A Curve in the Road(55)

Later that night, after Zack and I return home to Halifax and I’m in my pajamas in bed, a text comes in. It’s from Nathan. Hey there. Did you get home safely?

I quickly thumb a reply. Yes, we’re home safe and sound. Thanks for checking on us.

I hit “Send,” then wait to see if he’ll respond. After a few seconds, my phone chimes. A message is waiting. No prob. It was nice to see you today. Glad Winston’s doing well.

I smile and type, It was nice to see you too. You always make me feel better about things.

His reply comes in a moment later. Happy to help. You just have to hang in there, and call if you ever want to talk. I’m a good listener.

I take some time to think about how I should respond. Eventually I text, Thank you. I will.

Sitting up on the pillows, I stare at my phone and wait for his reply. Finally, a message comes in: Have a good night.

I smile again and respond, You too. Sleep well.

We end it at that, and I turn out the light.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The following day, I make an appointment to see my family doctor about the dreams I’ve been having, as well as my fatigue. The receptionist asks me to come in that afternoon at four. I thank her and hang up. Then I scrub in for my next surgery.

“Scalpel, please. Skin blade,” I say when things are underway.

The scrub nurse, as she’s done so many times before, places the instrument in my hand.

“Okay to start?” I say to the anesthetist.

“Yes,” she replies. “Patient’s asleep with good paralysis.”

I lean in with the scalpel and steady my hand, preparing to make the first cut. My vision is a bit hazy, so I hesitate.

“Are you okay?” asks Dr. Moore, the junior surgical resident assigned to me this month.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I say with a forced air of confidence and proceed with a one-inch cut above the patient’s belly button.

“S retractors and sponge, please,” says Dr. Moore.

He carefully makes his way down to the fascial layer.

“Suture, please,” I say as I prepare the first of two anchors for the laparoscopy port. Deftly cutting a small opening into the delicate tissue, I dissect deeper and reach the peritoneum. “Hasson trocar, please. Gas on. Camera off standby, please. Let’s have a look.”

I slide the camera through the Hasson into the abdominal cavity. The liver looks ratty and lumpy. Probably advanced cirrhosis. “Damn, I wasn’t expecting this.”

The gallbladder is distended and swollen and looks like it’s ripe and ready to pop. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

I add a couple of extra ports and use graspers to grab the gallbladder, but it’s plastered against the liver and small bowel.

I pause for a moment.

Dr. Moore can read my mind. “We’re going to have to open?”

“Not sure,” I say, dissecting a bit more, only to realize I’ve torn into a small pumping bleeder. The spray covers the camera lens.

“Damn! Take out the camera, and clean the lens. I’ll need clips quickly.”

With a clean lens and a few clips, I finally manage to stop the bleeder. “Let’s convert to open.”

We remove the laparoscopy equipment, and I make a large standard incision below the right lower rib cage. At least we’ll be able to see.

All the while, I feel a fog rolling into my head, growing denser by the second. I want to lie down and take a power nap, but I can’t possibly surrender to that temptation when I have an anesthetized patient lying with an open abdomen on the table in front of me.

I fight through the haze and squeeze my eyes shut every few seconds, then open them wide and blink hard to stay focused.

“Are you okay, Doctor?” one of the nurses asks. She sounds a bit concerned.

Dr. Moore glances up from an artery he’s clamping and waits for me to respond.

“My eyes are a bit dry,” I explain, even though there’s a tingling sensation in my brain, like some sort of electric impulse, and it’s making me uneasy because I’ve never felt anything like this before and now’s not a good time for a headache, when I’m holding a patient’s life in my hands.

Relief floods through me when I finally clip off the cystic artery and cystic duct and painstakingly dissect the gallbladder off the liver bed. Everything looks dry, so we start closing as nurses count sponges and instruments.

“Double-stranded PDS to close fascia, please.”

This is it. I’m on the homestretch now as I close the wound. I just need to stay awake for another half hour or so, and then I can go collapse somewhere.

“Stapler to Dr. Moore and two pickups to me, please.”

Suddenly, alarms start going off. I glance at the monitor. The patient’s BP is dropping fast, and his pulse is racing ever faster.

Adrenaline sparks in my veins, which is not unusual at a time like this, but today it causes my knees to buckle. The surgical instruments fall from my hands, and I go down hard with a tremendous thump on the floor.

My eyes are closed, but in my mind, I’m conscious of the sounds and activity around me. The surgical team takes charge of the situation and moves around the table.

“I got this,” the resident says, while a nurse runs for the door and calls for help.

Machines are beeping everywhere. All I want to do is scramble to my feet and save the patient’s life—or at least supervise the resident—but I can’t move. My body refuses to respond to my brain’s commands. In my head, I’m screaming, Get up! But I’m paralyzed.