Broken: A story of hope and forgiveness

  * * *

  Thornbridge sat in the break room nearest the ER sipping a fresh cup of coffee, black with no sugar. The so-called break room consisted of no more than a sink, mini-fridge, four-seat table with slightly worn plastic chairs, and a cheap coffee maker purchased at the local Wal-Mart with a modest selection of creamers, compliments of Dr. Baker’s monthly mail-order coffee club. It was not the environment Thornbridge had pictured when he first chose medicine as his vocation.

  There wasn’t a Starbucks Café anywhere near Darkwell, and forget the metropolitan culture manifest in the opera and symphony music halls that he yearned for. Chicago, Dallas, Los Angeles, or some other major city working at a respectable medical center had been his life’s dream, but he lost focus somewhere along the way, somewhere between scoring low on his medical school entrance exams and the point when he realized that a third-tier medical school in northeast Oklahoma was the only acceptance letter he was likely to receive. But at least he was a doctor, not a male nurse or physician’s assistant, and his current assignment would end someday, he hoped.

  Marge sat across the table from him; she was also sipping a cup of coffee, though hers had no similar dietary restrictions—lots of cream and five sugar packets. Unlike Thornbridge, she was exactly where she had imagined she’d be when she decided to become a nurse decades before. She was helping her fellow citizens in her hometown—modest goals for a humble person.

  Thornbridge was exhausted after three hours of surgery. His head tilted back between sips of coffee, eyes closed, as he struggled to stay awake, yet he felt elated.

  Dr. Baker had finally arrived. In spite of the Code Red status of the patient, he looked fresh and rested, as if he had spent precious time showering and shaving. He had been virtually useless in the operating room, regardless of his veteran status. He appeared to be a tired old man, confused yet sharp enough to realize he was out of his league. Thornbridge—sub-par grades and all—had deftly maneuvered the scalpel and sutures as he stopped the bleeding in the brain of his patient. Baker had merely watched with a deer-in-the-headlights gaze and offered useless advice to the would-be prodigy, his scalpel as far away from the blood and guts as he could get while remaining in the same room. The patient’s brain would likely suffer some long-term damage, but Thornbridge had done as much as could be expected from all but the most experienced neurosurgeons. He had saved the man’s life, stabilizing him just enough for the thirty-minute helicopter Care Flight to a much better equipped Oklahoma City facility. And both Marge and Thornbridge knew it, though Baker would be hard-pressed to acknowledge the young doctor’s superior skills.

  “Not bad for a rookie,” was the only compliment Baker offered moments before he left the hospital to resume his slumber at home.

  Marge was also tired and worn out, so she took a few minutes to unwind in the break room with Thornbridge. She was still alert, not wanting to take the chance of falling asleep when she had another two hours of work left in her shift.

  “You were pretty good in there,” she reluctantly admitted as she enjoyed a few moments of peace and tranquility, as well as a cup of coffee, while sitting across the table from Thornbridge.

  “Thanks,” he replied, eyes closed and head tilted back, doing his best to rest without actually falling asleep.

  Marge had been surprised by the skill he had demonstrated during the operation. “What are you doing in Darkwell?” she asked.

  “Good question,” he replied, as he sat up straight and opened his eyes to look at his inquisitor. “I’ve asked myself that question a dozen times at least. I assume you haven’t seen my transcripts.”

  “Partied too much in med school?”

  “Yeah, and in high school and college”

  “I’m glad you’re here. You could teach these locals a thing or two, especially Baker.”

  “You say that to all the boys.” He chuckled just before taking another sip from his cup. Marge laughed, too. A confused expression replaced his smile. “I thought you didn’t like me,” Thornbridge remarked.

  “I didn’t,” she replied. “Still don’t. But now I at least respect you. That boy is alive, thanks to you.” He blushed from the embarrassment caused by her compliment. She added sternly, “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “Not as long as you’re here I won’t.”