I was working in the cardiac theatre the next day, running on maybe two hours of sleep. The vision of Jackson with that woman kept replaying in my mind—the sounds and the images. I felt disconnected from everything, walking around like a zombie as I prepared my drugs and equipment.
My patient was a 50-year-old woman with mitral valve prolapse due to an acute infarct. After looking through her notes, I devised a quick management plan to discuss with the attending before we started.
I glanced at my watch; it was already 8 am. It was unusual for a cardiac anesthetist to be late. I was about to call the front desk when the theatre door swung open.
Jackson walked in, and my heart clenched. He looked composed and commanding, but there were still dark rings under his eyes and a tightness aroun
