**A Failed Operation**
Edward didn’t step out of the car—he half-fell from it. Only three routine surgeries, yet it felt like he’d been hauling sacks all shift. His back throbbed, his head buzzed, and his eyes burned as if lined with grit.
At home, he collapsed onto the sofa without undressing, closed his eyes, and plummeted into sleep. The shrill ringtone of his phone drilled into his skull. His neck ached from the awkward angle, but summoning the will to move was impossible. *Blast. I must be coming down with something.* He forced his eyelids apart.
The phone quieted for seconds before erupting again. *I should’ve changed that blasted tune ages ago.* Reluctantly, he fished the mobile from his coat pocket.
“Yes?” His voice rasped with sleep. He cleared his throat. “Yes,” he repeated firmly.
“Ed, I’m at Heathrow. Flight leaves in an hour. My father’s had a heart attack—he’s in hospital. Cover for me, mate? No one else I can ask,” came the voice of his colleague and friend, Gary Stephens.
“I’m not well. Call Peter.”
“Come off it. A coffee and some paracetamol, you’ll be right. Peter’s missus—you know how she gets about overtime. Thinks it’s code for an affair. Simon’s green, and old Wilson can’t handle two shifts in a row at his age. I’ll be back day after tomorrow. Help me out?”
*So, die if you must, but don’t let a mate down. Perfect timing.*
“Yeah,” Edward sighed, defeated.
“What was that?” Gary pressed.
“Fine. I’ll cover. Safe flight.”
“You’re a lifesaver—” Gary’s relieved chatter was cut short as Edward ended the call.
There was still time before night shift. A shower, a shave, and a strong coffee revived him slightly. The thought of returning to the hospital he’d left hours ago made his stomach twist. *I’ll manage. Might be quiet.* He dressed mechanically.
For a few hours, the ward was calm. Sleep dragged at him like an anchor, his heavy head drooping toward the desk. He shook himself, forced alertness. Another cup of coffee bought him fleeting clarity.
“Edward Wilson?” The voice reached him as if through fog. Someone shook his shoulder.
*Bloody hell, I nodded off.* He lifted his head. Nurse Natalie stood before him.
“There’s a boy just been brought in—”
“Right. Be down in a moment.” He scrubbed the remnants of sleep from his face.
Cold water splashed over his cheeks as the kettle boiled. Two scoops of instant coffee—then a third for good measure. He gulped the scalding liquid, adjusted his cap, and headed to A&E.
A boy of about twelve lay curled on the trolley. Edward examined him carefully.
“You’re his mother?” He addressed a pale, slight woman.
“What’s wrong with him, Doctor?” Her large eyes locked onto his.
“Why didn’t you call sooner?” His tone was sharp.
“I—I got home from work. He was doing homework. Then he was sick. Fever spiked. He’d hidden the stomach pain for days. What’s happening?” Her fingers dug into his sleeve.
“Nat, prep the theatre!” He pried himself free. “Sign the consent form.” He thrust the paper at her.
“An operation? Appendicitis?”
“Peritonitis.” His gaze softened with regret.
Horror froze her features.
“Sign. There’s no time.”
She scrawled her name blindly before seizing his arm again. “Please, save him.”
“I’ll do everything I can. Let me work.”
Natalie wheeled the trolley forward. Together, they transferred the boy and rushed toward the lift. Their hurried footsteps and the trolley’s uneven squeak echoed down the empty hall.
The woman followed, speaking frantically, but Edward tuned her out, focusing on the task ahead.
In the theatre, the boy lay anaesthetised. Everything else faded. His hands moved on instinct; his mind was clear. Two hours in, exhaustion flickered. He closed his eyes for a second—until Natalie’s gasp snapped him back.
Blood pulsed beneath his fingers, flooding the incision.
“Pressure’s dropping!” the anaesthetist called.
Edward stepped out of the theatre. Sweat glued his scrubs to his back. His legs trembled. He leaned against the cool wall just as a woman sprinted toward him—the mother. She halted a step away, as if hitting glass. Her face was bloodless, eyes huge with dread.
