I had screamed until I went hoarse as we stood looming over the operating table. No matter how good a surgeon I was, I couldn't get you to see what was right in front of you. I would trace my sterile scalpel above the tumor but you swore it was benign. Forget the blistering scabs around your ankles where backhanded hounds tore into your flesh with uncalled-for and infuriating immaturity, or the guilty blood that stained the hands of the patient on the table. We fought over the exam results like vultures, licking our wounds a little before lashing out at each other again. But we didn't pay attention to the amount of blood we were spilling from our own chests onto the table, filling in empty, petty cavities of the patient. And every time we would push the doors open to deliver news of a successful operation, we would only be met with a cold, lifeless waiting room filled with moth eaten chairs stapled together by a ceasefire.
The constant blaring of the EKG's still attached to us would rush us back into the operating rooms where I would continue to feel as if I needed to apologize for getting blood on your shoes. You would tell me how you were sorry you caused that wound, and I would smile and shrug knowing you could see the lies weighing on my shoulder. But we had no other options. We were each skilled, but only one person could be saved at a time, and the choosing process kept getting interrupted by the patient complaining of growth pains and how that needed more attention than either one of us. I had told you countless times how the tumor would keep her from growing beyond childish feet and jealous inches, but you didn't believe it. And along the way I stopped caring as much to try to make you see. My license was losing credibility so I felt no need to offer my professional opinion anymore, and instead tried to find a proper bandaid for myself.
Sixteen hours into surgery neither of us had really recovered, but we could stop the bleeding for varying amounts of time. All the while the patient would drag her feet and insist you were at fault. You exposed me to her parasite, so why should she offer me medicine? I wasn't expecting anything more than sugar pills, but I almost laughed at the repeating of old cycles, and continue to mark her chart with her manipulative ways. There are no more exam results I can show you, no more textbooks to cite. You're walking that path on your own, and I can't help you anymore. I have to treat my wound before it becomes a resentful infection.
I would remember I wasn't on anesthesia throughout the day, and I wondered how long it would take me to adjust, how long I could shield my wound from infection. The gauze and medical tape I feverishly wrapped around myself wasn't holding back the tears that stained my clothes. I apologized for a wound I didn't commit. I didn't see another option.
