Chapter 6 — Never Blame a Janitor

Doctor Vu Nguyet Ha received an urgent consultation call at 9 p.m., right after finishing a four-hour surgery for a patient with traumatic brain injury due to a traffic accident. As Deputy Head of the Department of Neurology at Tam Duc International General Hospital, specializing in pediatric neuro-resuscitation, she is always the first to be called in cases where there is a risk of brain damage due to lack of oxygen — and the case of a sixteen-year-old female patient just brought in from the Emergency Department, with a history of drowning and sedative poisoning, is exactly the type of case that requires the closest neurological monitoring.

Nguyet Ha skimmed through medical records while walking quickly along the hallway, her medical shoes tapping evenly on the shiny tile floor. Patient: Le Anh Thu, sixteen years old. Preliminary diagnosis: moderate benzodiazepine poisoning, drowning in less than five minutes, cardiopulmonary resuscitation was given at the scene before the ambulance arrived. That detail gave her a bit of pause — the time of hypoxia controlled under five minutes with on-site first aid is the deciding factor between a patient's full recovery or having to face permanent neurological sequelae. Someone at the scene did the right thing, did it very well, during that time of life and death.

Entering the special monitoring room, the first thing that caught Nguyet Ha's eye was not the patient lying quietly on the bed with a series of monitoring wires, but the man sitting quietly on a plastic chair close to the bed, holding the girl's hand tightly, his eyes not leaving the heart rate monitoring screen for even a second. He was wearing a moss green security guard uniform that was partially soaked, perhaps he hadn't had time to change yet, his hair was still sticky with dried starch water.

She looked over at the soaking wet man sitting next to the hospital bed. "Are you the patient's family?" Her voice maintained her usual professionalism, but could not hide her kindness.

"I'm your father," Dac Long replied, standing up, his eyes directed straight at her with an absolute concentration that made Nguyet Ha, even though she was used to dealing with countless panicked parents in her profession, still felt something was different. Not the usual panic, but a tightly controlled, organized anxiety, like the way a commander keeps calm in the middle of a battlefield so as not to disrupt the morale of his soldiers.

"I'm doctor Vu Nguyet Ha, in charge of neurological monitoring for your child," she introduced, then began the familiar clinical examination process - checking pupillary reflexes, tendon reflexes, and assessing the level of consciousness according to the Glasgow scale. Mr. Thu, although still drowsy due to the residual effects of the sedative, responded well to stimuli, his pupils dilated evenly, and there were no signs of focal nerve damage to worry about. It was good news, and Nguyet Ha felt somewhat relieved when she announced it to her father who was standing next to her, waiting for every word she said as if it were the final judgment of the whole world.

"The first aider at the scene did a great job," she said, making notes in the file while glancing at him. "The time of hypoxia was minimized thanks to timely cardiopulmonary resuscitation and correct technique. That is the most important reason to help the child avoid the risk of permanent brain damage."

Dac Long did not avoid her eyes. "I do it," he replied, as neatly and firmly as a matter of fact.

Nguyet Ha looked up at him, a bit surprised. "Do you know CPR?"

"I learned it in the past," he replied simply, his eyes flickering for a millisecond that only a subtle observer like Nguyet Ha could notice. She did not inquire further, even though she had a small question mark in her heart. Her profession taught her to observe the smallest details of people's faces and gestures — a skill necessary to accurately diagnose subtle neurological symptoms that patients sometimes cannot describe themselves — and that instinct, from their first meeting, told her that the man before her was not as simple as he seemed.

During the next three days, as Anh Thu gradually recovered under the supervision of the Neurology Department, Nguyet Ha had more opportunities to interact with Dac Long. He almost never left the hospital, only taking the shortest moments to go home to shower and change clothes. The rest was always by his daughter's bedside, reading books to her when she was awake, and sitting silently watching her while she slept. There were nights, when Nguyet Ha went to check on patients on a late-night duty schedule, she still saw him sitting there, not sleeping, his eyes glued to the monitor screen like a guard who never left his position.

