He planted his hands wide on my bedrail, leaned over, and hung his head. “I’d have to open your abdomen and remove all the harmful germs inside from the rupture. That scar would be eight, maybe nine inches, and your recuperation would be measured in months. Months, Jessica.” He raised his head and gave me a penetrating glare. “You don’t get to select your doctor then, because at that point, it’s a race to the OR to save your life.”
Tears welled in my eyes, but I blinked them back.
He pulled a hand off the bed, grabbed it behind my neck, and brought our faces close, his warm forehead pushed to mine. “I don’t want your life in my hands. Don’t make me perform that type of surgery.”
He didn’t want my life in his hands, but at that moment, I understood it was already too late for my heart. I closed my eyes and expelled a tear, which he used his thumb to sweep away.