**The Failed Operation**
Edward didn’t walk out of his car—he stumbled. Three routine surgeries, yet he felt like he’d spent his shift hauling sacks of cement. His back ached, his head throbbed, and his eyes burned as if filled with grit.
At home, he collapsed onto the sofa without even removing his coat, closed his eyes, and sank into sleep instantly. He woke to the shrill ringtone of his phone drilling into his skull. His neck was stiff from the awkward position, and standing seemed impossible. *Bloody hell. I think I’m coming down with something,* he thought, forcing his eyelids apart.
The phone stopped for a few seconds, then erupted again with its grating tune. *I should’ve changed that ages ago.* Reluctantly, Edward fished his mobile from his jacket pocket.
“Yeah?” he croaked, his voice rough with sleep. He cleared his throat. “Yeah?” he repeated, firmer this time.
“Ed, mate, I’m at Heathrow. Flight leaves in an hour. My father’s in hospital with a heart attack. Do me a solid, cover for me, will you? There’s no one else I can ask,” came the voice of his colleague and friend, Kevin Stokes.
“I… don’t feel great. Think I’m ill. Ring Rob.”
“Come off it. Grab a coffee, pop some paracetamol. Rob’s wife—you know how she is—she’d take overtime as a personal betrayal. And Ian’s still green. Old Thompson can’t pull two shifts in a row, not at his age. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow. Help me out? I’ll owe you.”
*Bloody typical. Drop dead, but don’t let a mate down,* Edward thought.
“Fine,” he sighed, defeated.
“What was that?” Kevin pressed.
“I said alright. I’ll cover. Safe flight.”
“You’re a real one, mate. I’ll make it up—” Kevin began, but Edward hung up before he could finish.
He still had time before his night shift. A shower, a shave, and a strong coffee made him feel marginally better. The thought of returning to the hospital he’d just left hours ago made his stomach churn. *I’ll manage. Maybe it’ll be quiet,* he told himself, pulling on his coat.
For a few hours, the ward was eerily calm. The heaviness of exhaustion dragged at his eyelids, his head drooping toward the desk. He jerked awake, another cup of bitter coffee barely keeping him alert.
“Edward?” The voice sounded distant. Someone shook his shoulder.
He’d fallen asleep. Lifting his head, he saw nurse Sarah standing over him.
“Edward, they’ve brought in a boy…”
“Right. I’ll be down,” he muttered, rubbing the last traces of sleep from his eyes.
Cold water splashed on his face. He dumped three heaped spoons of instant coffee into a mug, gulped the scalding liquid, adjusted his surgical cap, and headed to A&E.
A twelve-year-old boy lay curled on the gurney, face twisted in pain. Edward examined him gently.
“You’re his mother?” he asked the pale, slender woman beside him.
“What’s wrong with him, Doctor?” Her wide, frightened eyes locked onto his.
“Why didn’t you call an ambulance sooner?” he demanded sharply.
“I—I came home from work, he was doing his schoolwork. Then he started vomiting, his fever spiked. He hid it for days, said his stomach hurt. What’s happening?” Her grip tightened on his arm.
“Sarah, prep theatre!” Edward barked, wrenching free. “Sign the consent form. Now.” He thrust the paper at her.
“Surgery? Appendicitis?” she asked numbly.
“Peritonitis,” he said, regret coloring his tone.
Horror flooded her face.
“Sign it. There’s no time.”
She scrawled her name blindly, then seized his arm again. “Doctor, please save my son!”
“I’ll do everything I can. Don’t get in the way.”
Sarah wheeled the boy toward the lift, the squeaky gurney rattling down the empty corridor. The mother followed, babbling pleas Edward tuned out, his mind already rehearsing the procedure.
In the operating theatre, the boy lay anaesthetised. Everything else faded—Edward’s hands moved automatically, his focus razor-sharp. Two hours in, a scream from Sarah snapped him back to reality.
