Marcella leans in. “What was the risk of this procedure?”
“High,” I admit, because it’s true.
She arches an eyebrow. “Why?”
“The tumors were near critical structures—her brainstem and motor cortex. Inevitably, they would have spread to other parts of her brain or spinal cord, which would have tragic consequences.” I sigh. “On the other hand, taking them out gave her a fighting chance, despite the risk of bleeding. Swelling. Neurological damage.”
“You explained these risks to Miranda’s family?” Marcella curls her lip in disgust for a millisecond before her professional composure takes back over.
“Yes,” I say as evenly as possible. “Dr. Caldwell and I described these risks in great detail. Her parents understood and chose to proceed. They signed a standard waiver.”
She’s quiet for a moment, studying me like I’m an equation she’s about to solve. Then she pounces. “During Miranda’s surgery, did anything go wrong?”
I hesitate for only half a second because it was, possibly, the worst day of my career. “Yes. A blood vessel ruptured.”
“What happened then?” She tilts her head.
It’s an open-ended question. One designed to get me to talk. I manage to resist embellishing. “We tried to control the bleeding. The pressure in her brain spiked and we had to close the incision before all the tumors were removed.”
“What was the outcome?” She stares into my soul because she knowsexactlywhat happened.
I take a deep breath. “Miranda suffered severe complications including brain swelling. She’s currently in a state of unresponsive wakefulness. We don’t expect her to recover.”
“So you failed.” Marcella leans back. “Despite your so-called advanced techniques and training, the surgery cost her everything. Correct?”
I can’t cover my annoyance. “As I said before. The surgery was high-risk. We did everything we could.”
“It wasn’t enough, was it?” She squints at me. Scrutinizing. Judging.
The words land like a blow, sharp and merciless.
My fist clenches tightly. “As I said before, the surgery was high-risk. We did everything we could.”
“It wasn’t enough, was it?” she repeats. Her gaze is unrelenting, picking me apart piece by piece.
I don’t respond. Because there’s nothing I can say.
No matter how many times I go over that day in my head—every move, every decision—I can’t shake the feeling maybe there was something I could have done differently.
She’s right. Despite my training, my skill, my best efforts, we failed her.
No, you failed her.
I swallow against the nausea rising in my throat.
I think about my brothers, successful in their fields—Connor, Liam, and Padraig, rockstars with Grammys to their names. Brennan, a tech mogul shaping the future of AI. Even Cillian, despite his struggles, has built something real.
Then there’s me. The youngest. The perpetual student. The one who couldn’t save a twelve-year-old girl.
Marcella leans forward, sensing the crack in my composure. “Dr. McGloughlin, let’s talk more about your experience. As you mentioned, you were a third-year resident when you performed the operation, correct?”
“Assisted,” I correct.
She continues her attack. “How many high-risk surgeries have you led?”
“As I mentioned, I’veassistedin over a dozen.” I exhale slowly, resisting the urge to raise my voice.
“Assisted,” she repeats, letting the word hang between us. “So, you’ve never led one, have you?”
