Caveat: I know absolutely nothing about surgery. Hope you enjoy anyway : )
"Scalpel!" Was there any better feeling in the world than that moment right before cutting into a chest? Cristina didn't think so. . . . Well, maybe great sex was a little better. Really great, mind-blowing sex. With Owen. But it was in the top three at least.
Cristina couldn't prevent the little smile she made every time she made the initial cut. One long, deep, steady incision. It wasn't that she didn't care about the patient. She did. And it wasn't that her ultimate goal was her own gratification. Despite what some people said, she wouldn't do this if she didn't think it was saving someone. But there was nothing to beat the satisfaction she got from knowing she was the one with the skill to work what less than a century ago would have been called a miracle. The way her mind and her hands and her instincts came together in a few transcendentally perfect hours. The beautiful mechanics of it.
See, that was what Owen never truly got. Yes, he loved surgery and "fixing" things. And he was great at it. He was the best trauma surgeon Seattle Grace ever had. (Hell, Cristina could never be with someone who wasn't the best.) But for him it was almost entirely about the saving. He probably could have found happiness if he had chosen to be a fireman. Sure, he understood that she really LOVED the actual surgery part. But he didn't really feel that in quite the same way.
This was the feeling she never wanted to let go of. Why the last weeks had been the source of so much anxiety. She never wanted to lose that. It was too much of who she was and wanted to be. She wasn't like anyone else. Since she had first told Owen that a lifetime ago he had said it back to her often enough: "You are not like anyone else." When they were at their most intimate, on occasion in comic exasperation. And during those recent, painful but necessary and difficult discussions.
And after all that, after those conversations – some angry, some tearful, some desperate, here she was. As she opened the patient's chest and the exposed the heart, Cristina knew this was exactly where she should be. Ready to fix this gorgeous, damaged machine. Taking the lead on a valve replacement – now this was the life. ? Pig, of course. Somehow her patients always chose the pig. She felt a flutter of excitement. She never felt better.
The surgery continued, with only the smooth rhythm of the heart-lung machine and her occasional instructions to Nurse Bohki and the terrified intern breaking the silence.
"Okay, take him off bypass, slowly on my count." Cristina felt proud. She had sown the new valve back on perfectly. Another perfect . . .
Then the words that brought dread to all surgeons, "Dr. Yang, his pressure is dropping." Shit! What the fuck? Everything looked fine. Damn – there was blood starting to pool. "Number 17.1 – yes, you – more sponges over here, I need to see where the bleeding is coming from." Where was the blood coming from?
Did I knick another vessel somehow?
Dammit, she really didn't want to have to call Teddy over from her corner for help. She was sure her technique had been flawless.
What am I missing? Another damaged part of the heart? . . . . A tear? Cristina felt a strong flutter in her stomach. "Is that it, a tear?" she whispered half to herself and half to . . . "Where, I can't see . . . wait, could it be the back of the aorta?" The flutter in her stomach felt stronger, almost as though it were a kick. Cristina lifted up the aorta and viewed the underside. The main vessel must have had the beginnings of a tear even before surgery – something virtually undetectable and likely fatal at some point.
An hour later, after she and Dr. Altman had stabilized the patient, repaired the torn aorta and ensured the new valve was intact, Cristina stood alone in the scrub room. She paused a moment, looked down and in a quiet voice said, "Good call kid. You and I just might make a terrific team. You're pretty amazing for something the size of a canteloupe. You're definitely not like anybody else."