NYC Angels: Making the Surgeon Smile. Lynne Marshall

she said, straightening out the bedspread and double-checking the IV rate. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder, but she sensed he was enjoying her feisty mood. Would any of his staff ever dare to give him a hard time?

      “There’s no excess drainage from the surgical site, and I emptied thirty ccs from the drain at the beginning of my shift,” she said, all business.

      He checked under the recently smoothed covers and found the Jackson-Pratt bulb was nearly empty. The quarter-sized marking on the post-op dressing hadn’t gotten much bigger either, as he soon noticed.

      “Good.” He lingered at the bedside.

      She’d decided, after her pitiful, stumbling apology, and especially their ride in the elevator, that he was a good guy, even if he didn’t know it. He’d had the patience of a saint while she’d fumbled her way through her monologue, and he’d rewarded her by telling her to call him Johnny. Who else on the staff got to call him Johnny? Not that she ever would, at least not in front of anyone else, especially as he’d asked her to keep it to herself.

      “Hey, Johnny.” Another doctor entered the room.

      So much for the short-lived “special person privilege” fantasy.

      “Dave. Come to admire your work?”

      “Sure did.”

      Polly surreptitiously read the other doctor’s badge. David Winters. Vascular Surgery. Of course, with the amputation they’d have to make sure the stump had proper circulation, and who better to assist the orthopedic surgeon than a vascular surgeon?

      “I was going to wait until later to change the dressing, but there’s no time like the present. Polly, can you bring some gauze, dressings, four by fours and paper tape?”

      “Sure. Would you like me to bring the Doppler too?”

      “Great idea,” Dave said.

      She knew it was never too early to make sure there was proper circulation to the wound, and the Doppler would let them hear the blood flowing through Annabelle’s vessels. A lot rested on every step of the recovery. In order to have Annabelle fit for a prosthetic device she’d need to have a strong and healthy stump. The post op-team, including Polly, would do everything in their power to make sure of Annabelle’s success.

      After dropping off the supplies, Polly took a quick look at Annabelle’s surgical wound as John had already removed the dressing, and was surprised how clean and healthy the skin flap already looked. Cancer of the bone was a curse, but at least Annabelle would be able to wear one of the state-of-the-art prostheses being created these days. One day, when she was back on her feet and used to everything, wearing slacks or jeans, secure in her gait, no one would ever know that part of her leg was missing.

      Later that day Polly took Charley his pills. She noticed the three signatures John Griffin had left on the teenager’s casts, which made her grin. They were big, just like him, and colorful, hmm, and he had much nicer handwriting than she’d ever imagined any doctor could.

      “What’s so funny?” Charley asked.

      “Nothing. I was just admiring your autographs from Dr. Griffin.”

      “He’s cool.”

      “Really? He seems so stern all the time.”

      “Nah, he’s funny. And he’s the only person who hasn’t given me a lecture about my skateboarding.”

      “Well, I guess accidents do happen, but maybe you should be more careful so as not to tempt the fates.”

      “Yeah, I get it. And I’ve heard that before, but yolo, you know?”

      “Yolo?”

      “You only live once.”

      So said a sixteen-year-old. “True, but preferably longer than shorter. Right?”

      Charley blew her off with a toss of his long-hair. She needed to change the subject back to something lighter, something more interesting for both of them.