Blood gushed beneath his fingers, flooding the surgical field.
“Pressure’s dropping!” the anaesthetist shouted.
Edward stepped out of the theatre, his scrubs drenched in sweat. His legs trembled as he leaned against the cold wall. The boy’s mother sprinted toward him, stopping just short as if hitting an invisible barrier. Her face was ghostly, eyes hollow with fear.
He looked away. She choked back a sob, swayed, and collapsed. He caught her before she hit the floor, easing her onto a chair.
“Sarah, smelling salts!”
The sharp ammonia jolted her awake. She pushed the nurse’s hand away, her breath ragged.
“Are you alright?” Edward asked, studying her pallor.
She didn’t answer, just stood and walked away down the corridor. *Only a woman could endure like that,* he thought.
Back in the staff room, he sat with his head in his hands before documenting the surgery. Honestly.
“Edward…” Sarah hovered in the doorway.
“What now?” he snapped, not looking up.
“You couldn’t have saved him,” she whispered.
“Make coffee. Strong.”
The brew tasted vile. He dumped it, the bitterness lingering.
As he washed the mug, a sharp pain lanced through his chest. It swelled, crushing his ribs, stealing his breath—
“Awake?”
He peeled his eyes open. Dr. Margaret, the paediatrician, frowned down at him.
“Stay down,” she ordered when he tried to rise. “You’re ill. Performing surgery in this state? We need an ECG—”
“I’m fine,” he muttered, but another stab of pain twisted his face.
“How many coffees today?”
“Lost count.”
“You should’ve. You’re not a student anymore. Your heart won’t take this. Thank goodness Sarah called me.”
“A heart attack?”
“Not yet. But it will be if you keep this up. Rest.” Her voice softened. “Sleep.”
Exhaustion pulled him under.
He woke refreshed but haunted. The boy’s face, his mother’s anguish—*he shouldn’t have died.*
Two days passed in a fog. Pacing. Replaying the surgery. Falling into fitful sleep.
On the third day, he called Sarah.
“Edward! You’re alright! The coroner’s report cleared you. Did you hear?”
“I heard. Text me the boy’s address.” He hung up.
Two hours later, his doorbell rang. Sarah stood there, smiling nervously.
“I asked for the address. Why’re you here?”
“I thought—”
“I’m fine. Where is it?”
She handed him a scrap of paper. He shut the door without thanks. Harsh, but he knew she fancied him. No point leading her on.
In the mirror, his reflection horrified him—pale, hollow-eyed, unhinged.
He washed, shaved, brewed tea instead of coffee, and left.
The flat was easy to find. The lift groaned its way up. He rang the bell, unsure what to say.
She opened the door, her face ashen. *Hasn’t slept. Hasn’t eaten.*
“You?” Her voice was flat.
“Yes. I… operated on your son.”
She flinched, then lunged, pounding his chest with weak fists. “You killed him!”
He let her. When she collapsed against him, sobbing, he murmured, “There was nothing I could do.”
She shoved away. “Go.”
He stepped inside anyway. She sat curled on the sofa, trembling. He brought water, made her drink. In the corner, a decorated Christmas tree glowed.
“We put that up together,” she whispered.
“You need sleep.”
She obeyed. He draped a blanket over her and left.
At home, he drank to drown the guilt. Two days later, he returned. She looked worse.
“Why?” she asked dully.
“If I’d known…” He took charge, cooking chicken broth.
She sipped it obediently, colour returning to her cheeks.
“Good. No arguments. I won’t let another death happen.”
When she finished, she spoke quietly. “It wasn’t your fault. Help me take the tree down.”
They worked in silence.
“You’re the first bloke I’ve met who can cook,” she said finally.
“Taught by my gran. Parents died in a crash—doctors, both. Raised me from eight.”
“No wife? Children?”
“Didn’t work out. You’re better now. Shall I go?”
“Stay.Edward stayed, and in the quiet warmth of the shared silence, they both began to heal.
