Story

Mientras Tu Corazón Late

February 2026 · 12 min read

Mamá

You are not dead, mija. I sit in the chair they gave me, the one that sighs when I move, like it's tired too. The room smells like bleach, clinging to my hair, skin, and clothes on my drive home. A little trace of you as I shuffle around the hallways you once ran down, giggling.

The machines breathe for you now. In, out. In, out. I watch your chest rise and fall, mija, and I memorize the rhythm like I once memorized your first words, your first steps, the way you giggled when I tickled behind your knees.

You look smaller here, Sofía. Ten years old and swallowed by white sheets. I braided your hair this morning, just the way you like it, tight at first and loose at the ends. Your hand is warm in mine. The nurses say it's just the heated blankets, but I know better.

Dr. Pattinson keeps saying the word like it's fragile. Brain-dead. He lowers his voice every time, like you might hear him if he doesn't. He explains and explains, his mouth forming the same shapes, and I nod because I know that is what he expects. Papá nods too, but his is different. His eyes don't stay on you. They drift to the floor, the clock, the door. Like he's already halfway gone.

Today, Dr. Pattinson brought papers. He talked about dignity and peace and letting go, like those are things you hand over gently, like keys or coats. He waited for me to cry. I didn't, because I know the truth. You are alive.

You squeezed my finger yesterday, I felt it. Or maybe it was the day before. I watch the small twitches of your muscles, and once, even a full movement of your arm. I can rest my hand on your chest, your beating heart calming every doubt in my mind. You are as alive as the day I gave birth to you: 7 pounds 3 ounces, 19 inches long, and wailing to let us know how alive you were.

I pray out loud because the silence feels unsettling. I switch between Spanish and English without thinking. God understands both, I hope. Dios mío, I say, my fingers tight around the rosary. Please. I don't ask for miracles. I ask for mornings. I ask for noise. I ask for your laugh, the loud one that embarrassed you in public and made strangers smile.

I remember the last night at home before the accident. Math worksheets spread across the table, your pencil tapping, my voice sharper than it needed to be. You rolled your eyes. Slammed your door, frustrated with my persistence to make you learn long division. I stood there afterward, staring at the dent in the wall, thinking we had all the time in the world. Now time is a thing they measure in hours and decisions.

Papá and I don't talk much anymore. When we do, our words scrape against each other. He says the doctors are clear. I say she's still warm. He says we can't keep doing this. I say I can. Last night, he told me we're hurting you. He didn't look at me when he said it. He stared at the machine, his jaw tight, like he was holding something back. I wanted to scream at him, ask how he could talk about hurting you when letting go was killing you with my own hands.

I hope you still like the Percy Jackson and Harry Potter books I read to you at night. Papá usually leaves by then. He says it hurts too much to stay. I don't tell him it hurts more to be alone. Sometimes I catch him standing very still, staring at you like he's memorizing your face, as if it's going to disappear one of these days. When he thinks I'm not looking, his shoulders shake. We don't touch anymore. Not each other. We stand on either side of your hospital bed, an ocean between us.

"Elena, por favor."

I didn't answer. What could I say? That I've been praying the rosary until my knees bruise against the linoleum? That I've made promises to God I can't keep: my life for yours, anything for yours?

Your quinceañera will be beautiful. We'll rent the parish hall next to the church, the one where you stared wide-eyed at the grandeur during your cousin's. I've already started making your dress, pink like you always wanted.

"Just wake up, mija. Just open your eyes."

The social worker came this morning with pamphlets about organ donation. I threw them away. They want me to think about other children, other mothers. But I am not other mothers. I am your mother. And you are not spare parts for someone else's mornings, noise, and laughter.

You are my miracle.

Papá says I'm being selfish, that I'm keeping you trapped. Father Miguel says God sometimes calls the angels home early. Dr. Pattinson says nothing will change. Doctors have been wrong before. They said my mamá had only a few months left after her cancer diagnosis, after meeting her just once, and she lived for eight years. They were eager to send her home, their impatience wrapped in clipped sentences and tight smiles, as if understanding her Spanish took more effort than she was worth.

