Page 4 of Halo

Present

My seventy-four-year-old hip-replacement patient just called me ‘daddy.’

Well, okay, Mrs. Snider didn’t actually use the word daddy, but she did call me ‘father,’ clearly confusing me in her anesthetic haze as her priest. Now she is confessing a laundry list of expletives she uses against Seymore, her blind miniature poodle and—from what I gather—a succulent named Steve.

“Seymore really is a good boy, but dadgummit, he frustrates the shit out of me—oh! Pardon my French, Father.”

“You’re okay, Mrs. Snider.” I steer her stretcher into the semi-private post-anesthesia care unit before engaging the brake. I offer her a grin. “I’ve heard worse—”

“Now, Father, I’ve told you,” she coos, patting my arm. “Please call me Maude.” She turns to her new nurse, Diwa. “He’s a handsome one, ain’t he? It’s too bad about the—” she flicks her hand toward my crotch—“the whole celibacy thing.”

Diwa stifles a giggle, busying herself with untangling IV lines.

The irony doesn’t escape me; I am anything but holy. But maybe I have more in common with a priest than I realize. Being an anesthesiologist for over a decade has made me privy to plenty of patient secrets. Validity is questionable, of course, but I still listen and advise. I even have to answer to a higher power—the Texas medical board.

After connecting cords to monitors, the steady chirp of soft bells and beeps fill the small space. Diwa grabs a warm blanket, and before we can finish tucking the covers around her petite frame, Mrs. Snider’s jaw falls slack, her breathing returning to an even pace.

I make a few notes in her chart. “What’s that initial set of vitals?”

“BP 92/54. Heart rate 77. Temperature is …” Diwa gently glides a temporal artery thermometer across Mrs. Snider’s forehead. “97.1—”

“What’s that in—?”

“Celsius? 36.2.”

“Diwa …” I croon, jotting down the readings. “This is why you’re my favorite.”

“Uh-huh,” she murmurs as she uses her badge to access the computer charting system. “Save your shmoozing for someone else, iho. I’m immune to that Crawford charm.”

“So is that a no to my date invitation? Your husband can come.”

She glares at me for a beat, then melts into soft chuckles. “Don't you have some new cases? Get out of here. Go.”

Diwa could be my mother. When I was hired eight years ago, she was celebrating her twentieth anniversary with Gulf Waters Regional. But the silver strands and pilot-style glasses are just an illusion: she’s a damn fine nurse who’s quick on her toes. She threatens to retire so she can move back to Manila; I threaten to follow her.

Flashing her a wink, I hand her the patient’s physical chart and head toward pre-op.

I hardly make it ten feet down the bustling corridor before I am abruptly surrounded by a gaggle of preening women, singsonging their morning chorus of Good morning, Dr. Crawford. The suggestive lilt from the otherwise innocent greeting isn’t missed as each lady vies for my attention. The surgical intern from the east coast bats her eyelashes. The unit secretary puckers her freshly glossed lips. If they’re not fluffing their hair or straightening their posture, they’re giving me a once-over, undressing me with their eyes.

Subtle, ladies …

I know, I know. Poor Nick, getting the attention from all the ladies. What a terrible way to start each and every day.

Honestly, it isn’t a bad gig to be objectively handsome. I’m quite comfortable with what I see in the mirror—a lifetime of positive reinforcement will do that to a guy. Compliments, free drinks, no attachments. And all I have to do is simply exist.

Except that’s the problem. My looks have become my only personality trait.

For as long as I can remember, people have always taken special notice of my appearance. No one cares that I went to Debakey School of Medicine or that I’m an anesthesiologist. It’s like an afterthought, a garnish to my “hot” looks. Can you believe it? Braun and brains!

Wait until they find out I have a heart.

I acknowledge each hello with a nod and smile, pretending not to notice the snorts and whispers as I pass by. They either assume I can’t hear them or that I’m complacent.

Neither is true..

“I thought I heard your fan club.”

I freeze, recognizing the saccharine-sweet voice of Casey Frazier. She’s a pharmacist I met during a perioperative medication review three—maybe four years ago. I took her out for drinks; she took me back to her place.