#m's work

You glanced at the daily assignment board, scratching the back of your neck. Penciled in is your name in the scrubbing section, right alongside a crossed-out Emily Winston. You’d scrubbed in for six surgeries this week, and it was only Thursday. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Emily groaned, seeing her name crossed out and replaced on the circulating nurses list. “I fucking hate this.”

She’d been working at PTMC for six years before you, and when you’d started your orthopedic nursing position back in December, she’d been the first to welcome you. It was clear, by the end of that first month, that Emily hated circulating.

“At least you get some quiet. I have to listen to Park’s EDM for the sixth time this week. I swear I can hear the synth when I sleep,” you murmur, though you have to admit, when you see the surgeon rounding the corner, your heart picks up speed.

He crosses over just as Emily stops at the water fountain to fill her cup. “Hey, I just wanted to give you a note about the case you’re going to scrub in on,” Brendon Park murmurs, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Oh! Yeah!” You nod with a smile. “I was surprised to see my name,” you gesture to the board with your thumb. “I haven’t circulated all week, and last week I scrubbed into five surgeries total.”

Dr. Park shrugged. “Rotation must be a bit off. I usually just pick whoever has good stats. You’re doing well.” 

You hum a thanks as he continues. “The patient is 58 and is coming in with severe spinal stenosis. We need to do a decompression from L3 down to S1. His thecal sac is being choked, and L4 is slipping completely off of L5. Plan is to do a wide laminectomy first; we’ll have a lot of bleeding from his epidural veins, so you’re going to need to keep the bipolar cautery and a supply of Gelfoam ready at all times. Once I have the nerves free, I’m going to move onto the disc spaces. Interbody cages on all three levels, all trial sizers, and then real PEEK cages. I’ll prep the endplates with osteotomes and disc shavers, and we’re going to need lots of bone graft mixed with the biologic. The screws will be placed at L3, L4, L5, and S1 to get the anchors in, and I’ll lock the rods down once the cages are packed.” You mentally note all of this as he gestures with his hands. 

You can’t help but hang on every word. Heat flushes to your cheeks as he finishes, “It’s going to be tedious. I want you to make sure to eat something before you meet me in twenty.”

“Yeah. I’ll definitely make sure to eat something,” you nod with a smile, glancing around Brendon’s arm to see Emily raising her eyebrows and flipping you off. You roll your eyes at her antics. 

“Good. I need you in there to make this go by faster.”

You frown, tugging off your gown and gloves and tossing them into the biohazard bin. Your eyes feel heavy, and for a long moment, you ponder if it’s normal for your vision to be slightly blurry after an eight-hour spinal surgery.

“Fuck,” Brendon groans, drawing the word out as he finishes washing his hands. He straightens, arms behind his head as his back releases a soft popping noise.

“It sounds like the ortho surgeon needs his own ortho surgeon,” you mutter under your breath with a smile, noting how he shakes out his arms and his hands, clearly releasing the tension from his body that he’d been carrying the entire operation.

He chuckles, and you can see a few of the members of the anesthesia team gawk, eyes wide at the sound. Mean, cold, closed-off, eerily observant. You’d heard the surgeon standing beside you be described as all of the above many times. While you may have believed it the first month of working on the orthopedic floor at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, it was hard to agree with them now. “I thought my back was going to give out in hour six. The only reason I stayed straight was because I didn’t want to make myself look like a fool in front of you.”

You click your tongue, dispensing sanitizer onto your hands. “You didn’t look like a fool. I think the procedure went beautifully…although I guess I’m not the surgeon who gets to decide that.”

“You’re right. You were on top of things and saved us a lot of time. It was a nice case, and you should be proud of yourself,” Brendon responded, tentatively reaching a hand out to pat your shoulder. “You don’t need to be a surgeon to see that.”

“Oh…uh, thank you, Dr. Park. I really appreciate it,” you murmur, twiddling your thumbs. 

It’s quiet outside of the operating room for a minute before Brendon clears his throat. “Hey, I need to go write the operative notes and follow up with the family, but I’m going to give you my number. I want you to send me what you want me to order for lunch.”

“I packed food,” you mumble, reaching for your phone anyway as he pulls it from your hand, fingers typing in a contact quickly.

“I don’t care.” His words are clear, and you do your best to ignore how his confidence makes you squirm. “I’m buying lunch for you. You did great, and I like spending time with you.” 

You swear he pauses for a moment before adding, “In the OR.”

Just as you stretch your legs out on the couch, your phone vibrates. You stare at the ceiling, counting to thirty. You’d gotten called to scrub into another surgery with Park after he’d bought you — and the team, though you had been trying to ignore that bit – lunch, and had been stuck in the operating room two hours past the official end of your shift. You were exhausted, and all you wanted to do was sit on the couch, numb your brain with television and a warm chocolate chip cookie, and fall asleep for a long time. You’d stupidly picked up a half-shift for Friday to cover for your coworker while she celebrated her son’s birthday, and thirteen hours before you were scheduled to head back to the hospital, you were already regretting it. 

