The first time I saw my parents in five years, my hands still smelled like surgical scrub.
I was standing just inside the family waiting room at Mercyrest Medical Center, Hartford, Connecticut, badge hanging off my scrub top, hospital ID catching the fluorescent light. Two other families sat hunched over Styrofoam cups of coffee, eyes glued to the muted morning news.
In the center row, my mother and father sat shoulder to shoulder, looking ten years older than the last time I’d seen them. Mom’s hair was thinner, pulled back in a rushed bun.
Dad’s shoulders, once broad and immovable, were rounded, his flannel shirt buttoned wrong at the collar.
They didn’t look up at first when the door opened.
They were staring at the double doors that led back to the OR, waiting for a surgeon to come through and tell them whether their oldest daughter was going to live.
They had no idea that surgeon was me.
My badge was right there at my chest: Dr. Irene Ulette, MD, FACS – Chief of Trauma Surgery.
Dad stood automatically when he realized someone in scrubs was approaching.
It was muscle memory more than manners. He took a breath, bracing himself for bad news, then his gaze dropped to my badge.
His eyes hit my last name, skated past it, then snapped back like someone had yanked a line.
He read it again.
Mom followed his stare, slow, tired, her fingers wrapped so tight around a foam cup that it buckled.
The second her eyes reached my name, her hand shot to Dad’s forearm and clamped down.
She would tell me later she didn’t remember doing it, but the bruises shaped like her fingertips stayed on his arm for a week.
For a long five seconds, nobody spoke.
Those five seconds held five years.
I was the one who broke the silence.
‘Mr. and Mrs. Ulette,’ I said, my voice calm and clinical, the way I’d done a hundred times for other families, ‘I’m Dr.
Ulette, the chief of trauma surgery.
Your daughter made it through the operation. She’s stable.
She’s in the ICU now, and you’ll be able to see her in about an hour.’
Mr. and Mrs.
Not Mom and Dad.
My mother’s face crumpled.
She stumbled one step toward me, arms half‑raised, a raw sob already clawing its way out of her chest.
‘Irene,’ she whispered.
‘Oh my God. Oh my God – baby, is that really you?’
I took half a step back.
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