But I know you are alive. God would not let you die.

So I hold your hand. I watch you breathe. I pray. And I wait for you to prove them all wrong, mija.

Open your eyes, Sofía. As long as your heart beats, I will stay with you. Even if Papá can't. Even if it pulls us apart.

Papá

God forgive me, mija, but I can't sit in that chair as long as your mamá does. Every time I walk out, I feel like I'm abandoning you, but every time I stay, I feel like I'm drowning.

I stand on your side of the bed, hands in my pockets so no one can see them shake. I look at your face, memorizing the curve of your cheek, the tiny scar on your chin from when you tripped chasing the dog. I tell myself God is with you. I have to believe that. If I don't, then all that's left are Dr. Pattinson's careful sentences, the machines, and pain with nowhere to put it.

Your mamá talks to you about the future. Dresses. School. Parties. Every word feels like a knife. I know she means hope, but I want to beg her to stop, to let you rest, to let us rest. Yet every time I open my mouth, the words come out wrong. Cold. Cruel. Like I've already chosen a world without you.

I pray quietly. I don't need the rosary. I don't need to say it out loud. God hears me anyway. He has to. I ask Him to take care of you. I ask Him to do what's right. I don't say the word death. I don't say miracle either. I ask for peace. I ask Him to forgive me for thinking about things a father shouldn't think about: bills, insurance, the mortgage that doesn't pause just because your heart is still beating in a hospital bed.

At night, I tell mamá I'm going home to sleep. I don't tell her that I sit in the shower and let the water run until it's cold, savoring the time I can cry in this empty home without my hand covering my mouth. I cry because I'm losing you and your mamá. She doesn't recognize me anymore. We stand on opposite sides of your bed like strangers, like enemies, like loving you has turned into a battlefield.

I believe God has a plan. That He gives us strength when it's time to let go. I'm waiting for that strength. I'm waiting for permission. Until then, I keep my grief folded neatly inside me, where it won't scare mamá, where it won't look like betrayal.

I kiss your forehead when no one is looking.

"Ve con Dios," I whisper.

I don't know yet whether I'm asking Him to save you, Sofía, or to take you gently.

Dr. Pattinson

I used to pray before I walked into rooms like this.

Not formally. Not kneeling. Just a quiet habit formed in residency, back when I still believed God watched hospitals closely. Let me say the right thing, I'd think. Let me not do harm.

I recognize this mother immediately. The way she watches the monitors instead of me. The way she clings to warmth, to a beating heart, to the Lazarus reflexes that medicine has already explained. I don't blame her. If my child were lying there, I might do the same. That thought used to scare me. Now it just follows me.

I bring the papers. I always do. I talk about dignity, prognosis, what will not change. I wait. The mother nods, although I can tell she does not agree with me. Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they scream. Sometimes, like today, they look at me as if I am the one who has killed their child.

The father wants timelines. Costs. What happens next. I see the guilt in the way he won't meet his wife's eyes. I see the exhaustion. I see how grief wears different faces and still manages to ruin everyone equally.

I don't pray anymore. Not because I'm angry. Not because I don't believe at all. Just because repetition has worn my belief thin. Because miracles that never come begin to feel like promises no one intends to keep.

I go home heavier on days like this, sitting in my car for a few extra minutes before turning the key. I think about how many times I have said the same things, how many families have looked at me like I am the villain in their story.

Tomorrow, there will be another bed, another family, another machine breathing for someone who will never wake up. I am sorry, Sofía, I could not save you.

