Cristina stepped into the pit and marveled at the flurry of activity surrounding her. It had been much to long since she'd been here and for a moment she doubted if she could handle being back after so long.
"Dr. Yang?" Bailey's voice seared through her thoughts, "Do you need a special invitation to your patient's bedside or are you going to get over here and get to work?"
She followed Bailey's words to her patient's bedside, "Jeremiah here is an Appy, and I'm sure you know what that means?"
"His appendix is secondary to a suspected viral infection by most theories, evidenced by an increased white count, high grade fever, and.."
"Yang. You are not an intern. He needs an appendectomy. Get him upstairs and get his appendix out before it ruptures."
Cristina blinked at Bailey, "Can...I...can I talk to you for a minute?" she stammered over her patient, "I'm sorry, Mr..."
"Thomas." The patient finished, glancing up to her. "Jeremiah Thomas."
"Mr. Thomas, we'll be right back."
The two walked towards the nurse's station, and Cristina could feel the heat raising from Bailey, "I'm sorry, but it's my first day back.."
"And what? You think I care. You're a second year resident, Dr. Yang. This is what you wanted, and second year residents pull out appendices, and gallbladders, and they do it without complaining. Are you complaining?" Bailey brought her hands to her hips.
"No, ma'am, it's just that I..." Her voice trailed off.
"You're what? Scared? There's no room to be scared, Dr. Yang. It's time for you to jump back in. Don't page me unless you kill him." Bailey snapped at her.
Cristina looked back over to the patient, her blood running cold as Bailey's words echoed through her, 'unless you kill him'. That's what she was afraid of.
Bailey lowered her voice, glancing around, "Look, Yang...I can't be easy on you. Especially..." She paused, taking heed the Chief's warning not to reveal the reason for her return, "Especially when you pushed so hard to come back...if you need help, you can page Dr. Grey."
Cristina let out a sigh, "Seriously? Dr. Grey. You want me to page the person..."
"Dr. Yang, if you need me, I'll be taking care of some more complex cases. Get an OR, get it out. Don't kill him." She interrupted and walked away without hearing her protests.
Cristina glanced over to her patient and faked a smile, "I'm going to book your OR right now, Mr. Thomas."
She put her hand over the phone, her heart racing and her chest tight, "This is Dr. Yang. I need an OR for an appy...OR1 with the gallery?...when?" She paused a moment, suddenly feeling lightheaded, "Now? Seriously?"
She sat the phone back into it's cradle, and looked to her patient, "I'm going to write the orders to get you upstairs, we're going now."
Cristina sank into the chair staring at the phone in front of her, debating on whether or not she would need Meredith on this.
What was the chief expecting? Did he want her to kill a patient, did he want to break her spirit, tear down her resolve and have her give into being the second best.
Someone who had to page another doctor for such a simple procedure?
Somebody just average and not good enough to be in the program?
Cristina stood from the desk and left the ER towards the scrub room. She was not average, she was not second best.
She would not need Meredith Grey for this.
Cut. Suture. Close.
That's all there was to it. She'd cut open the patient, visualize the peritoneum, find the appendix, clamp, cut, pull the purse strings, careful not to tear the secum, and close.
It was simplistic, almost kindergarten.
She paused at the OR board and looked to OR 1 as her patient was pushed past her and pride swelled in her heart as she saw her name as the resident on the board.
This was her prize, this was her life, this is what she'd worked for and given so much up to obtain. She wasn't going to deny herself of this.
However, as she reached the scrub room, and nausea washed over her as the smell of the scrub solution assaulted her. She pulled a mask quickly over her face and grabbed a suture packet, but paused for a moment, her mind lingering to the box that lay in her pocket.
"Are you ready, Dr. Yang?" A scrub nurse interrupted her thoughts, "The patient is almost prepped."
"I'll be ready momentarily. Do I have an intern?"
"No interns available, I'll be assisting you today."
"Okay, I'll be in there in a moment."
The scrub nurse disappeared and she pulled the box out of her pocket and put in the new earrings that he'd bought her before scrubbing.
A little luck couldn't possibly hurt.
She scrubbed the dirt off of her hands, as well as the emotions out of her mind, each stroke of her brush, each pass washing away doubt, insecurity, self-loathing, fear, anger.
Dr. Cristina Yang walked from the scrub room and into her OR, as she was met with a sterile towel and dressed in a sterile gown, then her hands moved into sterile gloves.
It was a dance she'd longed to do for many months, and she was finally here. She'd arrived.
She could hear a flurry of activity from the gallery and glanced up to see everybody there waiting to see her work.
Her eyes met with Burke's who was quietly tucked into the corner, his expression unreadable.
She would have to talk to him later.
She rounded the table and made a gesture that she'd seen Burke make her first day in the gallery to shut up her audience. If they were going to be there, they were going to be there on her rules.
"Ten blade." She commanded, taking the cold steel in her hand and making her initial incision into her patient's abdomen.
As blood seeped from the incision, she felt satisfaction as she made it deeper. This was what she was meant to do.
This is where she was meant to be, who she was meant to be.
A surgeon.
She glanced up to Burke, proud of her work and her heart sank momentarily. If this was who she was, and where she was supposed to be. Where did he fit in?
She couldn't imagine life without him.
"Cautery."
Smoke rose before her as she burned through layers of fat and muscle, burning off capillary bleeders.
As the appendix made itself apparent, her confidence level was at it's peak. "Suction, and I need some 2.5 proline, people."
Her needle was handed to her and this was the moment she'd waited for as she sutured the beginning of her purse strings before setting it to the side and clamping at the proximal end of the appendix with a hemostat and removing it.
She dropped the anatomy into a sterile pan with a clang, and pulled the purse strings closed, and knotted them, then looked to the audience in the gallery, "The appendix is out."
She'd gotten it out.
As she closed her patients, she could virtually hear the whispers ceasing, the rumors being disproved.
Cristina Yang was back.