My wife called from the hospital, sobbing: “Honey, the doctor refuses to operate on our son, saying he’s too critical.” I asked, “Who is in charge?” She named the doctor, and I simply replied: “Hold the line. Five minutes.” I didn’t call an ambulance. I called the hospital director directly and everything changed…

The clock on the wall read 2:17 A.M. The silence in the locker room was heavy, a physical weight pressing against my temples. I leaned my forehead against the cool ceramic tile, closing my eyes, letting the bone-deep exhaustion of an eighteen-hour aortic valve replacement settle into my muscles. My hands, usually steady as stone, trembled slightly—not from nerves, but from the sheer depletion of fuel.

I had been on my feet since sunrise. My world had been reduced to the rhythmic beeping of monitors, the metallic tang of blood, and the intricate, high-stakes choreography of the operating theater. All I could think about now was the thirty-minute drive home, the feeling of cool sheets, and the oblivion of sleep.

I stripped off my blood-stained scrubs, shoving them into the hamper. The sterile…