Story

The Ghosts of Dr. Singh

January 2025 · 14 min read

Whoever said all doctors have bad handwriting had never met Dr. Priyanka Singh. When rotation schedules come out at the beginning of the month, the other surgical residents and I always say a silent prayer that we get paired with her. It's a small Missouri hospital, so choices are slim, but most of us started working here for the chance to learn from Dr. Singh. The stories of her miraculous heart transplants and revolutionary cardiac procedures spread through hospital corridors like rumors from the minute we stepped foot in the surgical wing. Despite her small frame and non-intimidating presence, after morning rounds every day, every doctor holds their breath to wait for her to make the final call on a controversial case or how to handle a patient, as if at a moment's notice she could say they had it all wrong and send them back to the drawing board. She is the best doctor this hospital has ever seen. But the real reason all of us surgical residents want to work with her is that she doesn't act like it. Kind and courageous, empathetic but fair, Dr. Singh treats everyone from patients to interns to attendants with the same level of respect and attention. And, of course, the added benefit is that we can actually read her notes.

Despite her openness, one question hung above everyone's head that no one dared to ask her. Why, out of all the hospitals in the nation, did she choose to work at our rural Missouri one when she could easily increase her salary and cement herself as one of the great cardiac surgeons in American history working at a more prestigious hospital in a big city? No one knows the answer, except for me, as much as I wish I could forget the story of how I learned it.

It was one of those cold January Monday mornings when even the most disciplined doctors struggle to get out of bed and into their scrubs. The hospital was quiet, but it was an unspoken rule not to mention the lack of busyness. Doing so, as if tempting fate, would inevitably lead to a surge of challenging new patients. Unfortunately, such a superstition did not save us from what was to come.

I was exchanging updates on weekend patients with Dr. Singh when we received word of Mr. Bill Parker, a 75-year-old man with dementia and aortic stenosis, a type of heart disease, who was reporting pain in his upper chest. I wasn't assigned to work with Dr. Singh this week, but she must've seen my eyes light up at the prospect of working on such an irregular case that she agreed I could join her.

Dr. Singh and I hurried to Mr. Parker's hospital room, and in a dramatic way that always excited me, she pulled back the curtain to reveal a very swollen Mr. Parker staring defiantly at the TV screen in front of him, playing the news. In contrast to the slowness of the rest of his body, Mr. Parker quickly whipped his head around to switch his stare from the TV to Dr. Singh.

"I agreed to go the hospital, but I'm sure as hell not seeing no foreign doctor," he said in an outburst. His comment took me by surprise, and at first, I didn't understand who it was directed towards, but then I shifted my glance to the woman sitting beside him who had turned bright red.

"I'm so sorry, he doesn't mean that. Ever since the dementia kicked in a few years ago, he isn't able to filter his language anymore," she started, and after an awkward pause, added, "I'm Willa, by the way, his daughter."

Before Dr. Singh or I had the chance to respond, Mr. Parker quickly interjected, "I sure as hell did mean it. No goddamn brown doctor is gonna be coming near me." Turning his head back toward his daughter, he said firmly, "If you wanna get me treatment, I'm only talkin' to a good white doctor, like him," pointing at me.

I glanced at Dr. Singh and waited for her to say something, anything, to get me out of this uncomfortable situation. Lucky for me, she did: "Mr. Parker, I've reviewed your charts from previous doctors, and you will likely need surgery. As capable as Dr. Hill is, he is not qualified to conduct it. I will have him ask you a few further questions to verify that the surgery is necessary, but I'm fairly certain it will be." After a brief pause, she continued, "My job is to help patients like you become healthier, Mr. Parker. I've been doing it for many years and take it very seriously, so please don't question my ability to be a good doctor."

Although her words were calm and composed, her face told a different story. Her dark brown eyes burned with an anger I had never seen before, and the corners of her mouth tugged into a frown—a stark contrast to the familiar smile everyone, including me, was used to. To this day, I pray she didn't see the confused look plastered on my face as she turned and walked out of the room.

