Out of the Woods

The clock on the operating room wall had stopped meaning anything hours ago. It was only a white face with two hands circling endlessly, a mute reminder of how long they’d been standing beneath the lights.

Dr. Lazaro Laz Santa Cruz squinted over the surgical field, fingers steady on the last suture. Beyond the drape, the patient’s chest rose and fell in the shallow rhythm of the ventilator.

“Clamp.”

Nurse Mary Santa Cruz, his younger sister and the charge nurse for the evening, passed the instrument without hesitation. Marta, the third Santa Cruz sibling, had slipped in with a tray of espresso shots an hour earlier and now hovered by the doorway, eyes wide at the sterile ballet. She couldn’t help herself—no one else at Edenbrook Hospital could brew a decent coffee at 3 a.m., and Laz worked better with family nearby.

The room smelled of iodine, sweat, and determination.

Laz tied the suture, cut, and finally—finally—looked up at the team. “Okay,” he said, voice hoarse from the mask. “Bleeding’s controlled. Graft is holding.” He let a slow breath seep through his nose. “Good work, everyone.”

For a heartbeat, relief trembled across the faces surrounding him: Dr. Mira Patel, the fellow; Tomás Ruiz, the scrub tech; anesthesia resident Jin Park, who had been a rock through the storm.

But Laz wasn’t smiling. He searched the monitor one more time: blood pressure stable, heart rhythm regular but fragile.

He pulled off his gloves with a snap. “Don’t get comfortable,” he said, the edge of caution hardening his tone. “We’re not out of the woods yet. This kid still has a long night ahead.”

1

The patient was seventeen-year-old Diego Moreno, a high school senior who had collapsed during soccer practice two days earlier. A rare congenital defect—anomalous origin of the left coronary artery—had left part of his heart starving for blood. Without surgery, he wouldn’t live to see graduation.

They had reconstructed the artery, patched the muscle that had torn during the arrest, and restarted circulation. A miracle of modern medicine, but only if Diego made it through recovery.

Laz leaned against the scrub sink outside the OR, rolling his shoulders to release a knot of tension. Mary joined him, tying her auburn hair back again.

“You scared me for a minute in there,” she said quietly.

“You and me both.” Laz dried his hands and caught her eye in the mirror. Their reflection was pale, dark circles etched beneath matching brown eyes.

Mary touched his arm. “He’s strong. Teenagers bounce back.”

“They also crash without warning,” Laz replied. He forced a smile. “Let’s keep a sharp watch. ICU for at least twenty-four hours—no shortcuts.”

Mary nodded and headed toward the recovery bay. Laz stayed behind, letting exhaustion seep in for a second before pushing off the counter.

He had built a reputation at Edenbrook as the man who could pull anyone from the brink. Nurses joked he was part surgeon, part magician. But Laz knew better: every save balanced on a knife-edge. Some patients slipped away even when you did everything right.

Tonight, he wasn’t ready to lose.

2

By dawn, the ICU hummed with quiet purpose. Diego lay pale against the pillows, chest gently rising under the ventilator. Monitors traced a delicate symphony of numbers: pulse, blood pressure, oxygen saturation.

Mary checked the arterial line. “Vitals holding.”

“Good,” Laz murmured, adjusting the infusion pump. He liked to set the first shift’s tone himself—clear instructions, calm hands.

“Round-the-clock eyes,” he reminded them, glancing at the nurses. “Any arrhythmia, even brief, you page me. No heroics alone.”

Across the room, Marta slipped in carrying a tray. “Breakfast, emergency-room style,” she whispered, lifting foil lids to reveal small plates: croissants, scrambled eggs, and a steaming carafe of coffee fragrant with cinnamon.

Laz’s stomach growled despite the adrenaline hangover. “You’re spoiling us.”

“Someone has to.” Marta poured him a mug. “How’s our patient?”

“Not out of the woods,” Laz said automatically, then smiled at her raised brow. “But stable for now.”

They ate perched on rolling stools, speaking in hushed tones about the boy’s prognosis.

Mira Patel arrived midway through, bleary-eyed but eager. She carried Diego’s chart and an update from radiology: the graft looked patent on post-op imaging.

“That’s good news,” Laz said, scanning the films. “We’ll start waking him this afternoon if all remains quiet.”

3

Morning sunlight slid through blinds, casting pale gold across the floor. For a while, the room felt almost peaceful—until the monitor beeped.

Mary’s head snapped up. “Heart rate dropping.”

Laz was already at the bedside. “Show me the rhythm.”

The screen displayed a string of wide complexes—ventricular tachycardia.

“Code cart now,” Laz ordered. “Mira, get amiodarone ready. Jin, bag him.”

