separates the tumor from the IVC a bit more. The tumor starts to move up and away from the IVC in exactly the way I predicted.
Then, suddenly, it stops.
I push some more, but the tumor won’t budge.
“Hmmm. It seems to be really socked in right here,” I narrate to the rest of the room. Surgeons do that sometimes to help them think. “There must be some desmoplasia from the tumor making it stick a little bit. No big deal. I’ll just have to push a little harder right about … here.”
I move the sucker to a different spot on the tumor and push again.
Nothing.
“Maybe try the scissors here?” Luis asks.
“No … I think I’d rather stick with blunt dissection for now. I wouldn’t want to stick the scissors directly into the IVC. The tumor’s just putting up a little bit more of a fight now. No big deal. I’ll get it.”
I pick another spot on the tumor and push against it again with the sucker, a little harder this time, with steady and firm pressure, trying to coax it off the IVC just a little bit more.
It gives a little.
Bingo.
The tumor is stubborn, but so am I.
I push again.
The tumor gives a bit more, and suddenly I can feel that it’s almost there, that there’s just one more small spot that’s still holding it to the IVC, just one more point to release before I’m home free and the hardest part of the operation is over. I can feel it. I know it. So I keep pushing up on the tumor. Up, up, up.
The edges at the sticky spot separate. The tumor starts to peel away again.
Yes! I imagine Larry walking back into the OR, checking out my progress, duly impressed at my having done such a difficult dissection all by myself, slapping me on the back, recognizing Slick’s skills.
Almost there …
The tumor stops peeling. Again I push a little harder, up and up with steady, firm pressure, confident now that the sticky spot will give the same way it did before.
Suddenly, sickeningly, it does give.
It gives the way a stuck window that’s been shut all winter gives during spring cleaning, after you’ve pushed against it with all of your might for several minutes, grunting and gasping and wheezing in the dust, until it slams upward against the top of the frame with a loud crash.
The resistance, all of the resistance, disappears.
My hand holding the sucker jerks forward.
Bright red fluid jets upward like a geyser.
Blood.
Before I have time to react, the jetting blood envelops everything on the screen. Tumor, kidney, liver, IVC, my instruments—all disappear underneath a bright red sheet of blood. It’s as if a thick red curtain has dropped over the entire operating field. I can’t see a thing. Everything is gone, lost in a disorienting, monotonous field of redness.
I feel my stomach drop through the floor.
Fuck.
Sweat instantaneously materializes over every square centimeter of my body, my heart starts hammering away at the inside of my chest, and my breath feels like it’s been knocked out of my body by a two-by-four.
“Oh, shit, ” Luis gasps.
Behind me, I hear the scrub nurse sharply suck in her breath.
I frantically sweep the sucker back and forth, trying to part the red curtain and figure out what’s going on, to figure out where the bleeding is coming from so I can put a stop to it before Mrs. Samuelson bleeds to death.
But nothing happens. The screen remains a perfect, unblemished scarlet. There is only the red. There is nothing else. I can’t see anything. And because I can’t see anything, I can’t do anything. I’m absolutely helpless.
Oh, God, please no. Please no. Oh God. Oh God.
My hands begin to shake so badly I can barely hold the instruments—which doesn’t seem to matter too much at this point since I can’t see the instruments anyway with all the blood in the way. I grab the camera from Luis and jerk it around, hoping to find a clear spot, but see nothing.
The bleeding, where’s the bleeding coming from?
The steady, rhythmic beep of the cardiac monitor
Then, suddenly, it stops.
I push some more, but the tumor won’t budge.
“Hmmm. It seems to be really socked in right here,” I narrate to the rest of the room. Surgeons do that sometimes to help them think. “There must be some desmoplasia from the tumor making it stick a little bit. No big deal. I’ll just have to push a little harder right about … here.”
I move the sucker to a different spot on the tumor and push again.
Nothing.
“Maybe try the scissors here?” Luis asks.
“No … I think I’d rather stick with blunt dissection for now. I wouldn’t want to stick the scissors directly into the IVC. The tumor’s just putting up a little bit more of a fight now. No big deal. I’ll get it.”
I pick another spot on the tumor and push against it again with the sucker, a little harder this time, with steady and firm pressure, trying to coax it off the IVC just a little bit more.
It gives a little.
Bingo.
The tumor is stubborn, but so am I.
I push again.
The tumor gives a bit more, and suddenly I can feel that it’s almost there, that there’s just one more small spot that’s still holding it to the IVC, just one more point to release before I’m home free and the hardest part of the operation is over. I can feel it. I know it. So I keep pushing up on the tumor. Up, up, up.
The edges at the sticky spot separate. The tumor starts to peel away again.
Yes! I imagine Larry walking back into the OR, checking out my progress, duly impressed at my having done such a difficult dissection all by myself, slapping me on the back, recognizing Slick’s skills.
Almost there …
The tumor stops peeling. Again I push a little harder, up and up with steady, firm pressure, confident now that the sticky spot will give the same way it did before.
Suddenly, sickeningly, it does give.
It gives the way a stuck window that’s been shut all winter gives during spring cleaning, after you’ve pushed against it with all of your might for several minutes, grunting and gasping and wheezing in the dust, until it slams upward against the top of the frame with a loud crash.
The resistance, all of the resistance, disappears.
My hand holding the sucker jerks forward.
Bright red fluid jets upward like a geyser.
Blood.
Before I have time to react, the jetting blood envelops everything on the screen. Tumor, kidney, liver, IVC, my instruments—all disappear underneath a bright red sheet of blood. It’s as if a thick red curtain has dropped over the entire operating field. I can’t see a thing. Everything is gone, lost in a disorienting, monotonous field of redness.
I feel my stomach drop through the floor.
Fuck.
Sweat instantaneously materializes over every square centimeter of my body, my heart starts hammering away at the inside of my chest, and my breath feels like it’s been knocked out of my body by a two-by-four.
“Oh, shit, ” Luis gasps.
Behind me, I hear the scrub nurse sharply suck in her breath.
I frantically sweep the sucker back and forth, trying to part the red curtain and figure out what’s going on, to figure out where the bleeding is coming from so I can put a stop to it before Mrs. Samuelson bleeds to death.
But nothing happens. The screen remains a perfect, unblemished scarlet. There is only the red. There is nothing else. I can’t see anything. And because I can’t see anything, I can’t do anything. I’m absolutely helpless.
Oh, God, please no. Please no. Oh God. Oh God.
My hands begin to shake so badly I can barely hold the instruments—which doesn’t seem to matter too much at this point since I can’t see the instruments anyway with all the blood in the way. I grab the camera from Luis and jerk it around, hoping to find a clear spot, but see nothing.
The bleeding, where’s the bleeding coming from?
The steady, rhythmic beep of the cardiac monitor
Similar Books