I thought about following her out of the room, but my feet felt glued to the ground. I turned back to Mr. Parker as if hoping to find some answers, only to see a blank expression written across his face. At that moment, I didn't know whether to yell at him for disrespecting Dr. Singh in such a way or feel bad for the sick man in front of me. Perhaps on a different morning, when I was feeling more grumpy or courageous, I would've yelled at him. But as I watched his eyes stay stuck in place on the TV screen, I became keenly aware of his fragility, and it didn't help that he looked as if he had entirely forgotten that the encounter had happened. So, in a decision I still regret, I didn't say anything about his remarks towards Dr. Singh. I went on to ask him a list of questions about his pain, treatment preferences, and if he had a living will. But still, by the end of the conversation, no mention of Dr. Singh.

The next day, I approached Dr. Singh to share the information I had gathered from my conversation with Mr. Parker, sparse as it was due to his unresponsiveness to my questions. However, immediately as I began, an uncomfortable atmosphere seemed to hover over us. I knew it was my turn to break the silence.

"I'm sorry for not saying anything yesterday, I can't imagine how he made you feel. Would you like me to file a form to report him?" My question seemed to perplex her. She tilted her head in a particular way as if she couldn't fathom why I would even consider such a thing.

"Thank you for the offer, Dr. Hill, but no. I've dealt with a million Mr. Parkers, and trust me, I have tougher skin than those patients could ever imagine." She let out a small chuckle, perhaps recalling all the times people had underestimated her, or maybe it was just a reaction to the uncomfortable environment. I, however, didn't laugh.

"But would you consider transferring him to a different surgeon? If he doesn't want you as his provider, no matter how unfair the reason is, won't that make it difficult to work with him on his treatment?"

"Perhaps, but I pity Mr. Parker more than anything. Can you imagine? He has a painful heart disease, and his dementia has caused him to forget many of his family members and life experiences. Yet, his hatred for people who don't look like him is so deeply ingrained he can still remember it. I truly want to see him get better."

Her words hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity, and again, her face and eyes lit up with the same fire I witnessed the day before, not matching the flatness of her words. For a split second, I questioned if it was in Mr. Parker's best interests for Dr. Singh to conduct the surgery. I pushed this thought aside and replied with a sigh, "In that case, let's go brief him on the surgery."

Dr. Singh and I walked to his room, and with each step, I became increasingly nervous about what was to come. She pulled back the curtain, but this time, I did not feel any excitement.

The encounter began the same as the last. Mr. Parker, who looked worse than the day before, quickly directed his attention toward Dr. Singh and yelled angrily, "Who the hell are you? I want a goddamn white doctor."

This time, his daughter, still sitting beside him, did not come to his defense. Dr. Singh took a step towards Mr. Parker, and in a bold tone I will never forget, declared, "Mr. Parker, you are dying. If you don't receive treatment soon, that death will be slow and more painful than you could ever imagine. I am one of the most experienced cardiac surgeons in the state, but it is your choice. If you would like to receive my help, stay at the hospital for the surgery later this week. If you do not think I am good enough for the job because of the color of my skin, feel free to check yourself out and go elsewhere."

Mr. Parker and Dr. Singh locked eyes for a moment, and although I couldn't quite make it out, it seemed that some understanding had passed between them. Perhaps Mr. Parker respected her firmness, but if he did, he certainly didn't say anything. Dr. Singh turned towards me, gave a silent nod, and left the room with her head held high.

I spent the rest of the afternoon briefing Mr. Parker on the surgery, letting him know the exact risks and what the recovery would look like if things went as planned. The entire time, Mr. Parker did not say a word, just stared at the spot where Dr. Singh had stood, as if trying to piece together who had been there and what had just happened.

On the day of the surgery, Dr. Singh and I met before going to prepare Mr. Parker. "It's not too late to back out, you know. No one would blame you," I suggested. I meant it to be comforting, but it probably came out a little more condescending than I intended.

"It's quite all right, Noah. Don't you go doubting me too," she said with a laugh, flashing her classic smile that everyone in the hospital adored. I instantly felt embarrassed about the situation and was mad at myself for even considering such a thing.

