The brothers lived next to each other, in adjacent apartments in the same building. Matvey in their mother’s apartment, and Yelisey in the apartment of their guardians, who had left it to the brothers in their will. They met almost every day, supporting each other, sharing their problems and joys. They remembered the promises made to their mother and lived in a way that would make her proud.
Maria Pavlovna had passed away three years ago. Quietly, in her sleep. Yevgeny Petrovich followed six months later; he couldn’t live without his wife. Matvey and Yelisey buried them side by side, erected a beautiful monument, and brought flowers every month. They would forever remember the kindness of these people, their care, their love.
Life went on. Work, daily routines, rare weekends. Matvey sometimes thought about his personal life, but he never had enough time for a relationship. Surgery demanded complete dedication. He didn’t regret it. He had chosen his path consciously.
And then one day, on a cold October evening when Matvey was on duty in the emergency room, a patient was brought in. An ambulance screeched to a halt, and paramedics jumped out, wheeling out a gurney.
— Male, 57, hit by a car in a crosswalk! — a paramedic shouted, pushing the gurney towards the doors. — Multiple fractures, internal bleeding, traumatic brain injury. Blood pressure is dropping!
Matvey rushed to meet them, quickly examining the patient. The man was unconscious, his face covered in blood, his breathing weak and intermittent. He needed emergency surgery. Every minute counted.
— Get an operating room ready. Immediately! — Matvey commanded. — STAT labs, blood for transfusion, X-ray.
The gurney was wheeled further. Matvey walked alongside, monitoring the patient’s condition. In the ER, he was handed a medical chart, hastily filled out by the paramedics. He opened it on the move, his eyes scanning the lines.
Patient’s name — Grigory Cherdantsev.
Matvey stopped dead in his tracks. The blood drained from his face. He read the name again. And again. It couldn’t be. It was a coincidence. Just a coincidence. But something inside him told him: this is no coincidence. It’s him. His father.
Dr. Rusakov, who was also on duty that day, noticed Matvey frozen in the middle of the hallway. He walked over and glanced at the chart.
— What’s wrong? — he asked quietly.
Matvey was silent. He couldn’t speak. His throat was tight. Rusakov took the chart from his hands and read the name. He looked at Matvey intently.
— You know him? — he asked cautiously.
Matvey nodded. Barely perceptibly.
— He’s my father, — he managed to force out.
Rusakov sighed. He knew Matvey’s story. Knew about his mother, the betrayal, about how Matvey and his brother had grown up without parents. He understood what must be going through his student’s mind right now.
— Then tell me, will you operate, or should I assign the case to another surgeon? — Rusakov asked.
Matvey stood in silence. His mind was a mess. Images from the past flashed before his eyes. His father, leaving home with a bag. His laugh. The slam of the door. His mother, dying on the couch. Her cold hand. His younger brother’s tears. Years of poverty, hard work, struggle.
He could refuse. He could say, “Give it to someone else.” No one would judge him. It would be a justified refusal. Logical. Understandable.
But Matvey remembered his mother’s face. Her last words: “Be human beings. Real human beings.” He remembered the Hippocratic Oath he had taken as a medical student. He was a doctor. He saves lives. He doesn’t choose who to save and who not to. He doesn’t judge, doesn’t seek revenge. He just does his job.
Matvey lifted his head and looked Rusakov in the eye.
— I’ll operate, — he said firmly. — I will give him life. Just as he once gave me mine. And we will be even.
Rusakov nodded with respect.
— Alright. Let’s go then. There’s no time.
The surgery lasted six hours. Matvey worked with focus, precision, without a single extraneous thought. He forgot that this was his father. Right now, this was just a patient who needed to be saved. He stopped the bleeding, stitched up torn vessels, set the fractures, removed the hematoma in his skull. His hands moved confidently, without a tremor. Rusakov assisted, observed, occasionally offering advice. He saw how Matvey was handling it and understood: the young man had grown into a true professional. Personal emotions were left outside the operating room door. Here, only medicine reigned.
When the last suture was in place, Matvey straightened up, took off his gloves, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was exhausted. But the surgery was successful. The patient was alive. Stable.
— He’ll live. Excellent work, — Rusakov said, clapping him on the shoulder. — You saved him…
Comments are closed.