For those of you who liked Simplicity (in the Nude Day contest) thanks for the feedback. Some of you asked for background on the surgeon in that story. This is a transformational episode in his life. Hope you enjoy.
Copyright 2010. All rights reserved.
*
"Call Pat's momma," rasped Bedlock, "and tell her that slip-on shoes were a mistake. Her 23 year old boy can't tie a damn knot!"
It was Friday of my second week as the senior medical student assigned to Dr. George Bedlock's service. Bedlock, a fireplug of a man whose service in Korea cost him most of his left cheek, was reputed to be the most talented surgeon in Illinois. His adoring patients considered him to be their "Bedrock". But the senior medical students unlucky enough to be assigned to his service had a less affectionate sobriquet: "Bad-Luck".
Bedlock was impossible to please and his critique was merciless. From the moment a student set foot on his service, there was a never-ending quiz about embryology, anatomy and physiology. He'd tolerate ignorance—but only once. Forgive and remember, he'd say. Four days ago, when the intern had overlooked a key lab test for the second time, Bedlock turned on him.
"You're either lazy or stupid, and frankly I don't care which. Get off my service and don't come back."
Just like that, the intern was history.
There's no such thing as a reserve intern. Bedlock informed me that the intern's responsibilities were now mine. From now on, he continued, eating and sleeping took a back seat to patient needs. I was expected at the hospital at 4 a.m. to do work rounds. Next, I had to find the chief resident to okay new orders (I was just a student, remember.). Then, I had to show up in the operating room by 7 a.m. when the first case started.
My job in the OR? Holding "the learning sticks"—large retractors -- for about eight hours while Bedlock, his chief resident and his scrub nurse Maria waged war on cancer. After the OR, there were tomorrow's patients who needed "H and P"s—history and physical exams, and then evening rounds. Finally, a sign-out to the on-call intern. By the time I finished, it was too late to go back to the dorm. Not that it mattered-my girlfriend was away on vacation with her parents. By Friday, I could no longer tell day from night.
The OR trivia game had gotten much harder. Bedlock quizzed me about the patients, the operation, the history of surgery—whatever the SOB could think of to nail me. That's not what tripped me up, though—it was piece of 3-0 silk. He told me to tie off a bleeder. I broke the first silk suture, watched the second one fall off when I tied it too loose and the third-- well the third time was the absolute charm. I got my finger stuck in the knot.
Bedlock cut me loose, reclamped the bleeder, and told Maria to tie it off. If there had been a convenient hole to crawl into, I would have gladly done so and pulled the dirt in after me. No such luck, only Badluck growling to Maria.
"Pat damn well better know how to tie a knot by Monday morning."
Better to quit before the bastard had the chance to fire me, but Maria somehow intercepted the thought.
"Don't even think about walking away," she whispered and pushed a piece of paper in my hand "10 a.m. tomorrow."
The flip side had the address of a nearby apartment building. When I looked up, she was gone.
***
Six hours sleep hadn't done much for my disposition or my perspective. Still, learning to tie a knot seemed more interesting than doing the laundry. I walked over to the address Maria had given me.
Rang the buzzer at the top of the hour. No answer. Checked the address. Rang again at 10:05. And again at 10:10. Decided I'd wasted enough time and turned to leave, just as Maria headed up the walk.
It was the first time I'd seen her outside the hospital. She was wearing faded jeans and an open turquoise shirt over a black tank suit. Medium height with broad athletic shoulders no longer disguised by shapeless scrubsuit. Her stride matched her voice--purposeful, unambiguous, direct.
"Sorry I'm late, swim meet ran over. Come on in."
I hesitated before crossing the threshold.
"You're still angry," she sighed. "You really don't get it, do you?"
"What I'm getting is exhaustion."
I stared into her coal black eyes. She wasn't the enemy.
"I'm sorry, you're trying to help me."
She stared back.
"That's right. So leave the chip on your shoulder at the door."
She motioned me inside, led me up the stairs and into her apartment. The interior was more hacienda than Chicago--three pastel rooms with terra cotta tile floors. Rough-hewn, grey-bleached furniture and woven rugs completed the Southwestern décor.
"Echo of home?" I asked.