Mary hit the alarm while Tomás fetched the defibrillator. The calm of moments earlier vanished, replaced by focused urgency.

Laz placed pads on Diego’s chest. “Charging to 150. Clear!”

Shock. The body jerked; the line fluttered back to sinus rhythm.

Everyone exhaled in unison.

“Nice catch,” Laz said, though his pulse was still racing. “Keep the infusion steady. Monitor electrolytes.”

Mary wiped her forehead. “That was close.”

“Too close,” Laz agreed. He scanned the young face on the bed, lips slightly parted under the tube. Diego looked like any sleeping teenager. “We stay vigilant. This forest’s thick.”

4

By afternoon, Diego stirred, eyelashes flickering. Laz decided to lighten sedation.

“Diego,” he said softly, bending near. “You’re safe. Surgery’s done.”

Brown eyes opened a crack, hazy but curious. Mary squeezed the boy’s hand.

“You’re at Edenbrook Hospital,” she told him. “We fixed your heart.”

A faint nod, then sleep reclaimed him.

Relief spread across the team, tempered by experience: early signs could be deceptive.

During a lull, Marta coaxed Laz into the hallway for a break. They leaned against a vending machine, paper cups of water in hand.

“You always look ten years older after a case like this,” she said.

“Comes with the job.”

“You also look like you’re carrying every patient on your back.”

He shrugged. “If not me, who?”

“Plenty of surgeons care,” she countered gently. “But you take it further.”

Laz studied the linoleum, unable to deny it. Ever since medical school, he’d felt compelled to fight for people who were slipping away—maybe because his own father had died young of an undiagnosed heart condition. Saving lives wasn’t just work; it was penance and promise all at once.

5

Night returned, heavy with rain tapping the ICU windows. The team rotated through shifts, charting, adjusting drips, checking lines.

At 2 a.m., Diego woke fully, restless against the ventilator. Laz stood by his side, explaining in Spanish where he was and why he couldn’t talk yet. The boy squeezed his hand in understanding.

Mary watched from the doorway, admiring her brother’s patience. Few surgeons lingered long after a case, but Laz never disappeared once the incision was closed.

Later, she found him alone in the break room, forehead resting on folded arms.

“You need sleep,” she said.

“Maybe after sunrise,” he mumbled.

“You say that every time.”

He sat up, rubbing eyes bloodshot from concentration. “If something happens, I want to be here.”

Mary sighed but didn’t argue; she knew the rhythm of his devotion.

6

Dawn brightened the ward. Diego was breathing on his own now, ventilator removed. He sipped water through a straw, smiling shyly when Laz asked how he felt.

“Like I got hit by a bus,” Diego rasped, then grinned wider.

Laz chuckled. “That means you’re healing.”

Marta arrived with celebratory muffins, distributing them among staff. Mira charted vitals with a triumphant flourish.

When rounds ended, Laz gathered the group. “You all did incredible work,” he said, eyes shining. “But remember—the forest doesn’t clear in a day. Complications can sneak up even when the path looks open.”

Mary smirked. “Another ‘not out of the woods’ speech?”

“Old habits.”

“Maybe,” she teased, “but you’re right.”

7

That afternoon, Laz finally allowed himself to step outside. He walked across the courtyard garden, rain-washed and fragrant. For the first time in forty-eight hours, he looked at the sky rather than monitors.

He thought of Diego’s parents, who had spent the night praying in the chapel. They would see their son grow up, fall in love, maybe play soccer again—all because a roomful of people had refused to let go.

The phrase echoed in his head: out of the woods. To most, it meant safety, but to Laz it described the journey—moving through shadow and uncertainty until light broke through.

Maybe, he mused, being a doctor meant guiding others out, even if you never completely left the forest yourself.

8

On the third morning, Diego sat propped up in bed, laughing at something Marta had said about hospital food versus her cooking. His color was good, incision clean.

Mary entered with discharge papers for later in the week. Laz stood near the window, tired but lighter, watching them.

When Diego’s parents arrived, their gratitude filled the room like sunlight. They hugged everyone, tears mingling with laughter.

After they left, Mira turned to Laz. “So… are we finally out of the woods?”

Laz glanced at the boy smiling between his sisters. A rare grin spread across his own face.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think we are.”

Epilogue

That evening, as twilight settled over Boston, the Santa Cruz siblings sat together in the cafeteria. Marta had prepared a special dinner—grilled salmon, roasted vegetables, and a small tres leches cake she’d hidden in the fridge.

They toasted with sparkling cider.

“To Diego,” Mary said.

“To teamwork,” Mira added.

Laz raised his glass last. “To getting out of the woods—one patient at a time.”

They clinked glasses, laughter warming the sterile room. For a moment, the forest receded, replaced by the glow of shared victory and the promise of many dawns ahead.