A Dead Ex-Boyfriend's Resurrection

My sister Sarah Simpson found a tumor on her neck. It was in a bad spot.

My mom heard about a surgeon at First Hospital who did clean work with no scars, but his schedule was packed until next year.

She shoved a stack of cash into my hands to pull some strings.

When my number got called, I pushed open the clinic door and froze.

The surgeon looked exactly like my ex-boyfriend, who died three years ago.

1

The tumor was on Sarah's thyroid. It wasn't life-threatening, but it was big, and every surgeon we saw said they'd have to cut into her neck.

No way that would do. Sarah was vain, and a permanent scar on her neck would crush her.

My mom's poker buddy recommended a Dr. Green who could remove the tumor through the armpit, leaving no visible mark.

He was young, talented, and in demand.

His surgeries were booked through the end of the year.

Sarah's tumor couldn't wait. If it spread to her lymph nodes, things would get serious.

So my mom, believing money could move mountains, handed me a ten-thousand-dollar envelope to represent the family and grease the wheels.

Her reasoning was absurd. She said I was the most shameless one in the family.

If it was me, getting kicked out in front of everyone wouldn't faze me.

Fair enough.

She wasn't wrong.

For Sarah, I could build a fortress out of my pride.

I grabbed the envelope and headed out.

At the hospital, I signed in and sat in the waiting area. Soon, a chime rang out.

"Patient number 28, Sarah Simpson, please proceed to Room 303."

I snatched up her medical card and walked in. "Dr. Green, I'm here to book my sister's surgery. I hope you can make it happen," I said, head down, sliding the medical reports and the envelope onto the desk.

Then I looked up and met several pairs of shocked eyes.

Yes, several.

my mom's intel was off. Dr. Green had a group of interns around him. This wasn't going to be easy.

Then Dr. Green, the one I was there to see, pulled off his mask to take a sip of water.

His cool gaze landed on my forced smile.

I froze.

So did he.

2

Greg Green, my ex who dumped me three years ago, the one I thought was dead, had somehow become the surgeon my mom went to great lengths to track down.

What a cruel twist.

Me, groveling to him? Not a chance.

I smoothly slipped the envelope back into my bag, my smile tight. "My apologies, wrong room. Call the next patient."

This was insane. If it came to it, I'd take Sarah to the big cities for treatment. We'd figure it out.

As I bolted from Greg's office, my mom appeared, dragging my teary sister behind her.

"Cathy, did you seal the deal? Will Dr. Green do it?" my mom asked eagerly.

I shook my head.

She shot me a look, as if she'd expected me to fail. "I knew it. Looks like your old mom has to step in."

She frowned, grabbed us both, and yanked me back into Greg's office.

He hadn't called the next patient yet. It was still Sarah's slot.

The interns glanced over curiously. I shrank into a corner, toes curling in embarrassment.

I hadn't been this humiliated in ages.

"Dr. Green, other doctors recommended you. They said you're the best for this kind of surgery," my mom said. "Here's my younger daughter's ultrasound and biopsy report. She needs this surgery soon. Can you make room for her?"

As she spoke, Greg picked up the ultrasound.

I stole glances at him, growing angrier by the second. Didn't people say med school aged you? This guy hadn't changed a bit in three years. Meanwhile, between late nights and work, I'd earned myself a pair of dark circles.

"The report doesn't look too serious. Most surgeons here can handle this kind of thyroid surgery," Greg said, his tone neutral.

It was a polite brush-off.

My mom nudged me hard.

I didn't budge, feeling like a statue.

She hissed, reached into my bag, and pulled out the envelope, ready to flash a smile and hand it over.

Greg cut her off. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but the hospital has rules. Please take that back. As for your daughter's surgery, we can discuss it after I see my other patients."

He set Sarah's ultrasound aside.

My mom let out a relieved breath, thanked him profusely, and dragged us out to wait.

