Stay Off My Operating Table Novels & Stories

By the third day post-op, he was sitting up and yelling at people. The first person he yelled at was me. "Who told you to get on that operating table?" "Who do you think suspended your privileges in the first place?" "Ivy, do you think I can't touch you anymore?" I stood by his bed, changing his dressings. The gauze came away. The wound was already starting to heal. "Shut up," I said. "Your wound isn't closed yet. Talking pulls the muscles in your back." He actually shut up.

My shout echoed down the corridor, drawing stares from patients and nurses alike. “Daniel, lower your voice,” Mom urged. But how could I? How could they all stand here not knowing whether she was even alive? God, please. Not this. “Annie, stay strong for me,” I muttered, whispering every prayer I could form. My chest heaved as if my lungs refused to work. I stumbled back until the cold wall caught me, then slid down, head spinning. The noise in my skull drowned every thought. Then, at last, the light above the operating room blinked green. A man in a white coat stepped out.

She only hated that she couldn't help her! The door of the operating room was closed, and the surroundings suddenly quieted down. What could be done next was to wait. Every minute and second of waiting was a torment for the people outside.

He warned, I couldn’t just sit here and wait while she was in pain. “I’ll sign them.” I confirmed and watched them push her stretcher out to the operating room. My eyes were blurry; was this the end? Was I going to lose her now? I ran after them, my hands now holding hers. “Be strong, love…” I said in a broken tone as tears stung the corners of my eyes. “Mr. Clinton, you can't come in here; this is an operation room.” The doctor warned, and I remained outside as they took her inside.

Making sure that every part of me is covered. The patient, whose name I refuse to look at, lies unconscious on the operating table, his vital signs being monitored closely by the anesthesiologist. William is assisting me today and I try by all means to make sure no emotions get in our way. "Good morning, Dr. Harper," he greets, his eyes focused on the array of instruments that are arranged on the sterile table. I’m glad he has a clear head too. Besides, he's being a doctor for a longer period than I have.

I was strapped to a cold operating table, my limbs restrained. I couldn't even cry out since my vocal cords had been removed in advance. I could hear the cheers from the crowd erupting on all sides. "That murderer is finally going to die!" "I wish I could rip this evil doctor to pieces!" There was an LED screen on the judgment platform that kept looping through my so-called crimes—deliberately altering surgical procedures, intentionally administering the wrong medication, causing five patients to die on the operating table, and destroying five families completely.

"We're starting." "I have to go," Noah said. "Don't tell her," Julian said urgently. "Not while she's on the table. Her blood pressure..." "I know," Noah said. He hung up. He turned off the phone. He walked into the Operating Room. The lights were blindingly bright—two massive discs of LEDs focused on the draped mound of his wife’s body. The air was frigid, smelling of antiseptic and ozone. The monitors beeped a steady, rhythmic cadence. Beep... beep... beep.

“Call surgery. Get blood—O negative, two units stat. Possible internal hemorrhage. Page neuro and trauma.” The air grew colder and sharper the deeper they wheeled him into the belly of the hospital. The smell of antiseptic burned stronger, mixed with the faint ozone tang of the machines. Fluorescent panels hummed overhead, casting everything in unforgiving light that left no shadows to hide in. “On three, transfer.” The stretcher jerked to a halt beside the operating table. Hands gripped the edges of the sheet beneath him—four, five, six pairs—steady, careful.

This is about someone’s life, about doing what it’s right, even if the whole situation is wrong on so many levels. The room around me feels like a cage now, and the pressure is building. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be here. “Where the hell is Rolan now?” “Oh my God!” I walk over to the operating table, my footsteps quiet on the polished shiny tiles. I take one last look at the door, and for a brief moment, I wonder if I should run. But I know that’s impossible. It will be a very stupid decision at this point.

He just never bothered to look down. “I’ll do the surgery. But can you promise me one thing?” Lying on the operating table, I glanced at my father, who stood beside me with a scalpel in his hand. Next to me, Marcus lay unconscious. He couldn’t stand the sight of blood, so they put him under. But I had to stay awake. Anesthesia wasn’t good for the kidney, and Marcus needed it to be in the best condition. I looked at the nearly eight-inch-long scalpel and felt a wave of fear wash over me. But I forced myself to stay calm.