"South of Santa Fe," she replied, "and yes it reminds me of when I was a little girl."
Past tense was right—she was long past the little girl stage. Her raven hair and caramel skin contrasted with deep red lips and the whitest teeth I'd seen in a long time. She paused a beat when I asked her age—it turned out that she was 14 years my senior—but smiled when I told her that she wore her years very well indeed.
"That's the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day—but then everyone else was trying to beat my time in the freestyle. Let's get to work."
She brought a 6 x 10 inch piece of wood from the other room. An array of hooks and pieces of rubber tubing were drilled and secured.
"My practice board," she said.
"You practice knot-tying?"
"Who do you think helps Bedlock after he fires everyone else?"
She handed me a pair gloves --from the corner of her sink.
"These aren't surgical gloves," I protested. "They're heavy and clumsy and..."
She sighed, "Pat, if you can tie with those on, you'll be able to tie anything, any time."
She donned a smaller pair of sink gloves, picked up a piece of suture, and tied a dozen flawless knots.
"Your turn," she said and turned away to the put something in the oven.
Just as well that she didn't see me gaping. She was smoother than Bedlock.
For the next forty-five minutes or so, I tried to duplicate her moves. Nothing worked. The harder I tried, the worse it got. I began to mutter hostilities about "Bad-Luck" and surgery.
"What did you just say? What did you just say about Bedlock?"
Maria was standing two feet away. Her expression was cold enough to freeze boiling water.
"Stop what you're doing, shut up and listen. And if you ever repeat any of this to anyone, I will personally rip your tongue out."
She had my attention.
"Pat, you're so wrapped up in what you think you can't do that you're blind to what's going on here. You wouldn't know good luck if it came in a box labeled in two inch letters and tied with a red bow.. Why do you think you're on Bedlock's service? You think it's bad luck? Some goddamn accident? He hand-picked you like he hand-picks every one around him!"
Maria flushed with anger.
"You think you know Bedlock, but you don't. He has one mission left in his life, and only one—and that's to turn out surgeons who are better than he is. Pat, you don't have a fucking clue."
Maria went on, "He takes a dollar a year salary—he's independently wealthy—for the privilege of trying to make raw recruits into leaders. He survived Korea only to lose his kid when a car struck his bike. His wife had a nervous breakdown and hasn't said a word for ten years. Whose luck seems bad now, Pat?"
Maria's voice softened.
"I was the student nurse on duty the night his son died. He begged God to take his life and spare his son. No deal, so he's still here and his boy is six feet under. So if you're still looking for sympathy, try the dictionary. You'll find it between shit and syphilis."
The oven timer broke the silence and Maria went over to pull out whatever was baking.
"One more thing you ought to know." She turned to face me. "Bedlock says that you're the best he's ever seen."
She stopped and gave me an appraising look.
"I wonder."
I opened my mouth to speak, but Maria shook her head. She cut a slice of whatever she had baked, sliding it across with a small cup of chocolate. .
"I told you to be quiet. Let's see if you can follow some simple instructions. Don't say a word. Eat. Think."
The first forkful exploded in my mouth—butter, apples and the densest cinnamon I'd ever tasted. I caught her gaze but held my tongue.
"Pretty good, eh? Mom's recipe. Finish it and drink up."
Suddenly, the week's physical and emotional drain caught up with me. The cinnamon kicked in and I started to sweat. My arms felt like they weighed 100 pounds each.
"I don't know what to say," I started, "except that I need to lie down for a moment."
She looked at me, threw a large towel on the couch and motioned me over. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
***
Maria was out when I woke up. There was a note next to the practice board.
"At the market. Back soon. You'll feel better after a shower. Clean set of scrubs is for you."
I found the bathroom and peeled off my clothes. Ran the shower hot, then bracing cold. As I toweled dry and stepped into the cotton pants, I caught the sweet scent of fresh peaches. It wasn't the scrubs, though--the fragrance was coming from her cotton robe hanging underneath the scrubs. I picked up the robe, held the collar close to my face and inhaled.
Maria returned.
She called out, "Lunchtime. Practice your surgical skills on those vegetables and make us a salad while I work on the dressing and some lemonade."