The last thing you wanted to do was read a notification from the hospital notifying you that they were short-staffed again. 

You knew you’d end up filling in, weak to the idea of leaving patients to fall through the cracks. Even thinking of it made your eyes water.

You turned your phone on, reading the notification and hastily responding.

Just as you stretched your legs out on the couch, your phone vibrates. You stare at the ceiling, counting to thirty. You’d gotten called to scrub into another surgery with Park after he’d bought you — and the team, though you had been trying to ignore that bit – lunch, and had been stuck in the operating room two hours past the official end of your shift. You were exhausted, and all you wanted to do was sit on the couch, numb your brain with television and a warm chocolate chip cookie, and fall asleep for a long time. You’d stupidly picked up a half-shift for Friday to cover for your coworker while she celebrated her son’s birthday, and thirteen hours before you were scheduled to head back to the hospital, you were already regretting it. 

The last thing you wanted to do was read a notification from the hospital notifying you that they were short-staffed again. 

You knew you’d end up filling in, weak to the idea of leaving patients to fall through the cracks. Even thinking of it made your eyes water.

You turned your phone on, reading the notification and hastily responding.

“It’s a six-day trip. My siblings and their kids will be there; we’ll probably be at the beach a lot,” Brendon says, his arms folded behind his head as he stretches out on your couch.

“Are you sure it’s not overstepping if I come? I wasn’t really invited, and I don’t want to just show up,” you murmur in response, leaning into his side. You’d been sitting at the dinner table finishing up a meal after a long shift when Brendon sprung the idea of you coming along with him to visit his parents' home in New Jersey.

He assured you that you were welcome and that his family – particularly his mother – would be excited to meet you for the first time. For some reason, you couldn’t shake the familiar feeling of anxiety in your belly. You’d been dating Brendon for seven months now, and although you’d both deliberately kept it a secret at work, knowing you didn’t want to get branded as the “new nurse who is sleeping with the surgeon,” your lives outside the hospital had become intertwined. Still, visiting his family felt like taking a huge step.

Not that you didn’t want to continue moving forward with the man.

“I promise you that you’re not overstepping. My mom’s been begging me to bring you home since I told her about you.” He pulled you into his side with a reassuring smile, his arm settling around your waist comfortably. Brendon clearly liked showing his affection through touch, and you’d grown used to the contact, the warmth of his body a welcome sensation. “My sisters and brother will be there, and with all the kids running around, an extra pair of eyes will be a lifesaver when we get to the water.”

You laugh, feeling the lingering exhaustion of the surgery you’d been in for five hours fade away. “Is that all I am to you? An extra pair of eyes to watch children with?”

He pinches your side teasingly, “An extra pair of eyes and a good lay.”

“Can we drive there?” You ask, looking up at him as he presses kisses to your temple. “I’ll go only if you agree to drive.”

“Fine with me. I’ll drive; you sit in the passenger seat and look pretty,” he replied without hesitation.

Two weeks later, you peered out the windshield and watched as the familiar sight of Pittsburgh transitioned into New Jersey, the mountains flattening with each passing mile. The drive had been surprisingly relaxing, after Brendon had coaxed you into taking a Dramamine for your motion sickness, and you’d spent the large majority of it listening to the soft music of his non-operating-room playlist, grateful for the lack of EDM. His hand sat on your thigh, lightly squeezing it, and by the time he pulled into the gravel driveway of a large sky-blue house, you could hear the waves crashing against the shore.

Brendon barely had time to turn the engine of his sleek black car off before the front door sprang open and an older brunette darted out of the beach house. 

“My baby boy!” She exclaimed, wiping her hands on an apron as she hurried down the front steps and pulled him into a tight hug. You smiled at the sight, slowly stepping out of the car. 

Brendon had told you, shortly after you’d begun dating, that he was his mother’s favorite. You had been hesitant to believe him, knowing that his three older siblings likely claimed the very same thing, but as you took in his mom squeezing him in a warm embrace, you believed his words. Though you supposed it would be hard not to love Brendon loudly like this.

His mom pulled away with a bright and beaming smile, and your cheeks flushed as she apologized for not coming to you first and pulled you into a tight hug.

“It is so wonderful to finally meet you, sweetheart!” She said, drawing back to hold you at arm's length as she took you in. “My boy has talked about you so much, but his words can’t even describe you. You’re a doll!”

You chuckled, smiling at the woman. “Thank you so much, Anita. I can see where Brendon gets his looks from.”

“Oh, please call me Ma,” His mom tutted, taking your face in her hands. You’d known his family was Italian; different cultures came with different customs, and Brendon himself seemed to have no qualms about touching you, but this affection was new, and you found yourself squirming a little. 