"I apologize. I wasn't trying to doubt you, only offer a suggestion," I replied with a smile of my own. Together, we made our last march to Mr. Parker's room, and this time, just like the first, the drawing of the curtain resulted in a sense of excitement rushing over me. However, this instantly faded when it revealed Mr. Parker, who looked significantly more swollen since the last time I saw him, and his face appeared to have aged years.

It seemed Dr. Singh was even more stunned than I was, so I took the responsibility to start the conversation: "Mr. Parker, are you ready for Dr. Singh and me to begin your procedure?"

It was a simple question, standard for all patients about to undergo surgery, yet for Mr. Parker, I knew it undermined a very core principle he had so deeply entrenched long before his dementia and aortic stenosis. He turned to Dr. Singh, but the anger I had previously observed was absent, and in its place was a look of desperation.

"Yes, I'm ready. But before that, I feel I owe you an apology," Mr. Parker said, meeting Dr. Singh's gaze directly. He continued, "I don't remember exactly what for, but I know I do." His eyes began to well up as he diverted his look to his daughter. In a wavering voice, he begged, "Please fix my heart, Dr. Singh."

A quiet solemness grew over Dr. Singh's face as she internalized the weight of what was being asked of her. After a few seconds, she replied, "Of course, Mr. Parker. I swear I will do everything in my power to help you."

Dr. Singh and I stepped out and made our way to the OR. We slowly changed into our scrubs, washed our hands, and slid on our skin-tight sterile gloves. By that time, the nurses had already moved Mr. Parker into the OR, and he lay on the table, unconscious. Examining her scalpels, scissors, and drills, Dr. Singh was ready.

Time in the operating room moved slowly, with the ticking seconds and minutes feeling arbitrary compared to our task. The cold body in front of me did not resemble the Mr. Parker who I had been speaking to just hours prior. I was taken back to my medical school days, imagining him as just another cadaver we used for training. I am still uncertain if my dissociation during surgery is a good or bad habit. Doing so calms my nerves but also stripped Mr. Parker of his humanity, or lack thereof, considering his comments towards Dr. Singh over the previous few days.

I glanced over at Dr. Singh's calm hands to appreciate their mesmerizing rhythm, as if she were playing the piano or some other musical instrument instead of performing a life-saving surgery. Cut, clamp, and replace the valve. The tempo of her movements let everyone in the OR know that she has performed this procedure countless times. However, as I lifted my gaze to Dr. Singh's eyes, I noticed they were yet again telling a different story. The deep brown was glowing with a passion that I could not place. It was not the anger I had seen during our first interaction with Mr. Parker, but rather a mix of desperation, similar to what I witnessed with Mr. Parker right before the surgery, and an almost otherworldly determination. She needed this surgery to be successful and keep her promise to Mr. Parker, perhaps even more than he deserved to be saved.

Suddenly, in the short moment I had taken my eyes off Mr. Parker, the heart rate monitor started beeping rapidly. "Goddammit," Dr. Singh muttered under her breath. Then, louder, she exclaimed, "Get the defibrillator, Noah, he's going into cardiac arrest."

I ran to the other side of the room and set the voltage of the defibrillator, fumbling as I brought it closer to the table. Dr. Singh swiftly took the paddles from my hands, rubbed them together with K-Y jelly, and carefully positioned them on the appropriate spots on his chest before delivering the shock. Every doctor and nurse in the OR snapped their heads toward the monitor, staring at the screen as his heart rate spiked briefly before quickly returning to its lowered state.

"Amp up the voltage!" Dr. Singh yelled, and I quickly followed her order, listening to the panic in her voice. She rubbed the paddles together again and shocked his heart. Still, the same result occurred. "No, no, no," she whispered. I looked into her eyes and saw that the determination had dissolved entirely into desperation, perhaps even sadness. Despite everyone's best efforts, Mr. Parker was dead.

