Under the Knife(10)

Suddenly, the patient heaved a long, plaintive wail and collapsed backward, unconscious, a thin stream of blood dribbling from a corner of his mouth.

Dr. Acne froze, mouth agape, staring down at his motionless charge. The room paused, collectively holding its breath as everyone processed this: comatose patient and dumbstruck leader. All eyes fixed on Dr. Acne as they awaited further instructions.

None came.

And the room erupted then into chaos as everyone just did what they thought might help, which involved a lot of shouting and arm waving.

Rita was pushed to the side of the room by a mass of bodies and pressed up against a wall. She remembered thinking that this was like watching a bunch of ants swarm aimlessly after a petulant kid has stamped on their hill: all frantic motion with no purpose.

Until another doctor swept into the room.

And changed everything.

Including the course of Rita’s life.

The first thing she noticed about him was that he was not tall—five-six, maybe, and shorter than Rita. She could barely see the top of his head through the crush of people.

But in her memory he was gigantic: a towering Greek demigod with brown hair that tumbled to his shoulders in thick waves and an impregnable air of confidence. The moment he’d stridden into the room, it was his.

Announcing himself as the chief surgical resident in charge of the patient, he divided the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, and emerged from the melee at the patient’s bedside. In one smooth motion, he bodychecked Dr. Acne, who tumbled into the surrounding group with an expression of relief.

The surgeon folded his arms, looked coolly around, and within seconds had the undivided attention of every person in the room, which was now deathly still, save for the erratic rasps of the unconscious patient.

The room’s attention thus commanded, he began to issue orders in a calm British accent, which, to her bland American ears, had made him sound really smart.

And really cool.

The room flew back into motion, but smoothly now, fluidly. She watched as he molded order from chaos, the junior doctors and nurses acting as a synchronized extension of his will. Under his command, you’d have thought they’d been doing this for years—an experienced, world-class orchestra responding to a renowned conductor.

Rita loved every moment of it: staring at him, mesmerized, studying every word, gesture, body movement. It dawned on her that someday, like that surgeon, she wanted to be the one in charge. She wanted to be him: the one person everyone else looked to. Unshakable. Imperturbable.

This, she realized, was what being a doctor was really all about. She could deal with all the other crap—bigoted professors and horny old men and exhaustion—if it meant that one day she got to do what this surgeon was doing.

Unfortunately, despite the renewed vigor of his treatment, the patient continued to spiral downward, and within minutes stopped breathing. The surgeon deftly slipped a breathing tube down his throat. The patient’s heart stopped shortly thereafter.

Chest compressions commenced. Under pressure from them, the stitches and staples in his abdominal incision burst apart with a series of pops, the incision split open, and his intestines spilled onto his abdomen. Glistening and smooth, bathed in pink fluid (peritoneal fluid, Rita had recited sickly to herself), they’d convulsed in intermittent waves, like giant albino earthworms, until the surgeon barked an order, and someone covered them with a large sterile dressing moistened with saline.

That was enough for Rita. She was tough. But human intestines were just too much at that stage of her career.

She clapped a hand to her mouth and stumbled out the door. Out in the hall, she leaned against a wall and bent over, hands on her knees, breathing hard, until the nausea had passed. When she straightened up and looked around, she found herself alone. Everyone else was still in the room with the code.

So she was the only one who saw the surgeon emerge. He strode to a nearby sink, glanced over his shoulder, and calmly threw up into the basin. Repeatedly. In great, heaving bursts.

She looked on, fascinated. It was an impressive amount of puking. But more impressive was how quiet he managed to be. She hadn’t known it was possible to empty one’s stomach so violently yet so silently.

He went on like that for a while. When through, he’d washed his hands, splashed water over his face, drank out of the faucet, and turned around.

His eyes met Rita’s.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned. He had perfect teeth: two rows of gleaming white enamel. He didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed. Or ruffled.

He asked her name and what year of med school she was in.

Mortified, she wondered how he knew she was a med student. Was it that obvious? Did she look that clueless? That stupid? She ran her hands self-consciously down her sides.

Oh. Right, she thought. The short white coat.

Only med students wore short white coats.

Rita told him her name.

“Rita. Lovely. Just like the Beatles song.”

She felt heat rushing to her cheeks. That’s exactly what her father had always said. Lovely Rita, meter maid. His eyes were an intense shade of bluish green, like pictures you see of the Mediterranean; and he had somehow managed not to get any vomit in his hair, which was coifed, but not too coifed. Like a rock star.

A really cool rock star.

“Right. Well, Rita, you and I aren’t missing anything out here,” he said. “Because that poor man is certainly not going to pull through. I told them to keep at it for a while, though. Have a go at it. Good for them to practice.”