Page 1 of The Love Operation

Chapter 1

See One, Do One, Teach One

Question: What is the sexiest part of the human body?

Answer (no hesitation): the spine.

Seriously, there is nothing sexier. It’s multifaceted—literally. It’s the backbone of society—again, literally. It holds the entire body together and serves as a conduit for every other piece of anatomy, including what some (clears throat) might incorrectly call the sexiest bits. (Breasts, hearts, forearms, step aside.)

And the sexiest place to encounter the sexiest part of the body?

The operating room. (Cue internal and external glow.)

Combine those two things and you get—magic. Sheer, unadulterated magic.

Surgeons become surgeons because the insides of another human being call to them, like sirens. Because they have to explore the fantastically complex, impeccably engineered system beneath the skin. And that passion? Well, it’s what creates exceptionalism.

Which is precisely why, as I step away from the operating table, I feel high—just-stepped-off-the-Empire-State-Building-and-learned-I-could-fly high. No matter how many cases I do, the feeling never gets old.

“But I’ve never done this before,” my sweet little newbie medical student says, innocent eyes wide above her mask as she glances at my PA, Dahlia, over our sleeping patient.

Quick scrub-in on the team:

My incredibly competent right hand: Dahlia Malik, certified surgical physician associate.

Chief identifying characteristics: Steady hands, cutting wit, and a sixth sense that borders on supernatural. Catches mistakes and anticipates complications before almost anyone else. When challenged (mistake), she makes people reconsider their life choices—especially those brave (or foolish) enough to go against her. She’s got a defiant streak, which is exactly why she became a PA instead of a physician like her parents wanted.

Physical exam: Average height, confident posture, Indian female. Golden, sphinxlike eyes. Dark braid with a purple slash wound into a knot that doesn’t move, even in chaos. Gold studs in both ears, plain but perfect. Scrubs crisp. Tablet already loaded with tomorrow’s schedule.

Impression: Formidable. Knows when to ignite her inner boss and when to shift into stealth mode. Makes excellence look easy. My professional soulmate. She calls me out when I need it, and I could not love that more.

The med student: Elizabeth Garrison—fourth-year, surgical rotation.

Chief identifying characteristics: Eager eyes, nervous hands, and a voice that jumps half an octave when quizzed. Overprepared in the most endearing way. Carries three pens, a highlighter, and probably a laminated pocket guide on how to be liked by attendings. Confidence still forming—trying hard to stick the landing.

Physical exam: Petite, fairylike White female. Blond hair always starts in a tight bun and ends in a Tarzan-inspired mass by late afternoon. Constantly reminding herself not to fidget—and mostly failing.

Impression: Capable, enthusiastic, and still learning how to trust her own instincts. The kind of student who’s been underestimated just enough to believe it. That ends this rotation.

I’ve just asked her—the student—to close my patient’s wound, and you’d think I just asked her to perform the entire surgery (a lumbar discectomy) while the patient was awake, asking questions and snacking on the contents of a hospital lunch tray.

The wound is approximately an inch long. My pet chameleon, Tad Cooper, could close this with the proper instruction. Sadly, there are strict policies against reptiles in the OR. Actually, there’s probably not an oddly specific policy that forbids reptiles, but I’m sure it would be frowned upon.

I get it. I was in Elizabeth’s shoes once. But by the end of her rotation, her fear will be gone. Because I’ll make sure she knows she can do anything.

Because she can.

“The world had no place for me until I carved one,” I whisper, echoing words my mother regularly told me as a child.

I smile and make eye contact with Dahlia, who nods imperceptibly. Newbie Elizabeth is in good hands.

“You saw this yesterday,” I remind her. “You trained for this. Dahlia will walk you through it, but you can do it. I believe in you. Wilma Rudolph believes in you. Struggle sweetens the reward.” I live for a well-timed motivational quote, or a demotivational one. “Now, it’s time to start believing in yourself so everyone else has permission to believe in you too.”

Elizabeth squares her shoulders, her suturing hand steadying. Good. She won’t hesitate next time.

I untie and yank off my gown, strip off my gloves, and toss them.

As I head for the door, Lana, our circulating nurse, calls out, “Heard anything about the chief position?”