Chapter Eleven: Flatline
1101 Words
The OR was silent except for the beeping.
Ozias stood over the patient, gloved hands trembling slightly, sweat gathering beneath his mask. The procedure had started smoothly—laparotomy to remove a ruptured mass. He’d reviewed the scans, rehearsed the steps, prepped the team.
But now, the vitals were dropping.
Fast.
“BP’s crashing,” Nia said, voice sharp.
“Clamp,” Ozias barked, reaching for the vessel. “Suction. I need visibility.”
Wanja stood beside him, calm but alert. “You’re losing blood volume. You need to convert.”
Ozias hesitated. “I can fix this.”
“Convert,” she repeated.
He nodded, slicing wider, deeper. The bleeding didn’t stop.
Then the monitor flatlined.
The room exploded into motion.
Nia began compressions. Wanja called for adrenaline. Ozias stepped back, heart pounding, watching the rhythm of the chest compress beneath Nia’s hands.
“Come on,” he whispered. “Come on.”
But the line didn’t return.
After twelve minutes, Wanja called it.
“Time of death: 14:37.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Ozias stared at the body, his hands still stained, his breath shallow.
He had failed.
Outside the OR, he ripped off his gloves, scrubs damp with sweat. He leaned against the wall, eyes closed, trying to breathe.
Wanja approached slowly.
“You did everything you could,” she said.
“I missed something.”
“No.”
“I hesitated.”
She didn’t argue. She didn’t comfort.
She just stood beside him.
Solomon called them in an hour later.
His office was colder than usual. The blinds were drawn. The chart lay open on the desk.
“Walk me through it,” he said.
Ozias did—every step, every decision, every second of hesitation.
Solomon listened, expression unreadable.
“You were primary,” he said. “That’s a heavy title.”
“I wasn’t ready,” Ozias admitted.
Solomon turned to Wanja. “You signed off on him.”
“I did.”
“You supervised.”
“I did.”
Solomon leaned forward. “Then the responsibility is shared.”
Wanja nodded. “I accept that.”
Ozias looked at her, stunned. “Wanja—”
She didn’t look at him. “I made the call. I stand by it.”
Solomon closed the file. “There will be a review.”
Later, in the corridor, Ozias caught up with her.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.
“Yes, I did.”
“They’ll blame you.”
“I can take it.”
He stared at her. “Why?”
She turned to him, eyes fierce. “Because I believe in you. And because I won’t let this hospital break you before you’ve even begun.”
He swallowed hard. “You’re risking everything.”
“I know.”
They didn’t speak again until hours later, in the staff lounge. The room was empty. The lights were low.
Ozias sat across from her, hands clasped, voice quiet.
“I’ve never lost a patient before.”
“You will again.”
“I don’t know if I can carry it.”
“You don’t have to alone.”
He looked at her, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
He leaned forward. “You shielded me. You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
“Why?”
She paused. “Because I love you.”
The words landed like a heartbeat.
Ozias didn’t speak.
He just reached for her hand.
And held it.
They sat like that for a long time—no words, no movement, just the quiet hum of the hospital around them. The lounge was dim, the air heavy with the scent of antiseptic and fatigue. Outside, the rain had started again, tapping against the windows like a slow, steady pulse.
Ozias stared at their joined hands. Wanja’s grip was firm, grounding. But her eyes were distant, her mind already calculating the fallout.
“I keep replaying it,” he said. “The moment I hesitated.”
“You didn’t kill him.”
“I didn’t save him either.”
Wanja turned to him. “You’re not a god, Ozias. You’re a surgeon. And sometimes, even the best lose.”
He looked at her, eyes hollow. “But I wasn’t the best.”
She didn’t argue. She didn’t comfort. She simply let him feel it.
Later that night, Wanja returned to her office. She closed the door, leaned against it, and let herself breathe. Her shoulders ached. Her chest felt tight. She hadn’t cried. Not yet.
She opened her drawer and pulled out the patient’s file. She read it again—every note, every scan, every signature.
Her name was on the clearance.
Her name would be on the review.
She closed the file and whispered, “I did the right thing.”
But it didn’t feel like enough.
Nia found Ozias in the stairwell, sitting on the bottom step, elbows on his knees.
She didn’t speak right away. Just sat beside him, her presence quiet and steady.
“She covered for you,” Nia said.
“I know.”
“She didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
Nia looked at him. “You love her?”
Ozias didn’t answer.
“You should,” she said. “Because no one else would’ve done what she did.”
He turned to her. “She’s going to get hurt.”
“She already has.”
The next morning, the hospital felt colder.
Solomon’s office door stayed closed. HR sent an email about the review. Staff whispered in corners. The OR schedule shifted.
Wanja walked through it all with her usual precision. But her eyes didn’t linger. Her voice didn’t soften. She was building walls again.
Ozias watched her from across the hallway. He wanted to reach out. To say something. To fix it.
But he didn’t know how.
That evening, they met again—on the rooftop, under a bruised sky.
Wanja stood at the railing, arms crossed, coat flapping in the wind.
Ozias joined her, silent.
“I’m being watched,” she said.
“I know.”
“They’ll question everything.”
“I’ll stand with you.”
She turned to him. “Even if it costs you?”
He nodded. “Especially then.”
She looked at him—really looked. And for the first time in days, her eyes softened.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
“So am I.”
“But I’m not walking away.”
“Then neither am I.”
- Writer
