Her anxiety morphs into desperation, and her voice takes on an unnaturally high pitch. “But what are the chances?”

T

he surgical mask around my face is a comfort, a fortress, providing steady pressure under my ears where the bands meet my sheitel. I snap the gloves over my hands, struggling as I tug the plastic over my wayward pinky, the one my fellow medical students always poked fun at.

How’d a surgeon with deformed fingers make it this far? Now, their voices are echoes in my head, bringing with them faded insecurities, though not for the reasons they suspected.

“All scrubbed down, Dr. Bergman?” The question is studded with heavy breathing. I nod back at my assistant surgeon, Dr. Kim Lee, who’s still panting from the sprint down the hallway. He flashes a generous smile my way. Running a hand through his gelled, highlighted locks, he inhales deeply. “Glad to have you steering this ship today.”

“Thanks, Dr. Lee. Glad to have you on board.” And I am. He might be cocky, but it’s not without good reason. His beguiling charm hides a brilliant mind, calm demeanor, and steady hand, assets that will be sure to assist me in the operating room.

And flying on my own for the first time as a resident surgeon, I can use all the help I can get.

I do a quick mental review: patient Jason Martinez, 57 years old, in for empyema after developing an infection in the chest cavity. Surgical cut between two ribs, from the front of chest wall to the back, just beneath the armpit. Separate ribs to access the deflated lung. Drain infection, close up ribs, muscles, and skin.

“Danielle, you got this,” I whisper to myself, staring into my pale blue eyes in the mirror. Under the fluorescent bulbs, I look washed out, my crow’s feet more pronounced; my reflection appears far older than my 31 years. But maybe it’s not just the lights.

Under my mask, I crack a wide smile, willing endorphins and serotonin to flood my system.

I continue whispering reassurances to myself, surprised at how nervous I am. I’ve got this, I know I have. I’ve observed hundreds of surgeries, assisted in at least 30 more, and now I’m finally ready to take a more active role as resident surgeon under the general supervision of my attending, Dr. Pescia. And this is considered a fairly simple procedure.

Still, when you’re faced with an open chest, blood and organs and a maze to crack, simple is relative.

I step out into the hallway, pulling my mask down, to give the Martinez family a final debriefing. The eyes that greet me are fearful, expectant, laden with a million unspoken wishes.

“Okay, folks,” I turn towards the patient’s children, “your dad responded beautifully to the anesthesia, and we’re about to go on in. We should be out within a few hours, if everything goes according to plan.” The words I say are tranquil, practiced, and create a soothing ripple of reassurance.

A voice breaks my monologue and the sense of calm. “But Jason, my Jason…” I look at a heavyset, heavily made-up, older woman; Jason’s mother. Intertwined with her thick, bejeweled fingers are rosary beads, which she clutches like hope itself.

“Will he…” A hiccup, she shudders. Her anxiety vibrates like a physical thing, and her voice drops to a whisper. “…be okay?” I ground myself, feeling the floor beneath my sneakers, trying to create an impenetrable field-force from her emotions. In the OR, emotions can’t be given any space.

“If everything goes smoothly, as it should, he’ll be feeling better than he has in months.”

Her anxiety morphs into desperation, and her voice takes on an unnaturally high pitch. “But what are the chances?”