Failed Operation
Henry stumbled out of his car, barely able to stand. He’d only done three routine surgeries that shift, but his entire body ached like he’d hauled sacks of coal all night. His back throbbed, his head pounded, and his eyes burned as if he hadn’t slept in days.
At home, he collapsed on the sofa, still in his scrubs, and was asleep the moment he shut his eyes. The shrill ringtone of his phone jabbed into his skull like a drill. His neck was stiff from the awkward position, and for a second, he couldn’t move. *Damn it. I think I’m coming down with something*, Henry thought, forcing his eyelids open.
The phone went silent for a few seconds, then started blaring again. *I should’ve changed that stupid ringtone ages ago.* Reluctantly, he fished the phone from his coat pocket.
“Yeah?” he croaked, his voice thick with sleep. He cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he repeated, firmer this time.
“Harry, mate, I’m at Heathrow. Flight’s in an hour. My dad’s had a heart attack—he’s in hospital. Listen, cover my shift, yeah? There’s no one else I can ask,” came the voice of his colleague and friend, Tim Harrison.
“I’m… not feeling great. Call Jamie.”
“Come off it. Down some coffee, take some paracetamol. You know Jamie—his missus will think he’s cheating if he stays late. Rob’s still green, and old Thompson can’t handle back-to-back shifts anymore. I’ll be back in two days. Help me out, yeah? I’ll owe you.”
*Of course. Drop dead, but don’t let a mate down. Bloody brilliant.*
“Yeah,” Henry sighed, resigned.
“What was that?” Tim pressed.
“I said fine. I’ll cover. Safe trip.”
“You’re a real one, Harry. I’ll make it up—” Tim’s eager rambling cut off as Henry hung up.
He had time before the night shift. A scalding shower, a quick shave, and a strong cup of coffee made him feel marginally better. The idea of dragging himself back to the hospital—just hours after leaving—filled him with dread. *I’ll manage. Maybe it’ll be quiet.* He got dressed.
For the first few hours, the ward was eerily calm. Exhaustion weighed heavy on him, his head nearly buckling onto the desk. He shook himself awake, forcing his eyes open. Another bitter cup of coffee bought him a few more minutes of alertness.
“Henry Bennett?” A distant voice. Someone was shaking his shoulder.
He’d dozed off. He lifted his head to see Sarah, one of the nurses, standing over him.
“Henry, there’s a boy just been brought in—”
“Yeah, I’ll be right down,” he muttered, rubbing the sleep from his face.
He splashed icy water on his cheeks while the kettle boiled, then dumped three heaped spoons of instant coffee into a mug and gulped it down, wincing as it scorched his throat. Adjusting his scrub cap, he headed to A&E.
A twelve-year-old boy lay curled on a gurney, face twisted in pain. Henry examined him gently.
“Are you his mother?” he asked the pale, slender woman hovering nearby.
“What’s wrong with him, Doctor?” Her eyes were huge, terrified.
“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 started vomiting. His fever spiked. He kept saying his stomach hurt for days but wouldn’t tell me. What’s wrong?” Her fingers clutched his wrist.
“Sarah, prep a trolley!” Henry snapped, still staring at the woman’s ashen face. He pulled free of her grip. “Sign the consent form for surgery.” He shoved the paper at her.
“Surgery? Appendicitis?”
“Peritonitis.” The look he gave her was grim.
Horror froze her expression.
“Sign it. There’s no time.”
She scrawled her name without reading, then seized his arm again. “Doctor, save my son!”
“I’ll do everything I can. Don’t get in the way.”
Sarah wheeled over the trolley. Together, they lifted the boy and hurried toward the lift. Their rushed footsteps and the trolley’s rattling wheels echoed through the empty corridor.
The mother followed, babbling pleas Henry blocked out. His focus was already on the operation.
