And then, for a while, life was good.
Robert continued to make strides in his recovery, his left hand growing stronger and more dexterous every day. He was able to perform more procedures in the OR, and actually began enjoying the fact that someone was required to be in the room to oversee him. Whether it was Elizabeth, Anspaugh, or any other member of the other surgical staff, it always provided him the opportunity to gloat over the fact that they stood idly by while he completed the work with precise execution.
With him resuming hours in the OR in addition to his administrative work, Erin found herself returning to her previous break-neck schedule as well. She arrived in the ER at six o'clock one evening, set to work her first full overnight shift in weeks. She went into the lounge to drop off her things, finding Susan on the telephone. She waved a silent greeting, grinning as she listened to the blonde woman barking orders into the receiver. "I don't care how you do it, just get that blood here now! We're an urban trauma center - it is simply unacceptable for us to have such a small supply of O neg." She rolled her eyes at Erin, who tried not to laugh. "Well, Dr. Weaver isn't here right now," she snapped at the voice on the other end of the line. "But I'll tell you what. If you'd like, I can call her at home and tell her...oh, I'm so glad you see things my way." She slammed down the phone and made a strangled noise in her throat. "Sometimes I hate this job!"
Erin slipped into her lab coat with a sympathetic shrug of her shoulders. "Dr. Weaver isn't here?" She repeated. Susan nodded, offering some superfluous explanation, which Erin barely heard. All she could think was what a serendipitous turn of events that was, since Robert had insisted on covering the ER that night. When Susan finished speaking, Erin asked if she was on all night. "Not if I can help it," Dr. Lewis groaned. "But who knows if Kovac is going to show up on time."
The two women left the lounge together and headed for the admit desk, where Erin briefly scanned the board. "Well, at least it's shaping up to be a quiet night." Her brow furrowed a bit. "We sent an obstructed bowel upstairs half an hour ago?" Susan nodded. "Who's the surgeon?"
"Your one and only," Dr. Lewis grinned. "Think he regrets getting back in the OR yet?" She snickered.
Erin giggled a bit as well. "It's certainly not the sexiest procedure he's ever done."
"Forget whether the procedure is sexy or not.just make him wash his hand before coming to bed."
Upstairs in OR three, things were unfolding as normal. Robert had opened the patient's stomach with motions that were little more than reflex, and he and Donald set about cleaning out they mess they found.
"So Donald, did you read over that proposal about having our transplant service expand their horizons into pancreatic transference research? Seems to me there's a lot of promise there."
"I did, Robert, and you make some interesting points."
"Absolutely. The techniques are getting better and better, patients are reporting higher and higher levels of successful insulin control, and the transplants themselves are viable for twice the amount of time once projected. It's the first step towards wiping out diabetes. County needs to be on the cutting edge of that, don't you think?"
"Yes, but Robert, the problem is the lack of viable organs for donation." Anspaugh glanced across the table. "This isn't the kind of situation like where a parent or a sibling can give up a kidney - these procedures rely entirely on organs harvested from the deceased donors."
"True, true," Robert smirked beneath his mask. "But just a few short years ago, we thought the same about the liver. Now look at what we can do. We can harvest a portion of one lobe from a living donor, a section that regenerates on its own. And that small amount of tissue is all that's needed to save a life."
"Yes, I understand that." Donald was beginning to sound exasperated. "But there is nothing that conclusively shows that the pancreas has regenerative power, or that so small a tissue sample can make such a difference.
"Right." The smirk grew wider. "Hence the syntax 'pancreatic transference research'."
The two men eyed each other over the table. "Would you retract please, Dr. Romano?"
"With pleasure, Dr. Anspaugh. Shirley, suction."
They resumed their work. "You're Chief of Staff, Robert, and decisions like this are certainly within your discretion. However, I feel I would be remiss if I didn't remind you that you should spend a great deal of time and consideration before you invest in a venture that could end up costing more than it gains. Resources are limited - we must do everything in our power to see that they are not squandered."
Robert opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Shirley. "Dr. Romano, you're obstructing my field."
"What?"
"You asked for suction, but the field is obscured. You need more retraction."
"What the hell do you think I'm doing?" Robert allowed his focus to shift to the retractor in his hand.
His left hand.
His heart stopped briefly.
He remembered inserting the tool, applying the necessary pressure. The tissue had folded back like butter, revealing almost the entire interior of the bowel capsule. He knew it had. Otherwise Donald would never have been able to attach that clamp.
So why was it now bowing in?
He tightened his fingers, felt metal through latex.. Little change.
Relax. Flex the wrist.
Some improvement. Not enough. "Robert, are you okay?" Anspaugh. Shut up, you doddering old-school fart.
He clenched his teeth and pulled back his entire arm. The incision opened. He closed his eyes, listening to the gurgling hiss of the suction catheter. Cover, quickly. "Shirley, take the retractor. I want to explore the posterior compartment." He ignored the exchanged glances between nurse and senior surgeon. Finish and get out, finish and get out, finish.
