**A Failed Operation**
James staggered out of the car rather than stepping out properly. He’d only done three routine surgeries, but it felt like he’d been hauling sacks his entire shift. His back ached, his head throbbed, and his eyes burned as if someone had stuck matches in them.
At home, he collapsed onto the sofa without undressing, closed his eyes, and immediately fell asleep. He woke to the piercing ringtone of his phone, its cheery tune drilling into his skull. His neck was stiff from the awkward position, and he barely had the strength to move. *Damn. I think I’m ill*, James thought, peeling his eyelids apart with effort.
The phone stopped for a few seconds, then erupted again with the same grating melody. *Should’ve changed that ages ago.* Reluctantly, he fished the mobile from his jacket pocket.
“Yes,” he croaked, voice rough with sleep. He cleared his throat. “Yes,” he repeated firmly.
“Jamie, I’m at Heathrow. Flight’s in an hour. My dad’s in hospital with a heart attack. Do me a solid, cover for me, yeah? There’s no one else I can ask,” came the voice of his colleague and mate, Harry Sutton.
“I… don’t feel great. Think I’m coming down with something. Call Andrew.”
“Don’t be daft. Have some coffee, take some meds. You know Andrew’s wife—she’d take an extra shift as betrayal. Tom’s too green. Pete can’t pull two shifts back-to-back at his age. I’ll be back day after tomorrow. Help me out? I’ll cover yours later.”
*So, die if you must, but save your mate. Perfect timing.*
“Alright,” James sighed, resigned.
“What was that?” Harry pressed.
“I said yes. I’ll cover. Safe travels.”
“You’re a legend. I owe you—” Harry started gushing, but James hung up.
He had time before the night shift. A shower, a shave, and a strong coffee made him feel slightly human. The last thing he wanted was to drag himself back to the hospital he’d left just hours ago. *I’ll manage. Maybe it’ll be quiet.*
For a few hours, the ward was eerily still. Sleep tugged at him relentlessly, his heavy head drooping toward the desk. He jerked upright, shaking off the drowsiness. Another cup of coffee bought him a brief reprieve.
“James Whittaker?” The voice sounded distant. Someone shook his shoulder.
He’d fallen asleep. Lifting his head from the desk, he saw nurse Sarah standing over him.
“James, there’s a boy just been brought in—”
“Right, I’ll be down.” He scrubbed the sleep from his face.
Splashing cold water on his cheeks while the kettle boiled, he dumped two scoops of coffee into a mug, hesitated, then added a third. Burning his tongue, he gulped it down, adjusted his scrub cap, and headed to A&E.
A boy of about twelve lay curled on the gurney. James examined him carefully.
“Are you his mother?” he asked the pale, slight woman beside him.
“What’s wrong with him, Doctor?” she begged, her huge eyes wide with fear.
“Why didn’t you call an ambulance sooner?” he snapped, sharper than intended.
“I—I got home from work, he was doing his homework. Then he was sick. His temperature spiked. He hid that his stomach had been hurting for days. What’s wrong?” Her fingers dug into his arm.
“Sarah, get a trolley!” James barked, not breaking eye contact with the woman. He pulled free of her grip. “Sign the consent form for surgery.” He snatched a paper from the desk and thrust it at her.
“Surgery? Appendicitis?”
“Peritonitis.” His gaze was pitying.
Horror froze her expression.
“Sign it. There’s no time.”
She scribbled her name without reading and clutched his sleeve again.
“Doctor, please save my boy!”
“I’ll do everything I can. Don’t get in the way.”
Sarah wheeled the trolley over. They lifted the boy onto it and hurried toward the lift, their footsteps and the trolley’s creaky wheels echoing down the empty corridor.
The woman followed, babbling, but James tuned her out, mentally preparing for the procedure.
In the operating theatre, the boy was already anaesthetised. Everything else faded. His hands moved on autopilot, his mind sharp. Two hours in, exhaustion nearly shut his eyes—until Sarah’s shout snapped him back.