By the time he entered the theatre, the boy was under anaesthesia. Everything else faded. His hands moved automatically, his mind sharp despite the fatigue. Two hours in, he let his eyes close for just a second—until Sarah’s scream snapped him back.
Blood pulsed from beneath his fingers, flooding the surgical field.
“BP’s dropping—” the anaesthetist shouted.
Henry stepped away from the table, sweat plastering his scrubs to his back. His legs trembled, weak with exhaustion. He leaned against the cool wall just as the boy’s mother came running.
She skidded to a halt a step away as if hitting an invisible barrier. Pale, hollow-eyed, her entire body shaking.
Henry couldn’t meet her gaze. She let out a choked sound, swayed—he caught her before she hit the floor, easing her onto a chair.
“Sarah, ammonia!” His voice echoed down the hall.
Sarah rushed over, pressing a soaked swab under the woman’s nose. She jerked away, coughing, then pushed Sarah’s hand aside and opened her eyes.
“Are you alright?” Henry studied her face.
She didn’t answer. Just stood, unsteady, and walked away down the corridor without looking back. *Only a woman can endure like that*, he thought.
In the staff room, he sat for a long time, head in his hands. Then he began documenting the operation—honestly.
“Henry…” Sarah stepped in quietly.
“What now?” he snapped, not looking up.
“It wasn’t your fault. The boy—”
“Make coffee. Strong.”
He heard the kettle boil. Smelled the brew. When he took a sip, it tasted vile. He dumped it in the sink.
As he washed the mug, a crushing weight spread through his chest. His vision blurred.
“Awake?” A familiar voice.
He forced his eyes open. Dr. Margaret Sutton—paediatrics—leaned over him, frowning.
“Stay down,” she ordered when he tried to sit up. “You’re ill. Operating in this state? We need an ECG.”
“I’m fine.” He pushed up—then gasped as pain lanced through him.
“How many coffees?” Margaret crossed her arms.
“Lost count.”
“You should’ve kept track. You’re not a teenager. Your heart won’t take it. Luckily, Sarah called me.”
“Heart attack?” His voice was hoarse.
“Not yet. But keep this up, and it will be. I gave you a sedative. You’ve been out for hours. *Stay put.*” She glared when he moved again. “Rest.”
Exhaustion pulled him back under.
He woke in the morning with a clearer head—and the crushing memory of last night. He grabbed the resignation letter he’d scribbled and marched to the department head’s office.
“What’s this?” Dr. Robert Walsh skimmed the page. “Running away? Admitting defeat?”
“I can’t operate like this.”
“Oh? And who replaces you?” Walsh tore the letter to shreds. “I know what happened. The boy’s death wasn’t your fault. It was complications, not negligence.”
“I should’ve known.” Henry held his gaze.
“Every surgeon has losses. We’re not gods. You couldn’t have saved him—it was too late.” Walsh stood, clasping Henry’s shoulder. “Two weeks’ leave. Take more if needed. Come back when you’re ready.”
Henry left, but the image of the boy—curled on that gurney, his mother’s shattered face—haunted him.
For two days, he paced his flat, replaying the surgery in his mind. On the third, he called Sarah.
“Henry! You’re alright! The post-mortem cleared you—”
“Text me the boy’s address.” He hung up.
Two hours later, Sarah knocked on his door.
“I asked for the address. Why are you here?” He didn’t invite her in.
“I just thought—” She dropped her gaze.
“I’m fine. The address?”
She handed him a slip of paper. He shut the door without a word. Harsh, maybe—but he knew she fancied him. No point leading her on.
In the bathroom mirror, he barely recognised himself: gaunt, hollow-eyed, unshaven. He washed up, made tea instead of coffee, then left.
He found the flat easily. The lift shuddered on the way up. He rang the bell, unsure what to say.
The door opened. The woman looked even paler than before, her eyes red-rimmed. *SheHenry stepped inside, took her trembling hands, and whispered, “Let me help you carry this weight,” and for the first time since losing her son, she didn’t feel alone.