He left Donald to close. Snapped off soiled gloves, tore off bloody drape. Swept off mask and cap with one deft whisk of his hand. His left hand. At least it's still good for something. He donned his scrub coat, exploded out of the scrub room, and strode down the hall. Brenda was speaking before he even reached her desk, prattling on about messages and meetings. "Brenda, go home." The woman blanched in surprise. But, never one to look a gift Romano in the mouth, she made some demurral about things waiting until tomorrow while grabbing her purse. He was in his office with the door closed before she even rounded her desk. He sat in his chair, willing his breath to slow, his heart to calm.
No reason to get worked up, no reason at all.
He placed his hand on the desk.
Flex.
Fingers moving like through molasses. He gritted his teeth.
Extend.
He couldn't get them fully straightened.
Fuck.
Six a.m. Erin was exhausted with inactivity. An entire night shift had passed with no major trauma. Only the third such night in all her years at County. The minutes had ticked by like hours. She had contemplated going upstairs, or paging him down. But she thought better of it. Husband or not, Robert Romano had a very specific image built in the halls of the hospital. One he intended to keep. Best not to monkey with tradition. She moved to the lounge, collected her things. Walked to the elevator, punched the button for the fourth floor. Silent ascension. She made her way to his office and tapped on the glass. Something unintelligible mumbled from inside. Turning the knob, she stuck her head in. "Sounds like somebody hasn't had their coffee yet."
He was slumped in his chair, staring off into nothing. She made her way to the desk. "Tough night?"
"Uneventful." His voice was dull.
"Yeah, sorry about that. Just didn't have a lot to send you. I thought about going out and shoving somebody in front of the El around one." As she spoke, she made her way behind him and began to rub his shoulders. "But you know how it is these days, with cops and courts and lawyers." She realized he wasn't listening to her. Not that she blamed him. She kissed the top of his head. "I'll take you to breakfast."
"I'm not hungry."
"Okay. I'll take you home, put you to bed."
He sighed heavily. "I'm not tired."
"Oh, good! Neither am I." She moved to kneel in front of him, but he seemed to look right through her. "Robert? Are you all right?"
"Yep. All right. That's me. All right, no left." He chuckled hollowly.
Erin became immediately concerned. "Did something happen?" She lifted his hand in hers, but he pulled it firmly away from her. "Robert."
"Windsor." His voice held a note of warning. She felt a cold hand of fear wrap around her heart.
It all came down to hands, didn't it? Irony. Pretty fucking ironic from time to time.
She squeezed his fingers. "There has to be something I can do."
He looked at her, naked exhaustion in his eyes.
"Not unless you can make it April."
Robert continued to make strides in his recovery, his left hand growing stronger and more dexterous every day. He was able to perform more procedures in the OR, and actually began enjoying the fact that someone was required to be in the room to oversee him. Whether it was Elizabeth, Anspaugh, or any other member of the other surgical staff, it always provided him the opportunity to gloat over the fact that they stood idly by while he completed the work with precise execution.
With him resuming hours in the OR in addition to his administrative work, Erin found herself returning to her previous break-neck schedule as well. She arrived in the ER at six o'clock one evening, set to work her first full overnight shift in weeks. She went into the lounge to drop off her things, finding Susan on the telephone. She waved a silent greeting, grinning as she listened to the blonde woman barking orders into the receiver. "I don't care how you do it, just get that blood here now! We're an urban trauma center - it is simply unacceptable for us to have such a small supply of O neg." She rolled her eyes at Erin, who tried not to laugh. "Well, Dr. Weaver isn't here right now," she snapped at the voice on the other end of the line. "But I'll tell you what. If you'd like, I can call her at home and tell her...oh, I'm so glad you see things my way." She slammed down the phone and made a strangled noise in her throat. "Sometimes I hate this job!"
Erin slipped into her lab coat with a sympathetic shrug of her shoulders. "Dr. Weaver isn't here?" She repeated. Susan nodded, offering some superfluous explanation, which Erin barely heard. All she could think was what a serendipitous turn of events that was, since Robert had insisted on covering the ER that night. When Susan finished speaking, Erin asked if she was on all night. "Not if I can help it," Dr. Lewis groaned. "But who knows if Kovac is going to show up on time."
The two women left the lounge together and headed for the admit desk, where Erin briefly scanned the board. "Well, at least it's shaping up to be a quiet night." Her brow furrowed a bit. "We sent an obstructed bowel upstairs half an hour ago?" Susan nodded. "Who's the surgeon?"
"Your one and only," Dr. Lewis grinned. "Think he regrets getting back in the OR yet?" She snickered.
Erin giggled a bit as well. "It's certainly not the sexiest procedure he's ever done."
"Forget whether the procedure is sexy or not.just make him wash his hand before coming to bed."
Upstairs in OR three, things were unfolding as normal. Robert had opened the patient's stomach with motions that were little more than reflex, and he and Donald set about cleaning out they mess they found.
"So Donald, did you read over that proposal about having our transplant service expand their horizons into pancreatic transference research? Seems to me there's a lot of promise there."
"I did, Robert, and you make some interesting points."
