portion—the site the radiation targeted—totally removed. That’s the reason I’m going after this temporal lobe. If I can remove it, then sit on him with steroids for a couple of days, he might just have a chance.”
“Always the optimist, aren’t you, my friend. Anyway, that’s good to know.”
Tyler turned to the scrub nurse. “Surgicel.” A thin mesh-like material used to help control bleeding.
She handed him a folded towel with half-inch squares of the silver colored mesh. He picked up several squares with forceps and laid them individually over areas of oozing brain surface. Blood seeped through each one without slowing.
Michelle asked, “Did I hear you correctly when you said this poor boy has never had any prior radiation?”
“More Surgicel.” Then, to Michelle, “Look, Shellie can we talk about that later, right now I have a problem. I can’t get any hemostasis.”
“Oh dear.”
A hushed conversation between the scrub and circulating nurses stopped abruptly, leaving the steady piping of the heart monitor and the plodding whoosh of the respirator the only room noises. Both nurses looked at him with alarm. He ignored them.
Tyler covered the oozing area with more squares of Surgicel, then layered this area with several white cotton strips, each about two inches by a half inch, over them. He held these in place with his fingers as a roto-rooter ground away at his stomach lining. Maybe I should’ve asked for help. Christ, maybe I should’ve listened to Bill.
“Shit,” he muttered. Tightness enclosed his heart. His hands started tingling and he realized he was hyperventilating, his facemask now soggy against his lips.
After thirty seconds he let up the pressure on the cotton strips, hoping they would stick against the Surgicel as a sign of clotting. They didn’t. They fell away as more blood started oozing again from the raw, crumbling brain.
“How much blood we have on hand?” he asked Michelle.
“Didn’t type and cross him, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, great!” Tyler said to the scrub nurse, “Irrigation.”
She handed him a blue rubber bulb, like you would use to baste a turkey. Gently, he squirted sterile saline over the brain surface, washing away the useless Surgicel.
“Load me up again, but this time cut them postage stamp size.” He rolled his neck, working out the kinks. “Sponge.”
Tyler held a sopping wet cotton sponge against the raw edge of the cavity as the scrub nurse cut more squares of the blood-clotting agent.
“Whatcha going to do?” Michelle asked.
He didn’t know, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to say that with both nurses listening. “We’re going to get it controlled.”
“But, how?”
He shot him a look. “Goddamnit, Shellie …”
The scrub nurse held out a folded blue surgical towel, the squares of Surgicel aligned in neat parallel rows. One by one he placed them over the oozing brain. Once the entire lemon-sized cavity was lined this way, he packed it with snugly with cotton sponges, then backed away from the operating table, both nurses avoiding eye contact.
He said, “Five minutes by the clock. Starting now.” He glanced up at the round face clock over the gleaming stainless steel autoclave and decided to give it every second of the five minutes to clot. Not one second less.
Michelle sidled up next to him as close as possible without contaminating his sterile surgical gown and whispered, “Thought about just closing him up and getting the hell out of there?”
Tyler looked at her. “You mean before we get the bleeding stopped?”
“Seems to me like that might not happen. Besides, you plan on staying here all night?”
“Jesus Christ, Michelle, it’d kill him,” he whispered while drilling her a look.
“Seems to me he’s a dead man either way you cut it,” Michelle snipped. “You wouldn’t be the first to bail out on a hopeless case. I’ve seen a few of your esteemed partners fold the tent and load the camel on lesser
“Always the optimist, aren’t you, my friend. Anyway, that’s good to know.”
Tyler turned to the scrub nurse. “Surgicel.” A thin mesh-like material used to help control bleeding.
She handed him a folded towel with half-inch squares of the silver colored mesh. He picked up several squares with forceps and laid them individually over areas of oozing brain surface. Blood seeped through each one without slowing.
Michelle asked, “Did I hear you correctly when you said this poor boy has never had any prior radiation?”
“More Surgicel.” Then, to Michelle, “Look, Shellie can we talk about that later, right now I have a problem. I can’t get any hemostasis.”
“Oh dear.”
A hushed conversation between the scrub and circulating nurses stopped abruptly, leaving the steady piping of the heart monitor and the plodding whoosh of the respirator the only room noises. Both nurses looked at him with alarm. He ignored them.
Tyler covered the oozing area with more squares of Surgicel, then layered this area with several white cotton strips, each about two inches by a half inch, over them. He held these in place with his fingers as a roto-rooter ground away at his stomach lining. Maybe I should’ve asked for help. Christ, maybe I should’ve listened to Bill.
“Shit,” he muttered. Tightness enclosed his heart. His hands started tingling and he realized he was hyperventilating, his facemask now soggy against his lips.
After thirty seconds he let up the pressure on the cotton strips, hoping they would stick against the Surgicel as a sign of clotting. They didn’t. They fell away as more blood started oozing again from the raw, crumbling brain.
“How much blood we have on hand?” he asked Michelle.
“Didn’t type and cross him, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, great!” Tyler said to the scrub nurse, “Irrigation.”
She handed him a blue rubber bulb, like you would use to baste a turkey. Gently, he squirted sterile saline over the brain surface, washing away the useless Surgicel.
“Load me up again, but this time cut them postage stamp size.” He rolled his neck, working out the kinks. “Sponge.”
Tyler held a sopping wet cotton sponge against the raw edge of the cavity as the scrub nurse cut more squares of the blood-clotting agent.
“Whatcha going to do?” Michelle asked.
He didn’t know, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to say that with both nurses listening. “We’re going to get it controlled.”
“But, how?”
He shot him a look. “Goddamnit, Shellie …”
The scrub nurse held out a folded blue surgical towel, the squares of Surgicel aligned in neat parallel rows. One by one he placed them over the oozing brain. Once the entire lemon-sized cavity was lined this way, he packed it with snugly with cotton sponges, then backed away from the operating table, both nurses avoiding eye contact.
He said, “Five minutes by the clock. Starting now.” He glanced up at the round face clock over the gleaming stainless steel autoclave and decided to give it every second of the five minutes to clot. Not one second less.
Michelle sidled up next to him as close as possible without contaminating his sterile surgical gown and whispered, “Thought about just closing him up and getting the hell out of there?”
Tyler looked at her. “You mean before we get the bleeding stopped?”
“Seems to me like that might not happen. Besides, you plan on staying here all night?”
“Jesus Christ, Michelle, it’d kill him,” he whispered while drilling her a look.
“Seems to me he’s a dead man either way you cut it,” Michelle snipped. “You wouldn’t be the first to bail out on a hopeless case. I’ve seen a few of your esteemed partners fold the tent and load the camel on lesser
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