I was 33, fresh into my first solo cardiothoracic surgery, when a five-year-old boy from a car crash was wheeled into my OR. His heart was failing, his life in the balance. For hours, I fought to save him, my hands trembling but steady. When we finished, he survived, leaving a permanent scar but alive.
Twenty years later, I’m walking through a hospital parking lot when a young man screams at me, accusing me of ruining his life. It’s Ethan—the boy I saved. I’m confused, stunned—but before I can respond, his mother collapses with chest pain. I rush her into the OR.
Hours later, she’s stable. It’s Emily, my first love, Ethan’s mom. Everything comes full circle: the boy I saved, the woman I once loved, all in need of me again.
Ethan finally calms, realizing survival came at a cost—but he’s alive. Emily recovers, and slowly, we reconnect. Sometimes, the people you save end up saving you in ways you never expected.
“If keeping you alive is ruining your life,” I tell Ethan, “then yes… I’m guilty.”