"Absolutely. The techniques are getting better and better, patients are reporting higher and higher levels of successful insulin control, and the transplants themselves are viable for twice the amount of time once projected. It's the first step towards wiping out diabetes. County needs to be on the cutting edge of that, don't you think?"
"Yes, but Robert, the problem is the lack of viable organs for donation." Anspaugh glanced across the table. "This isn't the kind of situation like where a parent or a sibling can give up a kidney - these procedures rely entirely on organs harvested from the deceased donors."
"True, true," Robert smirked beneath his mask. "But just a few short years ago, we thought the same about the liver. Now look at what we can do. We can harvest a portion of one lobe from a living donor, a section that regenerates on its own. And that small amount of tissue is all that's needed to save a life."
"Yes, I understand that." Donald was beginning to sound exasperated. "But there is nothing that conclusively shows that the pancreas has regenerative power, or that so small a tissue sample can make such a difference.
"Right." The smirk grew wider. "Hence the syntax 'pancreatic transference research'."
The two men eyed each other over the table. "Would you retract please, Dr. Romano?"
"With pleasure, Dr. Anspaugh. Shirley, suction."
They resumed their work. "You're Chief of Staff, Robert, and decisions like this are certainly within your discretion. However, I feel I would be remiss if I didn't remind you that you should spend a great deal of time and consideration before you invest in a venture that could end up costing more than it gains. Resources are limited - we must do everything in our power to see that they are not squandered."
Robert opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Shirley. "Dr. Romano, you're obstructing my field."
"What?"
"You asked for suction, but the field is obscured. You need more retraction."
"What the hell do you think I'm doing?" Robert allowed his focus to shift to the retractor in his hand.
His left hand.
His heart stopped briefly.
He remembered inserting the tool, applying the necessary pressure. The tissue had folded back like butter, revealing almost the entire interior of the bowel capsule. He knew it had. Otherwise Donald would never have been able to attach that clamp.
So why was it now bowing in?
He tightened his fingers, felt metal through latex.. Little change.
Relax. Flex the wrist.
Some improvement. Not enough. "Robert, are you okay?" Anspaugh. Shut up, you doddering old-school fart.
He clenched his teeth and pulled back his entire arm. The incision opened. He closed his eyes, listening to the gurgling hiss of the suction catheter. Cover, quickly. "Shirley, take the retractor. I want to explore the posterior compartment." He ignored the exchanged glances between nurse and senior surgeon. Finish and get out, finish and get out, finish.
He left Donald to close. Snapped off soiled gloves, tore off bloody drape. Swept off mask and cap with one deft whisk of his hand. His left hand. At least it's still good for something. He donned his scrub coat, exploded out of the scrub room, and strode down the hall. Brenda was speaking before he even reached her desk, prattling on about messages and meetings. "Brenda, go home." The woman blanched in surprise. But, never one to look a gift Romano in the mouth, she made some demurral about things waiting until tomorrow while grabbing her purse. He was in his office with the door closed before she even rounded her desk. He sat in his chair, willing his breath to slow, his heart to calm.
No reason to get worked up, no reason at all.
He placed his hand on the desk.
Flex.
Fingers moving like through molasses. He gritted his teeth.
Extend.
He couldn't get them fully straightened.
Fuck.
Six a.m. Erin was exhausted with inactivity. An entire night shift had passed with no major trauma. Only the third such night in all her years at County. The minutes had ticked by like hours. She had contemplated going upstairs, or paging him down. But she thought better of it. Husband or not, Robert Romano had a very specific image built in the halls of the hospital. One he intended to keep. Best not to monkey with tradition. She moved to the lounge, collected her things. Walked to the elevator, punched the button for the fourth floor. Silent ascension. She made her way to his office and tapped on the glass. Something unintelligible mumbled from inside. Turning the knob, she stuck her head in. "Sounds like somebody hasn't had their coffee yet."
He was slumped in his chair, staring off into nothing. She made her way to the desk. "Tough night?"
"Uneventful." His voice was dull.
"Yeah, sorry about that. Just didn't have a lot to send you. I thought about going out and shoving somebody in front of the El around one." As she spoke, she made her way behind him and began to rub his shoulders. "But you know how it is these days, with cops and courts and lawyers." She realized he wasn't listening to her. Not that she blamed him. She kissed the top of his head. "I'll take you to breakfast."
"I'm not hungry."
"Okay. I'll take you home, put you to bed."
He sighed heavily. "I'm not tired."
"Oh, good! Neither am I." She moved to kneel in front of him, but he seemed to look right through her. "Robert? Are you all right?"
"Yep. All right. That's me. All right, no left." He chuckled hollowly.
Erin became immediately concerned. "Did something happen?" She lifted his hand in hers, but he pulled it firmly away from her. "Robert."
"Windsor." His voice held a note of warning. She felt a cold hand of fear wrap around her heart.
It all came down to hands, didn't it? Irony. Pretty fucking ironic from time to time.
She squeezed his fingers. "There has to be something I can do."
He looked at her, naked exhaustion in his eyes.
"Not unless you can make it April."