One evening, when Nguyet Ha came for a routine check-up, she encountered a situation that made her curiosity even greater. Another patient in the next room, an elderly man, suddenly had a seizure due to complications after surgery. Family members panicked and shouted for help in the hallway while the nurse on duty was busy handling another case. Before Nguyet Ha could run over, Dac Long was present, quickly placed the old man on his side in a safe position, placed a soft towel under his head to avoid injury, and remained calm to reassure the family until the official medical team arrived.

"What did you do before working as a school security guard?" Nguyet Ha couldn't help but ask directly after the situation was handled satisfactorily.

Dac Long paused for a moment, then smiled slightly, a somewhat forced smile. "Before, I did a lot of odd jobs. There was a time when I worked at a rescue unit, so I had some first aid experience."

The vague answer, lacking specific details, made Nguyet Ha's doubts grow even greater, but she chose not to ask. As a doctor, she understands that everyone had their own hidden corners of the past that they don't want to share, and her job was to heal, not to judge or pry. But she couldn't deny that the more she observed this man, the more she felt a strange contradiction emanating from him - the humble, simple appearance of an ordinary worker, but hidden deep inside was a calm, sharp, authoritative aura that she had only seen in high-ranking leaders who had been to the hospital for treatment.

There was another detail that also caught Nguyet Ha's attention: the way Dac Long talked to his daughter. Unlike most other parents she had ever met, who always comforted their children with general sweet words, Dac Long talked to Anh Thu with a rare respect and delicacy, always asking about her child's feelings, always patiently listening to every word she said, even when she was still drowsy, saying sentences that had no beginning or end due to the influence of drugs.

"I'm so scared, Uncle Phuc," Anh Thu whispered once in his sleep, "I don't want to die like... like mom..."

Nguyet Ha, standing nearby taking notes, paused. She glanced at Dac Long, saw a flash of deep pain on his face, his eyes were red for a moment before he regained his composure, bent down to stroke his daughter's hair, and whispered comfort in the gentlest voice she had ever heard.

"It's nothing like that, I'm here, no one can do anything to you."

The story about her deceased mother, about the fear ingrained in the sixteen-year-old girl's mind, made Nguyet Ha curious about this special family situation. But most of all, what impressed her the most was the absolute love, without any calculation, that the man had for his daughter - a love strong enough to make a normally reserved man willing to reveal the deepest tenderness in just the most private moments at her child's bedside.

On the third night, when Anh Thu was completely stable and preparing to be discharged the next day, Nguyet Ha came to announce the final neurological examination results - completely normal, without any worrying sequelae. Dac Long, upon hearing that news, did something that completely surprised her: he stood up, bowed deeply, a bow so solemn that it was not at all suitable for the normal social status of a school guardian.

His throat was tight. "Thank you, doctor," he said. "Thank you for saving my daughter."

Nguyet Ha smiled and shook her head slightly. "That's my job. But honestly, you were the one who saved me in the first place. Your first aid skills, your reaction at the scene, that's not something a normal person could do in such a panic situation."

She looked straight into his eyes as she said that, deliberately revealing her curiosity, waiting for a reaction. Dac Long was only silent for a moment, his and her eyes met in an invisible tension, before he nodded slightly, without giving any further explanation, just saying a short sentence.

"There are things I hope the doctor won't ask more about. But I promise, nothing I do is to harm anyone."

That sentence, vague but full of weight, made Nguyet Ha even more certain that this man named Tran Van Phuc was hiding a big secret. She recorded the last line in the medical record for Anh Thu's case — "discharged from the hospital, stable condition" — but in the personal notebook she always carried, she quietly opened a new page, writing down a single line: "Tran Van Phuc — needs to learn more." She closed the notebook, telling herself that it was just the professional habit of someone who couldn't stand open questions. But she knew, deep down, it wasn't simply a doctor's curiosity anymore.