobbing.
“I tried everything,” he murmured.
She shoved him away. “*Leave.*”
He stepped inside anyway.
The Christmas tree in the corner was still up, ornaments glittering.
“We decorated it together,” she whispered.
“You need sleep.”
She curled on the sofa, knees to chest. He draped a blanket over her and left.
Home. Whiskey. Guilt.
Two days later, he returned. She looked worse.
“Why?”
No answer needed. He went to the kitchen. When she wandered in, chicken broth simmered on the hob.
“Eat.”
She sipped obediently. Colour crept back into her cheeks.
“Thank you,” she finally said.
“Help me take the tree down.”
They worked in silence.
“First man I’ve met who can cook,” she muttered.
“Gran taught me. Parents died in a plane crash—doctors on a mission. Raised me from eight.”
“Wife? Kids?”
“Didn’t work out.” He stood. “Better if I go?”
“Stay. I can’t be alone.”
A month later, Dr. Geoffrey Langley returned to the ward.
“Good man,” Thompson said, clapping his back. “Work’s the best medicine.”
After his shift, Emily fluttered over.
“Fancy giving me a lift?”
“Sorry. Other direction.”
Outside, snow fell, cleansing the grimy streets. GeoffreyThe next Christmas, as he and Hope—the boy’s mother—decorated their new tree together, Geoffrey realized that even in the darkest moments, life had a way of stitching the broken pieces back together, one fragile thread at a time.
