Surgery

Chakwas was dreading the next 24 hours. Which was utterly ridiculous, considering her profession. A week ago, she'd had her regular yearly health check, and had discovered that she had a small cyst in her lung. It wasn't life-threatening, but given her lifestyle, visiting remote and often dangerous worlds, far from medical care aside from what she could administer to herself, the doctor had recommended she have it removed. It was right on the edge of the lung, an easy location to reach via surgery, and she was due to check herself into Huerta Memorial in just a few minutes.

But the truth – even if she would never admit it to anyone else – was that she was terrified. She had extensive knowledge of the human body, and knew that this was a simple operation, performed via keyhole surgery, the whole thing taking only half an hour.

But along with everything she knew about how routine this was, about how the success rate was almost 100%, she also knew everything that could go wrong. She could have a reaction to the anaesthetic. She could develop fluid in her lungs from the respirator. She could develop blood clots. The list was endless. She could get an infection from a breach in sterility, aspiration pneumonitis, pleural adhesions… a scrolling list of surgical complications had set up shop in her head, a list she had memorized rigorously during her medical studies, and that she had seen up close and personal with all the operations she had done during the war. Most complications were minor, but two of her patients had ended up dying. Two, over the course of her whole career wasn't bad odds, statistically speaking, but the risk was always there.

The elevator opened and Chakwas pasted a smile on her face, trying to look relaxed. She strode up to the reception desk and told the receptionist her name and the procedure she was due to have… and then she was given a form to fill in and told to go and wait in room 13b, on the first floor.

13b was a pleasant enough room, pale blue with a comfortable chair for her to sit in, and she fought not to tap her foot and fiddle with the thread on her sleeve… she really should trim that off before it started unraveling the fabric.

And then the door opened, and Chakwas braced herself, ready to meet the doctor who would be taking her life in his hands…

"Chloe!" Chakwas leapt up as Dr. Michel stepped into the room.

"Karin, it's so good to see you again." Chakwas saw the clip board in Dr. Michel's hand, her own name emblazoned across the top of it.

"You're my surgeon?" she asked in astonishment.

"Yes," Dr. Michel confirmed. "I saw you on the patient list so I requested your case. It was such a pleasure working with you when you were here, I just couldn't imagine letting you be treated by anyone else. If that's okay with you, of course."

Chakwas smiled, a genuine expression for the first time that day. "That's absolutely fine with me," she said with relief. "I couldn't be in better hands."