I have always been an early riser; most surgeons are. I loved driving to the hospital before dawn, and letting my mind prepare for the day. When I arrived at the hospital, I would get a cup of coffee at the 24/7 coffee shop just off the main lobby and then go up to my office where I would read e-mails and do some paperwork.
The first OR case was always scheduled for 7:30 AM which meant that the patient would be rolled into the room shortly after 7. However, I would often go down to the OR in my surgical scrubs at about 6:45 and walk into my assigned OR which was usually the same OR for all of my cases. I didn’t do this because of nerves, it was anticipation. I would gaze down at the gray floors and my glance would turn upward to the walls.
The bottom half of the walls were a light blue tile and the upper half were a light blue paint. Light blue has always been my favorite color, for some reason. As my vision continued upward to the ceiling, I would see the room lights. There is nothing quite like OR lights. They are like an octopus of brightness. I always valued these moments of solitude as I collected my thoughts before the case began.
This particular day was a typical day, until it wasn’t. It was even earlier than usual when I entered the operating room alone. Typically, I had spoken to that morning’s patient in the pre-op holding area. The planned operation was routine, as operations go, but it is never routine for the patient. It wasn’t routine for this patient either; he was ninety and frail.
I continued to be alone for a few minutes more with my thoughts in the blue room. Then suddenly, the doors opened and the anesthesiologist rolled the patient into the room on a stretcher. I walked over to him and our eyes met as I grasped his hand, “Hi Dad; I love you, Dad.”
Kevin R. Loughlin MD is a retired urologic surgeon. He enjoys writing both fiction and nonfiction.
