Trauma by Daniel Palmer

sustained on deployment or in combat. Sadly, the organization could not grow fast enough.
    â€œI’ll go see how it’s going,” Irene said, pushing her bangs off her forehead and tucking a strand of dark, shoulder-length hair behind her ear. “Oh, and your father is in the kitchen. He wants to speak with you.”
    Carrie found her dad sitting at the kitchen table, sipping from a mug of steaming coffee. He drank his coffee no-frills; the whole family did. Was this learned or inherited?
    Carrie poured herself a cup. “You wanted to speak with me?”
    Howard’s face tensed.
    Carrie ignored a tic of anxiety and sat down, preparing herself for anything.
    â€œI’ve been thinking about things,” Howard began, choosing each word carefully. “And I think you’ve come too far to quit now.”
    Carrie folded her arms and looked away, her instinct for self-preservation kicking in. This felt like an ambush. She had made it abundantly clear that reconsideration was not an option. To be a great surgeon required great confidence, and Carrie would be a danger in the OR.
    Still, this was her dad, and the soul of kindness. He deserved that she sit still and listen.
    â€œYou are a gifted neurosurgeon,” he continued, “with only one more year to complete your residency. I know that you had your heart set on that fellowship at the Cleveland Clinic, and then who knows what? I don’t want to say something trite like ‘everybody makes mistakes,’ but I honestly can’t think of one successful person, especially not doctors, who hasn’t gone through a personal hell of some sort or another. Sleepless nights. A crisis of confidence. Not one.” He picked up his coffee cup again and took a long drink.
    Carrie’s voice caught, and came out a bit shaky. Contradicting her father had never come easily. “Dad, you don’t know how badly Leon is hurt. Honestly, just the thought of operating makes me anxious. I was never this way before.”
    Howard nodded. His eyes brimmed with empathy. “I know,” he said. “You’ve said that many times. But there’s something I never told you that I think you should hear.” He shifted in his chair. “When I was an intern, I accidentally overdosed a young man suffering from a seizure.”
    Carrie said nothing. In the silence, the revelation became its own uncomfortable presence.
    â€œI gave him too much phenobarbital. I’ll never forget it. He stopped breathing and his blood pressure collapsed. We had to call a code, and the poor guy almost died. Because of me. Because of my mistake. I saw him every day in the ICU for the next week, and each time I was racked with terrible, terrible guilt.
    â€œEven today, I always double-check myself when I administer drugs,” her father said. “Especially that drug.”
    Carrie could relate. The last she heard, Beth Stillwell had recovered and returned to work, but Leon had been transferred to a long-term nursing care facility. Not all of Leon’s deficits were attributed to Carrie’s mistake, but she’d owned all the guilt regardless.
    â€œUnlike Leon, my patient was going to get entirely better before I made him worse,” her father continued. “For weeks I couldn’t sleep. Barely could eat. Thankfully he did recover, but I think you get my point. My mistake almost cost this man his life. But that’s a part of the job. We’re expected to be perfect, but no human being is infallible. Not you. Not me. Not Dr. Metcalf. Mistakes happen. But it’s how we deal with the adversity that defines our character. You can make peace with this and find a way to move forward. I did. Now, I’ve a suggestion.”
    Carrie could guess where he was going with all this, but—it was too soon. Too soon. She could not pick up another scalpel. Not now, and despite what he said, maybe not ever.
    â€œYou’re a grown woman,