“Please, Mamma,” Brendon groaned softly, tapping her shoulder. “At least give her some space to stretch.”

“You’re right! I’m sorry!” She patted your cheek before stepping back. “I’m trying to be less touchy, but I’m just glad my baby finally brought a good girl home. His siblings have all settled down, and I’ve been praying he’d finally get a nice one to start a family of his own with. God willing, I’d like to at least see my grandkids be born!” 

You catch your boyfriend’s eye and giggle when he gives you an apologetic grimace. His cheeks are flushed, but the way his eyes twinkle when his mom speaks to him is plain as day. You knew he loved his family, but seeing it made your heart warm.

“Come on, I’ve got dinner going, and I need you guys to help me decide which dessert to make.”

You stepped inside and were immediately hit with the rush of energy in the home. It felt alive; luggage dropped in the hallway as introductions flew by in a blur of handshakes and hugs. 

Angela, Rebecca, Chris. You’d pressed Brendon for all of the information about his siblings that he could give you on the road trip over, and were instantly grateful to have a back pocket full of icebreakers as his family easily shifted into fast conversation. Voices overlapped, but it wasn’t long before your attention moved to the large back porch where his nieces and nephews sat on a picnic table covered in craft supplies.

You looked up at Brendon, his arm around your back, and murmured, “It’s calm out there.”

Nodding, he smiled, “You can go sit if you need some quiet.” 

That was all the permission you needed to walk over and sit on the low wooden bench with Brendon’s seven nieces and nephews. “Is it okay if I join you guys?” You ask gently, waiting for their approval before you touch any of the materials. The four eldest share a glance, and you recall their names from earlier conversation: Nico, Archie, Evelyn, and Harlow. 

You wait patiently for a moment before the littlest at the table, Nora, says, “Are you Uncle Brendon’s girlfriend?”

“I am,” you respond, pointing to Brendon inside the house. He’s smiling, watching you and the children from the sliding glass door, and you swallow at the attention, feeling flustered like you always seem to when Brendon stares with such focus. “We met at work.”

The kids smile and press for more information, and you fall into an easy flow of conversation with them, picking up one of the disc looms and yarn. “These are the best bracelets! I have so much fun making them.” You say, already finding yourself immersed in the project.

“My dad said that Uncle Brendon, Aunt Angela, and Aunt Rebecca used to make them when they were kids,” Jude, the second-oldest son of Brendon’s only brother, says.

“Did you make them when you were little?” Harlow asks, handing you her loom so you can untangle the lengths of colorful yarn.

You hum, “I didn’t make them when I was your age. I think they were common with people older than me, but I got introduced to them in college and thought they were cool.” 

“You made crafts in college?” Archie gasps as he pulls his bracelet off and puts his arm out for you to tie it around. “Uncle Brendon said that he drank in college.”

You can’t help but laugh at the child’s words, imagining Brendon closer to your age, pre-medical school, when he still had time to go out with his frat brothers. It seems the opposite of the image of the calm man you sleep next to each night.

Brendon leans against the doorframe, a cup of wine in hand, watching the scene in front of him unfold. His chest warms at the sight of you with his siblings’ kids, falling into such easy conversation. You’d been shy in those first few months at the hospital, although Brendon had come to learn that you had a mean sense of humor, despite being one of the kindest-hearted people he’d ever known. 

“She’s wonderful, Brendon,” his mother whispered from her spot next to him. 

He didn’t answer right away, distracted by the way you laughed at something Nico said, his youngest niece crawling into your lap a second later. He swallowed, the stress that had followed him from the hospital all the way to New Jersey melting away at the sight of you sliding into place so easily with the people he loved most.

“Yeah,” he said softly after a long moment. “She really is, isn’t she?”

You giggle when Brendon tugs you against his side in the bed, so close you’re practically lying on top of him. He kisses the top of your head, one hand resting at your back, fingers grazing over your butt as you take the other and twiddle absentmindedly with his fingertips. “I’m so glad I came,” you murmur quietly, “Your mom is so funny, and the kids are perfect.”

“You’re perfect,” Brendon responds, pulling the blanket over the two of you as you settle into bed.  

“I’m serious, Bren,” You speak, looking up at him. “I assumed I’d like your family because you love them and I love you, but I didn’t think I’d feel so comfortable already. I thought I’d be scared.”

 He chuckles when he hears you drag out the last word, “You were scared. You squeezed my hand under the table the entire time we were eating.”

“True.”

“I’m proud of you, though. My family’s a lot, and you handled it well,” he praises, and you feel heat pass through your body. “You handled them well.”