Blood gushed from beneath his fingers, flooding the operating field.
“BP’s dropping!” the anaesthetist yelled.
James stepped out of the theatre slowly. His scrubs clung to his back, soaked with sweat. His legs trembled from strain. Leaning against the cool wall, he saw a woman sprinting toward him—the mother.
She halted a step away, as if hitting an invisible barrier. Her face was ghostly, eyes hollow with terror.
James looked away. She gasped—or sobbed—clamped a hand over her mouth, and swayed. He caught her before she collapsed, guiding her to a chair outside the theatre.
“Sarah, smelling salts!”
Sarah rushed over with the ammonia, holding it under the woman’s nose. She jerked her head back, swatting weakly, then opened her eyes.
“You alright?” James studied her pallor.
She didn’t answer. Slowly, she stood and walked away down the empty hall. James watched her go. *Only a woman could endure like that.*
Back in the staff room, he sat hunched over the desk, head in hands. Then he began recording the surgery notes. Honestly.
“James…” Sarah stepped in timidly.
“What now?” he muttered, still writing.
“You’re not to blame for the boy’s death,” she whispered.
“Make coffee. Strong.”
The kettle hissed. The coffee smelled foul. He dumped it in the sink unfinished.
As he washed the mug, his heart twisted. It felt like it was swelling inside him, about to burst. His vision darkened.
“Awake?” A familiar voice.
James peeled his eyes open. Paediatrician Margaret Hayes loomed over him, round face creased with concern.
“Lie still,” she ordered as he tried to rise. “You’re ill. Operating in this state? You need an ECG—”
“I’m fine.” He sat up—then gasped as pain lanced through his chest.
“How many coffees did you have?” Margaret asked, her tone motherly.
“Lost count.”
“You should’ve. You’re not twenty. Your heart won’t take it. Lucky Sarah called me.”
“Heart attack?”
“Not yet. But it’s coming if you keep this up. I gave you a shot. You’ve been out hours. Stay down!” she scolded as he stirred.
Fatigue swallowed him again.
He woke in the morning, groggy but clearer-headed. The memories flooded back. Snatching up his resignation letter, he marched to the department head’s office.
“What’s this?” Richard Hughes skimmed it. “Running away? Admitting defeat?”
“I can’t operate like this.”
“Who’ll replace you?” Richard tore the paper up and tossed it in the bin. “I know what happened. The boy’s death wasn’t your fault. Sometimes circumstances beat skill.”
“I should’ve known.” James held his gaze.
“You think surgeons don’t have graves they blame themselves for? We’re not gods. You can’t foresee everything. Wait for the autopsy. Failure teaches better than success.”
“Ford.”
“What?”
“Henry Ford said that.”
“Good. So stop wallowing. If every surgeon quit after losing a patient, who’d be left? Think of the lives you’ve saved.” Richard gripped his shoulders. “It’s part of the job. You couldn’t have saved him. He was too far gone. Take two weeks. More if you need it. Then come back.”
James drove home, the boy’s twisted form and his mother’s gaunt face haunting him. He *shouldn’t* have died.
For two days, he paced his flat, replaying the surgery. On the third, he called Sarah.
“James! You’re alright! The coroner ruled it wasn’t your fault—”
“Text me the boy’s address.” He hung up.
Two hours later, his doorbell rang. Sarah stood there, smiling hopefully.
“I asked for the address. Why are you here?”
“I thought—”
“I’m fine. The address?”
She handed him a slip of paper. He shut the door without thanks. Harsh, yes—but he knew she fancied him. No need to string her along.
In the bathroom mirror, he barely recognised himself—pale, hollow-eyed, unhinged.
He washed, shaved, swapped coffee for strong tea, then left.
He found the block easily. The lift groaned its way to the eighth floor. Ringing the bell, he braced himself.
She opened the door. Her pallor shocked him. *SheShe looked at him with hollow eyes, stepped aside silently, and let him cross the threshold, where the scent of grief still lingered like an uninvited guest.