As I left, I felt a burning gaze on my back. I didn't dare look. I was afraid it was all in my head.

3

Greg had a lot of patients, and he was thorough. Each visit took fifteen to twenty minutes, so we'd be waiting past noon.

Sarah had been a wreck since her diagnosis, so I told my mom to take her home and come back if needed. The hospital was close by anyway.

Waiting at the hospital was boring. I paced outside Room 303, studying Greg's photo on the wall.

I hadn't glanced at it earlier, but now I couldn't stop looking.

Greg was a year ahead of me in grad school.

I was a sucker for good looks and fell for him at first sight. I chased him relentlessly, and after my stubborn pursuit, we dated for three years.

It ended like most relationships do.

Sweet at first, then falling apart.

Greg was handsome and disciplined. I wasn't the only one who noticed.

A senior named Kiara Knight was in his research group. They spent more time together than he and I did.

I brushed off the early slights.

But then he forgot my birthday. I showed up at his lab with a cake, only to see him holding Kiara's hand, tending to her with a look of concern and guilt.

That expression still haunted me.

I went home and broke up with him over text.

I cried all night, pathetically waiting for an explanation.

And what did I get?

His cold reply: "Fine by me. I've been wanting to end it anyway."

Those words broke me.

I blocked him, deleted every trace of him, moved out of our shared apartment, and swore we'd never cross paths again.

Over time, he faded from my life.

"Patient Sarah Simpson, please return to Room 303."

The electronic voice snapped me back. I realized I was the only one left waiting.

I stood, pushed the door open, and walked in.

Greg was washing his hands, his back to me.

Sarah's ultrasound lay prominently on his desk. I cleared my throat and got straight to the point. "Dr. Green, my sister's case is urgent. Can you prioritize her surgery?"

Back then, getting him to pull strings for me would've taken one sentence.

But those days were long gone.

Greg turned off the faucet and looked at me.

His mask made his eyes seem deeper.

I got lost in them, barely hearing his calm voice. "I have dozens of urgent cases lined up before your sister."

So that was a no?

I froze.

If it was a no, just say it. Why make me wait hours for nothing?

I gripped my bag strap, ready to leave.

Greg stared at me, his voice softening. "Most thyroid surgeries can wait with follow-ups. Your sister's tumor is benign but large, so it needs prompt attention. If you're there to support her, we can start the hospital admission process this afternoon."

4

What?

What kind of weird condition was that?

Sarah's surgery needed me there anyway. My sister's surgery depended on me being by her side.

My dad worked in another state, gone half the year. My mom struggled with menopause, waking at the slightest noise and unable to sleep all night, so I was the only able-bodied person at home to step up.

I took the hospital admission slip home.

When my mom heard Greg had given Sarah a bed right away, she beamed with visible joy, praising him as young, driven, and compassionate.

But when she learned Greg didn't take the ten-thousand-dollar envelope, her face clouded with worry. "No, no, something's off. Maybe Dr. Green only opened the slot for Sarah because of that envelope. You have to make sure he gets it before the surgery, Cathy. It's too late if you wait until after!"

I couldn't help but laugh, though I understood my mom's fears.

Years back, my aunt's major surgery only happened because of a cash "gift" to secure a top specialist.

I wondered if, in the years since our breakup, Greg had lost his original passion for medicine and turned into someone chasing profit.

That afternoon, after two o'clock, I took Sarah to the hospital to check in.

The room was a double, shared with an older woman fresh off her own surgery. Both her chart and Sarah's listed Greg as the attending surgeon.

The first day had no tests, so I stayed with my nervous sister, getting her through her first night in the hospital.

At dawn the next day, nurses came to draw blood, taking eight or nine vials. Sarah's face paled, her eyes rimmed red, as she whimpered, "Cathy, I'm so pathetic, getting poked first thing in the morning. Can I have some hot sandwiches for breakfast with a bowl of beef soup?"