He trails his fingers up and down your back, goosebumps rising on your flesh as he presses featherlight kisses to the top of your head. You’d never expected this behemoth of a man, called The Shark by nearly everyone in a Level 1 Trauma Center, to be so gentle. It still made your heart ache how carefully he treated you.

“Seeing my siblings and their kids…seeing my mom and dad and how much they still love each other,” you feel Brendon shrug as he pauses. “It really makes me appreciate what I had growing up. How much love was in this house, even if it was loud and messy and overwhelming.”

“I love how much you guys love each other,” you reply softly. “No embarrassment, no hiding, no nonchalance. You love, and you love loudly.”

“Quiet is good sometimes. Efficient. Effective,” he murmurs, his breathing soft and steady. “I don’t think we need to be quiet and efficient with people and feelings like that. There’s no reason to hide or to posture.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and you wait for him to speak, knowing that sometimes Brendon needs silence to make sense of his words. “My Nonna – my dad’s mom – died when I was seven. She was only sixty-two.” He swallows, and you squeeze his right hand, doing your best to comfort him.

“She loved weddings and family events more than anything in the world. She met my Nonno when she came here from Italy at sixteen, and they got married four years later. They were too poor for a wedding, so once she got older and had kids of her own, she thought it was a gift whenever one of us Parks got to have a wedding or a celebration. She prayed and prayed and prayed for her kids to find love, and my Mamma still tells me how much she cried and cheered at her and my Dad’s wedding.”

You smile, “She sounds like a wonderful woman.”

“She was. I don’t remember her much, but God, I know she was.” Brendon shakes his head, running his thumb along your knuckles. “When she passed, and my family went through her things, we found this binder. The cover said she bought it in 1950 in Matera, Italy. She would have purchased it three months before she immigrated to the US, and it was full of things. Pictures of us grandkids, postcards from her Mamma and Papa, little souvenirs my Nonno sent her when he was in the military. Everything. And at the back of the binder, there was a letter for each of her eleven grandkids and a little envelope, too. Mine was the last one she wrote because I was the baby. My Nonno looked through them all because he didn’t want us to have to read them until he knew what she said, and I remember him telling me, ‘Nonna ti voleva più bene di ogni viaggio che ha fatto verso casa e di ogni parola che conosceva in italiano e in inglese.’” You looked up at Brendon as he translated the Italian, still not used to hearing him speak it. “Nonna loved you more than any trip she ever took home and more than any word she knew in Italian and English.” 

“Bren,” you sniffle, feeling your eyes fill at the sentiment.

He smiles, wiping the tear that slips down your cheek. “She and my Nonno didn’t have a lot of money, but they gave everything they had to my dad and his siblings. They wanted us to live well.”

You press a soft kiss to his lips before he continues, the beach house around you quiet except for the sound of his voice. “She had this little medallion of Saint Cosmas and Saint Damian that she used to wear all the time. Patrons of surgery. I got to wear it at my white coat ceremony.” You smile at the image that comes to mind of him being given his white coat, the first step in the journey that led to the two of you meeting.

“When they looked at the letters, they found out that Nonna had been saving her change and dividing it up evenly between us grandkids. She wrote letters to us that she wanted to read at our weddings and said she hoped that her and Nonno's humble beginnings would lay a foundation of love for us to build success on. I still have that money she saved for my wedding.” He chuckles at the last sentence, scratching the back of his neck, but you don’t miss the pain in his eyes as he speaks about the grandmother he clearly loved so deeply.

“Today, seeing you with my family…” Brendon pauses, and you kiss the back of his hand, giving him time. “You have the same heart she did. So sensitive, so deeply feeling. I didn’t think I’d ever find that in someone. I didn’t know if I’d ever find a person that would make my Nonna proud.”

Your bottom lip wobbles when you breathe his name, and there is nothing you can do to stop the silent tears from slipping down your cheek.

“You were perfect with my family. With my Ma, with my nieces and nephews, with my Nonno, everyone.” His voice was quiet, but the softness did nothing to hide his assurance. 

“When I saw you with the kids…” his voice trailed off before he continued, “For a moment, I could imagine exactly how my grandpa felt when he saw my Nonna for the first time. When she was young and finding her way in a new country. When she walked up to his church and asked in shaky English if they had a job for her. When he made a promise to himself, when he was seventeen years old, that he was going to marry the woman standing in front of him and make a family of his own. When he did exactly that four years later.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” you mumble, voice cracking.

“It’s the truth,” Brendon breathes your name. “I know we haven’t been together for that long, I know you’re younger than me, I know we still pretend like we’re just friends at work…I know all of that. But, I just…I wanted to tell you. I wanted you to know that when I think of the future, I think of being married to you. I think of our kids who we will love more than every word we know in English, and Italian, and all of the other random languages you’ve studied for three weeks.”

You let out a choked-out laugh as Brendon wipes the tears from your face. “I love you, Bren. So much. I want all of those things with you too.”