Relentless Precision

The sharp buzz of my alarm jolts me awake after what feels like only minutes of sleep. My hand instinctively slaps the snooze button, but the relentless beeping doesn't let up—it's not my alarm. It's my hospital pager. I groan, roll onto my back, and squint at the flashing message: "Code: Emergency Surgery. ETA 30 minutes."

There's no room for hesitation. I swing my legs off the bed, the heaviness in my limbs protesting every movement. Jia's voice calls out from the living room. "Another emergency?" she asks, poking her head into my room.

"Yeah," I reply, already pulling on clean scrubs. "Hold dinner if I'm not back by midnight."

She rolls her eyes but offers a thumbs-up. "Got it. Don't pass out in the OR!"

I manage a faint smile before grabbing my keys and heading out.

7:15 AM – Arriving at the Hospital

The moment I step through the hospital doors, the hum of controlled chaos takes over. The neurosurgery department is a hive of activity—nurses rushing between patients, junior residents trailing behind attendings, and the distant wail of an ambulance pulling up to the ER bay.

"Dr. Lee!" Minho calls out as I approach the nurses' station. He's already in his surgical gown, holding a clipboard. "Severe TBI—motorcycle accident. OR 3. Prep fast, we're going in."

I nod, scanning the patient file he hands me. Male, 28, open skull fracture with intracranial hemorrhage. Time is critical.

7:45 AM – The Operating Room

The OR is a flurry of movement. Surgical techs hand me my gown and gloves as the anesthesiologist intubates the patient. The heart monitor beeps steadily in the background, grounding me as I focus on the task ahead.

"Scalpel," I say, my voice calm despite the urgency.

The next few hours blur into a rhythm only surgeons understand: suction, cauterize, clamp. I guide the drill carefully, removing the fractured bone fragments to relieve pressure on the brain. Sweat trickles down my temple under the surgical lights, but I can't afford distractions.

Minho assists seamlessly, handing me instruments and reading vitals aloud. "ICP stabilizing. BP's holding steady," he announces, his tone steady.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the bleeding is controlled, and the bone flap is secured. I let out a breath as we close the incision.

11:30 AM – Post-Op Rounds

I grab a protein bar from my locker before heading to the ICU for post-op rounds. My legs ache, and my stomach growls, but the list of patients is unrelenting.

The first stop is our TBI patient from the morning. His vitals are stable, but I speak with his family, explaining the procedure and the road to recovery ahead. Their gratitude is palpable, but I can't linger—there's always another patient waiting.

2:00 PM – Clinic Consultations

In the outpatient clinic, I see a mix of cases: a middle-aged man with worsening migraines, a young girl with a suspected AVM, an elderly woman scheduled for a tumor resection next week. Each case demands focus, empathy, and precision.

"Dr. Lee, what's your differential diagnosis?" a junior resident asks during one consult.

I gesture to the patient's MRI scans. "Look at the irregularity in the left frontal lobe. What does that suggest to you?"

"A low-grade glioma?"

"Exactly. Schedule a biopsy," I reply, moving on to the next case.

5:00 PM – Emergency Pager

The pager buzzes again: "Code: Stroke – ETA 5 minutes." I rush back to the ER, where a middle-aged woman is wheeled in, her right side paralyzed and her speech slurred.

"CT angio now!" I order, scanning her face for signs of worsening. Minutes later, the scan confirms a large clot in her middle cerebral artery.

"Prep for thrombectomy," I tell the team. "We're racing the clock."

In the OR, the procedure is delicate but successful. As we extract the clot, blood flow is restored, and I feel a surge of relief knowing we've given her a fighting chance.

10:00 PM – Back to the Apartment

By the time I finish my last consultation, the city is cloaked in darkness. The hospital is quieter now, but my body feels like it's been through a war.

I grab my bag and head home, where Jia greets me with leftover ramen and a teasing grin.

"Still alive?" she quips.

"Just barely," I mutter, slumping onto the couch. My phone buzzes with emails and tomorrow's schedule, but I ignore it. For now, I let myself breathe, savoring the fleeting calm before the cycle starts again.

This is my life: exhausting, relentless, but meaningful in ways that words can't capture.