Page 5 of Asystole

He delivers the news in a bored tone, one completely devoid of concern.

His ability to compartmentalize is a topic discussed frequently among us residents.

The OR is crowded, but Dr. Porter stays in control, moving us around like pieces on a chessboard so we each have a clear view of his greatness as he restores the body of the man on the table.

My colleagues eat it up. Being in the OR with Declan Porter is the highest honor in trauma surgery. But the experience always falls a little flat for me, even though becoming a doctor has been my dream since I was eight years old.

He tends to the arm, and I swear he yawns once or twice. Apparently, an open humerus fracture isn’t the mental stimulation he’s used to.

“Bring in the C-arm,” Dr. Porter barks at the X-ray tech.

“Yes, sir,” she replies, scurrying from the room to complete the request.

“Dr. Matthews, remove the Gelpi,” he then says to me, asking me to remove the retractor holding the soft tissue back so he could access the plate he’d just screwed onto the bone. “While we’re waiting for the C-arm, Dr. Matthews, can you tell me how far proximal to the lateral epicondyle does the radial nerve pass through the intermuscular septum?”

I feel singled out because of who my parents are, but there’s nothing new about that.

“Twelve to fifteen centimeters,” I reply quickly.

“Your mother would be proud,” Dr. Porter remarks, much to my embarrassment.

My mom is an orthopedist; my father, a neurosurgeon.

My parents were elated when I chose trauma surgery as my specialty, but it’s not like there were a ton of options. They always made it pretty clear that only certain specialties were considered real medicine, and anything that doesn’t include surgery isn’t on the list.

After the case, I scrub out and find a quiet corner, attempting to process what I just witnessed.

This one wasn’t nearly as bad as some cases where there’s so much blood and trauma you know they’re a goner from the start. It’s morbid as hell as we all look on as a life slowly slips away. Nine times out of ten, the only thing tethering the patient to this earth is Dr. Porter.

Trauma surgery ensures there’s never a dull moment, despite Dr. Porter’s reactions. I thought I would revel in the constant adrenaline dump, but in reality, it leaves me mentally fried with not enough energy to do much more than watch a movie or sleep on my precious days off. I can’t even remember the last time I went rock climbing or skydiving, and my dad made me sell my motorcycle when I got into med school, threatening not to pay my tuition if I kept it.

He enjoys controlling the purse strings, and all in all, it’s not a bad deal. If he’s paying them, bills are one less thing I have to worry about when I’m awake for thirty-six hours straight, trying to remember medication doses and the differences between a Meyerding and an Army-Navy.

As I make my way to our afternoon conference, determined to give it my full attention following a hearty lunch of an apple and a Rice Krispies Treat, I check my phone for the hundredth time, allowing my mind to briefly wander back to last night’s message to Logan. He never responded, and as an overthinker, I’m afraid I may have gone too far with the emoji.

Having a gay best friend changed my comfort level around other guys, but I don’t know Logan well enough to be so forward. Hell, I’ve only met the guy once. However, his silence has been weighing on my conscience because I can’t help but feel like I made him uncomfortable. So, when I sit down, I fire off another message in our chat, hoping to clear the air.

Chase

Hey, man. I’m sorry if my last comment was too much. I forget not every guy is Hanlon. Guess I just miss the fucker. What do you say we grab that beer?

Feeling better after extending an olive branch, I slide my phone into my backpack and pull out my laptop as Dr. Jenkins approaches the table while the rest of my co-residents file in and take their seats.

“Hey, Chase,” Sarah whispers breathlessly.

“Hey,” I whisper back. “Did you just sprint here?” I tease.

“Thought I was going to be late. I had to run home at lunch, and the Life Flight chopper landed on the freaking highway after a multi-car accident. I had to be rerouted. I’m so pissed at myself for missing the medical housing application deadline earlier this year. Living so far from the hospital blows, and the waitlist is two years long.”

I know she wants me to commiserate with her, and I agree, it does suck that she missed the housing application—I love living in the medical housing apartments, even if my roommate is terrible—but my brain snags on something else entirely.

“Wait, the helicopter landed on the highway?” I ask, my thoughts immediately on Logan.

“Yeah. It was tight, too. There were emergency vehicles everywhere. The pilot had a super small square to land inside. It was kind of awesome to watch, honestly.”

Before I can ask more questions, Dr. Jenkins cuts the lights and begins discussing the patient cases we’ll see during afternoon rounds.

I’m guessing they’ll include some car accident victims.