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He was my first solo case — a five-year-old boy clinging to life on the operating table. Two decades later, he found me in a hospital parking lot and accused me of ruining everything.
Back when this all began, I was 33 and freshly minted as an attending in cardiothoracic surgery. I never thought the same boy I helped would reappear in my life most crazily.
Car crash.
The kind of work I did was not general surgery — this was the terrifying world of hearts, lungs, and great vessels — life or death.
I still remember how it felt walking through the hospital halls late at night with my white coat over scrubs, pretending not to feel like an imposter.
It was one of my first solo nights on call, and I’d only just started to relax when my pager screamed to life.
Trauma team. Five-year-old. Car crash. Possible cardiac injury.
Possible cardiac injury.
That was enough to make my stomach drop. I sprinted to the trauma bay, my heart pounding faster than my footsteps. When I pushed through the swinging doors, I was hit with the surreal chaos of the scene.
A tiny body lay crumpled on the gurney, surrounded by a flurry of movement. Emergency medical technicians shouted vitals, nurses maneuvered with frantic precision, and machines cried out numbers I didn’t like one bit.
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