He looked away. She gasped—or sobbed—clamping a hand over her mouth before swaying. He caught her before she fell, guiding her to a chair.
“Natalie, smelling salts!”
Natalie darted over, pressing ammonia-soaked cotton beneath the woman’s nose. She recoiled, swiping weakly at the nurse’s hand before forcing her eyes open.
“You all right?” Edward studied her pallor.
No answer. Slowly, she stood and walked away down the empty corridor. He watched her go. *Only a woman could endure like that.*
In the office, he sat for a long time, head in hands. Then, methodically, he recorded the surgery’s details. Truthfully.
“Edward?” Natalie’s voice was soft in the doorway.
“What now?” He didn’t look up.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Make coffee. Strong.”
The kettle hissed. The brew’s bitterness turned his stomach. He poured it down the sink.
As he rinsed the mug, pain lanced through his chest. It swelled, pressing against his ribs, stealing his breath. His vision darkened…
“Awake?” A familiar voice.
He peeled his eyes open. Dr. Margaret Hayes, the paediatrician, hovered over him.
“Stay down,” she ordered as he tried to rise. “You’re ill, man. Operating in this state? We need an ECG—”
“I’m fine.” He winced as pain flared.
“How many coffees?”
“Lost count.”
“You should’ve. Not a lad anymore. Your heart won’t take this. Natalie had the sense to call me.”
“Heart attack?”
“Not yet. But push it, and you’ll get one. I’ve sedated you. You’ve slept hours. *Stay down.*” Her tone softened. “Rest.”
Fatigue swallowed him again.
Morning brought clarity—and a headache. The memories hit at once. He grabbed the resignation letter from his desk and strode to the department head’s office.
“What’s this?” Dr. James Whittaker skimmed it. “Running away? Admitting defeat?”
“I can’t operate. Not like this.”
“And who’ll replace you?” Whittaker shredded the paper. “I know what happened. The boy’s death wasn’t your error—it was circumstance.”
“I should’ve known.”
“Every surgeon carries losses. We’re not gods. Wait for the post-mortem.”
“Ford.”
“What?”
“Henry Ford said failures teach more than successes.”
“Good you know that. Then why the dramatics? If every surgeon quit after losing a patient, who’d be left? Think of the lives you’ve saved.” Whittaker gripped his shoulders. “Two weeks’ leave. Come back ready.”
Driving home, Edward saw the boy’s contorted body, the mother’s hollow stare. *He shouldn’t have died.*
Two days passed in a haze. Pacing. Reliving the op. Collapsing into fitful sleep.
On the third day, he called Natalie.
“Edward! The coroner ruled it wasn’t your fault. You hear?”
“Text me the boy’s address.” He hung up.
Two hours later, his doorbell rang. Natalie stood there, bright-eyed.
“I asked for the address.”
“I thought—”
“I’m fine. Where is it?”
She handed him a slip, peering up hopefully. He took it, shut the door. Harsh, yes—but he knew her feelings. No use stringing her along.
In the bathroom mirror, a stranger stared back: gaunt, hollow-eyed.
He washed, shaved. Opted for tea over coffee. Then he left.
The block was easy to find. The lift shuddered to the eighth floor. He rang the bell, unsure what to say.
The door opened. Her pallor startled him. *She hasn’t slept. Or eaten.*
“You’re here for me?” Her voice was flat.
“Edward Wilson. The surgeon who—”
She flinched, stepping close. “You *killed* him!” Her fists struck his chest weakly.
He let her, waiting until she slumped against him, sobbing.
“There was nothing more I could do.”
She pushed away. “Leave.”
He watched her hunched shoulders, the defeated line of her body. Then he toed off his shoes and followed her in.
She sat curled on the sofa. He fetched water, made her drink. Spilled drops darkened her blouse. His gaze snagged on the undressedEdward returned the next day with groceries and stayed to cook dinner, and though the grief between them never fully faded, they found a quiet companionship in the shared silence of healing.