year or two. Their bond eroded and then collapsed under the burden of the grief.
When Ty was a teenager, his mother and father reunited briefly in another ER for another family tragedy. They were in their late forties but looked much older. Even though they were both remarried, they hugged for a long time when they saw each other. They shared a rare and horrible bond: a parent’s grief multiplied now over two children. Ty’s sister Christine was already in the OR undergoing emergency surgery when they arrived. Christine had been standing in line at a convenience store waiting to buy a Coke and some gum. All of her friends were outside waving to her when they had seen a man enter the store in a hurry.
“It seemed like just a moment had passed when we saw a few bright flashes of light and heard a loud noise,” those friends of Christine had told Ty’s parents. The gunman had never been found. He had left two people dead at the scene and Christine with a devastating bullet hole in the back of her brain. The prognosis was not good.
When the young neurosurgeon emerged, he informed Ty and his parents drily that Christine had lived but would be in a vegetative state for the rest of her life. His tone was so clinical, so cold, he could have been a service rep at the local car dealership telling them they needed new tires. In that moment, whatever flicker of life remained in his parents extinguished. They breathed, their hearts beat, but the spark of life was gone.
At the time, though, the news had the opposite effect on Ty. It transformed him, awakened his drive, gave his life purpose. His brother’s death years earlier triggered in Ty an outrage at the callousness of the surgeon and a fury at the unfairness of the world, a rage that made Ty a volatile teenager. He was easy to anger and indifferent about school. His sister’s state sparked in Ty something else entirely: a desire to be a neurosurgeon who could save patients and render them functional when others could not. From that moment on, Ty approached life with a single-minded purpose that made him a top student and eventually one of the best neurosurgeons in the country. Ty never forgot about the way his family had been treated, though. Doctors had ducked out when they should have been talking to Ty’s mother. He never forgot how much a doctor’s lack of compassion had added to his mother’s pain. It was no surprise, then, that while Ty could be remarkably arrogant to his colleagues in medicine, with his patients and their families a remarkable humility and compassion emerged.
Standing in front of Allison McDaniel with the worst news he could give her, Ty’s thoughts returned to those California hospitals: the news of his brother’s death delivered casually by a hospital bureaucrat, his sister lying in a sterile long-term care facility, and his subsequent vow to be the surgeon who could save the impossible cases. Ty had become aware tears were burning a path down his cheeks. “Things didn’t go so well in there, did they?” Allison asked softly. Ty cleared his throat. “No, ma’am,” he replied softly. “I am afraid we lost your son tonight.” Allison started to sob, and Ty took her hands into his own.
“I know you did all you could,” Allison said. Ty was too choked up to answer. Allison McDaniel walked over to him and gave him a hug. Ty found the embrace comforting and somehow unnerving: Chelsea General’s star surgeon needed comforting from the mother of the patient he had just killed. That was how he saw it. Allison slowly collected her belongings and started to walk out of the room. Just before leaving, she turned. She wiped away a tear while looking at Ty and said, “I know what happened in there must’ve been so hard for you.”
A round the corner, nurse Monique Tran had also been in tears. She was calling her boyfriend from a quiet corridor.
“I’ve decided to keep the baby.” With that, she couldn’t say any more. She hung
When Ty was a teenager, his mother and father reunited briefly in another ER for another family tragedy. They were in their late forties but looked much older. Even though they were both remarried, they hugged for a long time when they saw each other. They shared a rare and horrible bond: a parent’s grief multiplied now over two children. Ty’s sister Christine was already in the OR undergoing emergency surgery when they arrived. Christine had been standing in line at a convenience store waiting to buy a Coke and some gum. All of her friends were outside waving to her when they had seen a man enter the store in a hurry.
“It seemed like just a moment had passed when we saw a few bright flashes of light and heard a loud noise,” those friends of Christine had told Ty’s parents. The gunman had never been found. He had left two people dead at the scene and Christine with a devastating bullet hole in the back of her brain. The prognosis was not good.
When the young neurosurgeon emerged, he informed Ty and his parents drily that Christine had lived but would be in a vegetative state for the rest of her life. His tone was so clinical, so cold, he could have been a service rep at the local car dealership telling them they needed new tires. In that moment, whatever flicker of life remained in his parents extinguished. They breathed, their hearts beat, but the spark of life was gone.
At the time, though, the news had the opposite effect on Ty. It transformed him, awakened his drive, gave his life purpose. His brother’s death years earlier triggered in Ty an outrage at the callousness of the surgeon and a fury at the unfairness of the world, a rage that made Ty a volatile teenager. He was easy to anger and indifferent about school. His sister’s state sparked in Ty something else entirely: a desire to be a neurosurgeon who could save patients and render them functional when others could not. From that moment on, Ty approached life with a single-minded purpose that made him a top student and eventually one of the best neurosurgeons in the country. Ty never forgot about the way his family had been treated, though. Doctors had ducked out when they should have been talking to Ty’s mother. He never forgot how much a doctor’s lack of compassion had added to his mother’s pain. It was no surprise, then, that while Ty could be remarkably arrogant to his colleagues in medicine, with his patients and their families a remarkable humility and compassion emerged.
Standing in front of Allison McDaniel with the worst news he could give her, Ty’s thoughts returned to those California hospitals: the news of his brother’s death delivered casually by a hospital bureaucrat, his sister lying in a sterile long-term care facility, and his subsequent vow to be the surgeon who could save the impossible cases. Ty had become aware tears were burning a path down his cheeks. “Things didn’t go so well in there, did they?” Allison asked softly. Ty cleared his throat. “No, ma’am,” he replied softly. “I am afraid we lost your son tonight.” Allison started to sob, and Ty took her hands into his own.
“I know you did all you could,” Allison said. Ty was too choked up to answer. Allison McDaniel walked over to him and gave him a hug. Ty found the embrace comforting and somehow unnerving: Chelsea General’s star surgeon needed comforting from the mother of the patient he had just killed. That was how he saw it. Allison slowly collected her belongings and started to walk out of the room. Just before leaving, she turned. She wiped away a tear while looking at Ty and said, “I know what happened in there must’ve been so hard for you.”
A round the corner, nurse Monique Tran had also been in tears. She was calling her boyfriend from a quiet corridor.
“I’ve decided to keep the baby.” With that, she couldn’t say any more. She hung
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