Page 5 of Christmas at Watson Memorial

“This isn't about your sister,” I cut her off, ignoring the way my chest tightens at her pain. “This is about following proper medical protocols.”

“Fine, okay, Jesus. I'm sorry. I get that you're stressed, but I was just trying to help.”

“Don't 'fine' me,” I bark, continuing to argue even though she's already apologized. “You can't play Santa Claus with my patients just because you can fly into the hospital and fill their heads with stories and-”

“Code Blue in room 312!” a nurse shouts.

“Get a crash cart, now!” I command.

I sprint to room 312 where Tommy Martinez, a post-op patient, has gone into cardiac arrest. The squeak of my shoes against the linoleum echoes in my ears.

“Ventricular fibrillation!” a nurse calls out. “No pulse!”

Suddenly, Selene Callahan vanishes from my mind as my world narrows to compressions, rhythm checks, and split-second decisions.

“Paddles! Charge to 200. Clear!”

Tommy's body arches with the shock, but his heart remains still.

“300. Clear!”

“We've got a pulse, Dr. Winters,” a nurse whispers, relief evident in her exhale.

After giving instructions for patient monitoring, I leave the room and catch Selene’s eye. She’s frozen in place where I left her. The anger has drained from me, leaving something else entirely in its wake. She offers a small smile, seems about to speak, but I keep walking. I give her a quick nod as I head to my office.

***

Hours later, Holly's latest results spell disaster. The computer clock reads 2:47 AM, and I'm clutching my lucky pen like a lifeline. I know science doesn't work on wishes, but right now, I'd trade all my medical knowledge for a Christmas miracle.

“That's not acceptable!” I growl into the phone, my voice too loud for the pre-dawn hours. “I understand Boston has two priority cases and Cleveland has another two, but this girl needs to move up the list,” I demand.

The woman on the other end responds with infuriating detachment.

“Dr. Winters, every major hospital has critically ill children who need urgent transplants.”

“You don't understand. She won't make it to New Year's without a compatible heart,” I sigh, words failing me.

I refuse to give up. I won't back down. I'll fight to make sure this seven-year-old gets her silly dream of flying over Manhattan in a helicopter, whatever it takes.

The night stretches on through countless cups of coffee as I dive into experimental treatments of any kind that might buy us extra days. My computer screen overflows with medical journal articles until a knock at the door makes me jump.

“Have you been here all night?” Miguel asks, eyeing the army of empty coffee cups on my desk.

“I need to review some articles and-”

“You know normal people sometimes sleep, right?”

“Normal people don't have seven-year-old patients dying while some bureaucrat decides if they're high enough on a transplant priority list,” I snap.

“Holly's that bad?”

“Yeah,” I exhale.

“Shit. Anything I can do?”

“Unless you can find me a compatible heart, I doubt it.”

He stays quiet, knowing none of us can do anything but wait for a miracle in the form of a heart that will save her life.