The death of a patient after surgery bears a grim weight, perhaps most of all on surgeons themselves. After all the other nurses and doctors had left, Dr. Singh and I watched as Mr. Parker's lifeless body was wheeled out of the OR. Not a word passed between us as Dr. Singh's grief hung heavy in the air. Her usually resolute and kind demeanor was etched with an unmistakable sorrow. She left first, and I didn't look at her as she walked away, as though watching would intrude on a personal moment of raw vulnerability.

A few minutes later, I left to find Dr. Singh to ask how she wanted to deal with telling his daughter. After some searching, I thought I heard her voice coming from one of the on-call rooms, frequently used by residents during their stressful first few times taking the night shift. I was a foot away from the door when I realized it was not her words, but rather her sobbing that I could hear. I turned to walk away and let her weep in peace, but as I did, I heard her say a faint "come in" from the other side of the door. A mix of frustration with the situation, my need for someone to confide in, and a deeply ingrained instinct to follow the surgical hierarchy's orders compelled me to push the door open and step inside.

The room was empty except for her, me, and the neatly made bed she sat on. I stood awkwardly at the doorframe as she slowly raised her gaze to look at me, the tears continuing to slide down her cheeks under the glistening fluorescent light. At this point, I became acutely aware of how out of place I felt. Perhaps feeling embarrassed, Dr. Singh managed a quick smile and wiped away her tears, scrambling to appear composed and hide her vulnerability from my perceived judgment.

A comfortable silence settled over us, finally broken when she piqued my interest with a statement I didn't expect: "Have I ever told you why I chose to work in this hospital?" she asked flatly.

"No, I don't believe you have," I replied, an unintended hint of curiosity slipping into my tone.

"I grew up in a small town not too far from here, so I wasn't oblivious to the racism I would face. But when I had the chance to move anywhere, I chose to stay to challenge the prejudices of patients like Mr. Parker. I wanted to help them when they were very sick and prove I was capable. To be such an exceptional doctor, they had no choice but to respect people from my background."

Now, I finally understood why Mr. Parker's death had affected her so deeply. Dr. Singh wasn't fighting to prolong his life because of her devotion to the Hippocratic Oath. She carried the weight of countless individuals who had faced the same struggles she had endured. She sought to pave the way for others so they could focus solely on becoming the best doctors—advancing medicine and improving patient health—without the burden of racism holding them back.

"That's incredible, I'd never even considered that," I said, reminded that my role as a physician is deeply intertwined with social justice, a duty many doctors, myself included, had lost sight of over the years. I continued, "Would you like me to tell his daughter?"

"No, thank you, I will handle it now. It's my responsibility," she replied. She wiped away the last of her tears and walked out the door with her head held high, the spitting image of courage I'd always admired.

A few weeks later, on my last surgical rotation with Dr. Singh, I scrubbed in to operate on a woman with a heart condition similar to Mr. Parker's. Although many years have passed, the picture remains etched in my memory: Dr. Singh stood under the glow of the surgical lights, her silhouette sharp against the darkened room. Her hands moved with steady precision, and instruments glinted faintly in her grasp as she repeated each movement with unwavering focus. She looked up and saw me looking at her, offering a silent nod before returning to her cutting. In that brief moment, the desperation I had seen in her eyes during Mr. Parker's procedure was gone, replaced again by the determination that burned brightly. Her failure with Mr. Parker tormented her, and I understood that she believed the only way to rectify it was to perfect her craft and show him in his afterlife that she was capable.

I never again mentioned Mr. Parker, Dr. Singh confiding in me in the on-call room, or my last surgery with Dr. Singh. But sometimes, after long shifts when I'm particularly tired, I swear I still see Dr. Singh's shadow dancing under the surgical lights, tirelessly honing her techniques to silence all the ghosts that haunted her.

Writing

Mamá

Papá

Dr. Pattinson