My Mother's Killer Came to Me for Surgery

“Dr. Lowe, what do you mean by that?”

My assistant, Ian Hayes, was still standing there in shock while I already started packing my things.

“I mean exactly what I said. Reschedule my train ticket for tonight.”

“But there isn't a second surgeon in Kingsford who can operate on a brainstem tumor. If you leave, the patient will…”

“I know. But I can't take this case.”

I pulled open the door and walked out of the conference room.

Jason Stevens, Director of Neurosurgery at Kingsford General Hospital, hurried over with a strained smile on his face.

“Dr. Lowe, I'm Jason Stevens from Neurosurgery.”

He extended his hand.

I didn't take it.

He awkwardly withdrew it and rubbed his palms together.

“We've spent three months preparing for this surgery. It wasn't easy bringing you here from Wellington. As for the patient's family…”

“Dr. Stevens.”

I cut him off immediately.

“I'll submit my reason for recusal in writing.”

He froze for a moment before lowering his voice and stepping closer.

“Dr. Lowe, you may not fully understand the situation. The patient's son is Ethan Lancaster, our Deputy Hospital Director.

“His daughter-in-law is the daughter of Simon Hart, our former Hospital Director. If you walk away now, I won't be able to explain this to them.”

“That's your problem.”

I stepped around him and continued toward the exit.

Jason hurried after me, his voice growing more urgent.

“Dr. Lowe, at least give me a reason so I can tell the family something. Is there a problem with the surgical plan? Are you dissatisfied with our operating conditions?

“The equipment, the team, the post-operative care—just name it, and we'll do everything we can to accommodate you.”

“There's nothing wrong with any of that. The surgery itself can be done, but it needs to be performed by someone else.”

“Then is it about the fee? The family already said money isn't an issue. Name your price.”

“It's not about money.”

Before he could continue, I cut him off again.

“Dr. Stevens, my decision isn't going to change.”

Only as the elevator doors closed did Jason finally come to his senses and pull out his phone to make a call.

Ian followed me downstairs and jogged all the way to the parking garage.

“Dr. Lowe, what happened?”

He stepped in front of the car door, his forehead covered in sweat.

“That doesn't sound like you. What surgery haven't you taken on before? You've handled cases far more dangerous than this. Today, over a single medical file...”

“Ian.”

I looked at him, and he stopped himself from saying anything further.

“You've worked with me for four years. Have you ever seen my hands shake in the operating room?”

“No.”

“What if I told you that if I performed this surgery, I'm absolutely certain my hands would shake from nerves?”

Ian frowned, wanting to say something but holding it back.

“In neurosurgery, there's no room for even a fraction of an inch of error.”

I had spent twenty years training my hands to be absolutely steady.

Even after twelve straight hours in surgery, my margin of error would never exceed a fraction of an inch.

My colleagues all thought I was like a precision instrument, unnaturally calm no matter the situation.

But today, the moment I saw that name and face, I still couldn't calm myself.

Twenty years ago, a mistake of less than a quarter inch cost my mother her life.

My phone vibrated.

It was a message from an unknown number.

“Hello, Dr. Lowe. I'm a member of the patient's family. I heard you've declined the surgery. Could you give us a chance to meet and talk?”

I didn't know who had sent the message, but I knew Ethan had to be among the family members.

I didn't reply.

A second text arrived shortly afterward.

"A surgeon can live with a failed operation. What they can't live with is refusing to try."