Day 7 — Forged
The volcano was already awake before we were.
A pink plume rose into the pale Antigua sky — soft and violent all at once. Fire under pressure. Ancient stone remembering what it holds. Surrounded by volcanoes, earthquakes, and ash, it feels fitting that this week has been forged in the same way.
The bells ring, sounding in our last operative day.
There’s fatigue in our shoulders now. You see it in the way we linger over coffee, in the quiet stretches between sentences. But beneath the exhaustion? Something steadier. A low burn.
We move toward the Obras like we’re walking to the opening riff of a pounding, driving heavy metal anthem. Not frantic — synchronized. Same tempo. Same forward drive. We’re not invincible. But this morning, it almost feels like we are.
Yesterday’s patients are smiling before we even reach their beds. “If you’re feeling well, you can go home today.” Home.
You can see the word land. Relief softens faces. Shoulders drop. Hands meet warm skin. A blanket adjusted. Gratitude exchanged in quiet, human ways.
These aren’t dramatic moments. They’re steady ones. And they matter.
Careful assessments and thoughtful scheduling have placed our less complicated cases for today. The rhythm we built earlier in the week now carries us.
Inside the OR, light spills across blue drapes. Monitors glow. Instruments hum. Movements are economical. Trust is assumed.
No extra words.
No wasted motion.
Outside the hospital walls, two boys share ice cream in the sun. A woman wrapped in woven color laughs with a friend. Life waits patiently while we work.
And we work.
Not flashy.
Not heroic.
Just steady.
By afternoon, it’s done. Supplies counted. Cords wrapped. Equipment sealed. The trunks close with a metallic snap that feels more symbolic than practical. Months of planning reduced to organized stacks and labeled bins. Everything smooth. Calm. Intentional. A team that has found its rhythm.
That night, beneath warm lights and ancient stone at Santo Domingo, we gather for dinner. Not an awards ceremony. No trophies. Just acknowledgment.
Surgery thanking anesthesia. Nurses recognizing techs. Logistics honoring translators. The kind of gratitude that only surfaces after shared strain.
Someone reads a few words. Laughter follows. A few eyes shine in the courtyard light.
We are tired.
We are proud.
We are changed.
The volcano exhales in the morning and settles by night, then repeats the dynamic cycle again and again.
Pressure. Fire. Release.
This week felt the same.
Covered in the ashes from a full week’s work, we stand together — not because we were invincible, but because we moved to the same anthem, now feeling more like a group of friends at the same rock show.
And that, more than anything, is what will last — friendships.
Brian Jensen
Team Blogger, Robinson–Jensen Surgery 888
