Page 4 of Asystole

Logan

Yeah, of course I did. It suggested you as a friend. Weird, since that probably means it knows I ran into you today.

Chase

Just think, if we go out for that beer, you can get to know the real thing through actual conversation instead of lurking in the shadows

The winking kissy-face throws me.

Is he flirting with me?

I’m pretty sure Chase is straight. But even if he isn’t, no fucking way am I touching that with a ten-foot pole. Not that it really matters, since I can’t seem to get it up for anyone anyway.

I close out of the app without sending another message and throw my phone to the other end of my couch. With no intention of grabbing that beer, I feel bad leading him on.

Chase is a nice guy—despite his questionable choices in friends.

Dragging my ass off the couch, I take a shower, resolving to watch my melancholy attitude swirl down the drain. It’s been two months since I tried hooking up with Jack, and I’m no closer to being over Stone, but something has to give. I don’t know what to do other than fake it ’til I make it. So, when I get out, I make a new profile on yet another hookup app. It’s time to get my body back in the game, even if my heart isn’t in it.

Chapter 2

Chase

“Dr. Matthews.”

Judging by the tone of his voice, this isn’t Dr. Porter’s first attempt at getting my attention. The swift elbow Sarah delivers to my ribcage would also confirm that suspicion.

“I’m sorry, sir. Could you repeat the question?”

“No, I can’t. Because it’s already been answered. Perhaps you should sign out of your service today if you’re going to be so distracted.”

“No, sir. I apologize. I’m fully committed,” I reply, forcing myself to push every thought in my head aside until later.

Residency culture, especially here at Boston Memorial, feels a lot like the military in the way we’re expected to appreciate discipline and tough love. We’re also expected to never miss a day of work, even if we’re running a fever or puking our guts up. And being late, arriving with a disheveled appearance, or not giving one hundred percent of your focus to the task at hand is also not tolerated.

Since this is our first year—our intern year—it’s the worst. We’re the grunts. Our workload is higher, tolerance for our mistakes is lower, and in an effort to weed out those who don’t belong here, Boston throws interns into the intimidating environment of the OR right away. We don’t have roles that could endanger the patient, but we’re often grilled while we’re in the operating room about what’s being done, why it’s being done, and what complications we should keep an eye out for.

It’s not ideal, but matching at Boston Memorial pretty much means you can write your own ticket for fellowship—the next phase after a grueling residency. One I haven’t even allowed myself to think about because the timeline is too daunting.

“As I was saying,” Dr. Porter continues calmly, as though the case we’re about to walk into isn’t life or death. “Our next patient arrived in the ER after falling from an eight-foot scaffolding. He has an open humeral fracture. What do we check first?” he asks, as we all quickly and methodically scrub in at the sinks next to him.

“You need to identify if any major arteries have been severed,” Sarah answers without hesitation.

“Assuming they haven’t, what next?” Dr. Porter asks.

He opens the door to the OR by pressing a metal plate with his elbow, keeping his hands up and in front of his face, signaling to the staff in the OR that he’s scrubbed in and is ready for his gown and gloves.

“Major organs, scan for internal bleeding or head wounds,” I chime in, keeping my hands in the same position until a scrub nurse comes over and helps me slip on my protective gear.

“Ah, so you are present today,” Dr. Porter says. It’s the closest to an acknowledgment that my answer was correct as I’m going to get, and I know enough to keep my mouth shut at the dig.

The patient is lying on the table while the anesthesiologist keeps an eye on him, and Dr. Porter resumes walking us through his steps.

Slowly.

“I can’t see a thing for all the blood,” he gripes. “Suction.”

An OR nurse complies, clearing out the visual field, and I swear I see Dr. Porter almost smile when he says, “Looks like the bone is through the skin.”