Page 117 of One Reckless Night

45

JARED

Iwas still getting used to this—opening my heart to someone, letting them see me at my rawest. It wasn’t easy. I’d spent my entire life building walls, keeping people at arm’s length, and focusing on my career. But Amelia had shattered those walls, piece by piece, and now here I was, feeling more vulnerable than I ever had before. It was terrifying, but it was also… freeing. And as strange as it sounded, I was starting to think it was making me a better doctor.

“The patient is waiting for you in the conference room,” Janie said when I walked into the lab.

“I’ll be right in,” I said.

I went into my office and grabbed the iPad and the case notes.

I sat across from Mr. and Mrs. Langford. I felt genuine empathy for them. I couldn’t imagine what I would be feeling if I was in his position. Actually, I knew a little of what he was feeling. That’s what made me a better doctor.

They were holding hands, both of them looked like they were waiting for the worst news. I’d had this conversation a thousand times before, laid out the risks, the procedure, the recovery. But today, something felt different.

Mrs. Langford’s fingers trembled as she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Doctor Welch, I—I know you’ve done this surgery before, but…” She hesitated, glancing at her husband before looking back at me. “I need to know I’m making the right choice. That I’ll wake up and still be me.”

Normally, I would shrug off the concerns. I told them before. They just had to take my word for it. But that was before I’d been in their shoes. They needed the reassurances. This was their lives. Their future.

“You will,” I said confidently. “The tumor is in a delicate area, but I wouldn’t recommend this if I didn’t believe in the outcome. I have done this before.”

Mr. Langford tightened his grip on his wife’s hand. “But there are risks,” he said, his voice rough. “You can’t guarantee⁠—”

“No,” I admitted, meeting his eyes head-on. “I can’t guarantee anything. No surgeon can. But I can tell you that I’ve spent years perfecting this procedure. I’ve seen patients walk into my office, terrified just like you, and walk out of the hospital a few days later with their whole lives ahead of them. And I intend for your wife to be one of them. I don’t take cases I don’t think I can help. I don’t believe in cutting into someone’s brain with the hope I can help. I only cut if I am ninety-nine percent confident I can help. Whether that help is adding five years or fifty years. But I don’t do it if I am guessing at the outcome.”

Mrs. Langford exhaled shakily. “How do you do it?”

I frowned. “Do what?”

“Stay so sure. So steady.”

I hesitated. I could have given her the rehearsed answer—the one I’d relied on for years about training, precision, and experience. But for the first time in a long time, I found myself answering differently.

“Because I know what it’s like to be afraid,” I said, surprising even myself. “To not have control over the things that matter most.” I swallowed, images of Amelia in that hospital bed flashing through my mind. “Fear is normal. But I won’t let it dictate what I do in that OR. And neither should you.”

Mr. Langford exhaled, his shoulders dropping just a fraction. Mrs. Langford gave a small nod, something shifting in her eyes.

For the first time since they walked in, they looked like they could breathe again.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said, and this time, I wasn’t just saying it for them. I was saying it for myself too. “I can’t make promises, but I want you to feel comfortable with this.”

“We’re trying,” Mr. Langford said. “We understand this is risky, but we also understand this is our only option. You are our only hope. No one else will touch her.”

I pulled up her file on my tablet. “Here,” I said, pointing to the MRI images. “This is the tumor. It’s pressing against the frontal lobe, which is why you’ve been experiencing memory lapses and mood swings. But the good news is, it’s well-defined. We have a clear boundary to work with.”

Mrs. Langford’s eyes stayed fixed on the image, her lips pressed together in a thin line. “What happens during the surgery?”

“I’ll make a small incision here,” I said, tracing a line on the image with my finger. “I will use a minimally invasive approach to remove the tumor. It’ll take about four hours, maybe less depending on how easily we can access it. You’ll be under general anesthesia, so you won’t feel anything.”

“And after?” Mr. Langford asked, his voice steadier now. “What’s recovery like?”

“It varies,” I said honestly. “Some patients bounce back in a few days. Others take a few weeks. You’ll need to take it easy—no heavy lifting, no stress. We’ll monitor you closely for any complications, but I don’t anticipate any. Most importantly, you’ll need to take care of your mental health. Recovery isn’t just physical.”

Mrs. Langford nodded, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “And if something goes wrong?”

I paused, weighing my words carefully. I could see the fear in her eyes, the doubt creeping back in. I knew this was the moment where my answer mattered most.

“If something goes wrong, we’ll handle it. There are always risks, but I’ll be with you every step of the way. I won’t leave that operating room until I know you’re stable.”