The male nurse clarified quickly, "Doctor Peter, this is a high-risk case just brought in from emergency. You’re the only one here with the skill to handle it."
A bitter smile crept onto my face as I mocked myself for ever believing in Peter’s devotion.
Outside, Peter had steadied himself, his hands now deftly grasping the hemostatic forceps, poised and in control. He was back to being Doctor Peter, the well-regarded obstetrician at Central Hospital, known for his expertise and calm under pressure.
His reputation had been built on a career of skillful interventions, saving countless women and children from the brink of death.
The walls of his office and study were littered with plaques, certificates and banners lauding his achievements.
It all felt absurd now.
I, his own wife, had died under his care, my life slipping away due to his own rigid, misguided judgments.
Then came the call from the operating room, a jubilant voice crying out, “Mother and baby are safe!”
The tension of the emergency ebbed, replaced by the quiet satisfaction of another life saved.