"Absolutely, you want a whole cow, I'll haul it in for you," I said, agreeing instantly. Sick people got what they wanted. I didn't even wash my face before rushing out to grab her sandwiches.

When I returned to the ward with hot sandwiches, I spotted a crowd of white coats outside Sarah's room, as if the space inside was too small and some doctors had spilled into the hallway.

My mind flashed to Sarah being rushed into emergency care. My heart pounded as I shoved through the crowd, only to crash headfirst into a solid chest, splashing some beef soup onto the white coat in front of me.

I froze.

So many people for a routine check?

"Dr. Green!"

"Dr. Green, are you okay?"

That fresh-from-the-pot beef soup was scalding, and under that coat was just a dress shirt... I looked up, mortified, meeting Greg's calm, unflinched eyes.

Why did I crash into Greg? Thank goodness it was Greg.

Those two thoughts wrestled in my head.

"Sorry, I didn't see anyone standing there," I blurted, apologizing. Greg said nothing as the group moved on to the next room.

I wanted to die of embarrassment.

5

Soon after, a nurse came to tell me to head to the doctor's office to sign pre-surgery consent forms.

I asked specifically, "Is it Dr. Green?"

The nurse gave me a look, her tone less friendly than before. "What're you thinking? If Dr. Green had to handle every little thing like consents, when would he have time for surgeries?"

I exhaled in relief.

Good, not him.

After scalding his chest, facing him right away would've been awkward.

The family consultation room was next to the doctor's office, just a short walk.

I stepped inside and saw Greg at the desk, twirling a pen. He'd taken off his mask. Hearing me, he glanced up, pointing the pen at the seat beside him, gesturing for me to come over.

I was speechless.

I wanted to march back and grill that nurse.

Why was it Dr. Green again?

Didn't she say he was too busy?

"Please sit. Before the surgery, I need some basic information. What's your relationship to the patient, Sarah Simpson?" Greg asked, his tone distant and professional, the perfect ex.

I stared at the soup stain on his shirt, regretting everything. I should've dumped the whole bowl on him, scalded him so bad he'd avoid me entirely.

Even though I needed Greg for Sarah's surgery, deep down, I genuinely wanted nothing to do with him.

Places where I'd fallen before made me wary.

"Sarah's my younger sister," I said. "But Dr. Green, does a routine task like pre-op consent really need you personally? No wonder you're always swamped, taking on everything yourself." I couldn't resist the jab.

Yes, I was petty.

Even with Sarah's thyroid in Greg's hands, I couldn't let go of how he cheated and dumped me back then.

Jerk.

I'd hold that grudge forever.

"Can't I handle routine tasks? Knowing each patient's case is a doctor's duty," Greg said, glancing at me.

He clearly caught the resentment in my voice. His face showed a flicker of something-hurt, maybe?-that I couldn't quite place.

I must've misread it.

Why would he be hurt?

Greg sighed lightly. "Cathy, let's get to business. Sarah's biopsy shows papillary thyroid carcinoma. Based on current tests, there's no sign of spread.

The surgery will remove the tumor through the armpit, aiming for a partial resection. If complications arise, we may need to adjust and remove more, so you'll need to sign off on that now.

She'll stay three to five days post-op, then come back in seven business days for the pathology report. That's the gist. Any other questions?"

I hesitated, then said, "I read online about thyroid surgeries damaging vocal cord nerves. Sarah wants to be a teacher, and she loves singing..."

"Don't worry, I'll take care to avoid that," Greg said, his reassurance stirring a long-forgotten sense of calm, like back when we lived together, and he'd encourage me before exams, building my confidence.

But that was just a manipulative guy's act.

Maybe Greg's kindness was just for the sake of that ten-thousand-dollar envelope.

Exactly.

I slapped the envelope on the desk. "Dr. Green, this is a token of appreciation from my mom. Please take it."

"Cathy, you really want my career to end here, don't you?" Greg said, pointing at the gleaming camera above us, his face full of exasperation.