toes
had tipped down, which was good. “How much else can you do when she’s out?”
“Just the pupils and Babinski. Keep checking.”
The scrub nurse handed David a new sterile scalpel. Now he
made a vertical incision into the uterus, opened it, and blinked at the fetus.
A little life that never had a chance, dusky-colored and awash in blood.
Sam suctioned the uterine blood out with a gurgling,
whooshing sound, muttering, “Son of a bitch who did this, I wanna kill him.”
“Get in line.” David waited seconds until he got a clearer
field. “Bleeding’s stopping,” he said.
MacIntyre finished suctioning and looked back in. The torn
blood vessels between the placenta and uterine wall had contracted and clotted.
Now for the baby.
David put in both hands and gently lifted it out. It was a
boy, about four pounds, could have lived just fine if delivered prematurely. He
held it for a moment, fighting anger, sadness, then handed the child to the
grim-faced nurse, who likewise couldn’t help herself. Out of hopeful habit, she
put the tiny body into the little bassinette, put on her stethoscope, and
listened for a heartbeat. Silence. Awful, hollow silence in the tiny chest.
Grimly, the others continued with Jenna.
David started scooping out the placenta, which had already
mostly separated from the uterus. He ran his fingers around its edge to finish
detaching it, then tied off any tiny bleeders he saw.
“I think we can save the uterus,” he said. “The arterial
supply looks intact.”
Sam irrigated the uterine interior with sterile saline
solution, then suctioned it out again. They had a clear view. In its reddish
uterine surface there were lacerations, which David sutured. Then he gently
massaged the uterus, which responded by contracting, but not enough.
“Ergotrate,” he said through his mask.
Into Jenna’s arm, Woody injected Ergotrate to further
contract the uterus and prevent any further bleeding.
Before closing, they did one more quick inspection inside
the abdomen. Everything looked okay: the liver, spleen, kidneys, stomach and
intestines.
“Time to get out,” David said, and glanced to Sam. “Want to
finish? Make it as thin a scar as you can.”
“The pupils! The pupils!” said Woody, back at the head of
the table.
The anesthesiologist also straightened and checked the
monitor. “Sudden change,” he said. “Subdural must be enlarging, causing
pressure on the brain. Get neurosurgery in here.”
The circulating nurse made the call on her phone.
David blinked, looked abruptly crestfallen. Leaned both
hands on the table, and looked painfully down at Jenna.
MacIntyre tried to stay positive. “Hey, she’s halfway there.
You’ve done all you can. She’s off transfusion, back on dextrose and water -
and she’s young, you even saved her uterus.”
“She could’ve gone straight into the recovery room…” David’s
voice trailed.
“So they’ll wheel her out for a CAT scan. You’ll have to go
with her anyway, right? Make sure she
keeps
recovering?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll come too.”
10
D etectives Ted Connor and Ray Zeinuc studied Brian
Walsh. Agitated, early thirties with thinning light brown hair and intense
round eyes.
“Who would do this?” he kept saying. “Who would
do
this?” He hunched over, his hands clenching and unclenching his knees. He
seemed more uptight than sorrowful.
Walsh was on a bench outside OB surgery. The detectives had
pulled chairs from the nurses’ station and sat facing him in the wide hall.
Zeinuc just stared at Walsh and tapped his ballpoint annoyingly. Connor leaned
back, crossed his arms, and said nothing. Cop silence to get the other guy to
talk.
Walsh avoided his gaze, and twisted his body away toward the
glass wall of the surgical suite.
“Why can’t I see my sister?” he demanded.
“She’s being operated on,” said Connor. “You already asked
that
had tipped down, which was good. “How much else can you do when she’s out?”
“Just the pupils and Babinski. Keep checking.”
The scrub nurse handed David a new sterile scalpel. Now he
made a vertical incision into the uterus, opened it, and blinked at the fetus.
A little life that never had a chance, dusky-colored and awash in blood.
Sam suctioned the uterine blood out with a gurgling,
whooshing sound, muttering, “Son of a bitch who did this, I wanna kill him.”
“Get in line.” David waited seconds until he got a clearer
field. “Bleeding’s stopping,” he said.
MacIntyre finished suctioning and looked back in. The torn
blood vessels between the placenta and uterine wall had contracted and clotted.
Now for the baby.
David put in both hands and gently lifted it out. It was a
boy, about four pounds, could have lived just fine if delivered prematurely. He
held it for a moment, fighting anger, sadness, then handed the child to the
grim-faced nurse, who likewise couldn’t help herself. Out of hopeful habit, she
put the tiny body into the little bassinette, put on her stethoscope, and
listened for a heartbeat. Silence. Awful, hollow silence in the tiny chest.
Grimly, the others continued with Jenna.
David started scooping out the placenta, which had already
mostly separated from the uterus. He ran his fingers around its edge to finish
detaching it, then tied off any tiny bleeders he saw.
“I think we can save the uterus,” he said. “The arterial
supply looks intact.”
Sam irrigated the uterine interior with sterile saline
solution, then suctioned it out again. They had a clear view. In its reddish
uterine surface there were lacerations, which David sutured. Then he gently
massaged the uterus, which responded by contracting, but not enough.
“Ergotrate,” he said through his mask.
Into Jenna’s arm, Woody injected Ergotrate to further
contract the uterus and prevent any further bleeding.
Before closing, they did one more quick inspection inside
the abdomen. Everything looked okay: the liver, spleen, kidneys, stomach and
intestines.
“Time to get out,” David said, and glanced to Sam. “Want to
finish? Make it as thin a scar as you can.”
“The pupils! The pupils!” said Woody, back at the head of
the table.
The anesthesiologist also straightened and checked the
monitor. “Sudden change,” he said. “Subdural must be enlarging, causing
pressure on the brain. Get neurosurgery in here.”
The circulating nurse made the call on her phone.
David blinked, looked abruptly crestfallen. Leaned both
hands on the table, and looked painfully down at Jenna.
MacIntyre tried to stay positive. “Hey, she’s halfway there.
You’ve done all you can. She’s off transfusion, back on dextrose and water -
and she’s young, you even saved her uterus.”
“She could’ve gone straight into the recovery room…” David’s
voice trailed.
“So they’ll wheel her out for a CAT scan. You’ll have to go
with her anyway, right? Make sure she
keeps
recovering?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll come too.”
10
D etectives Ted Connor and Ray Zeinuc studied Brian
Walsh. Agitated, early thirties with thinning light brown hair and intense
round eyes.
“Who would do this?” he kept saying. “Who would
do
this?” He hunched over, his hands clenching and unclenching his knees. He
seemed more uptight than sorrowful.
Walsh was on a bench outside OB surgery. The detectives had
pulled chairs from the nurses’ station and sat facing him in the wide hall.
Zeinuc just stared at Walsh and tapped his ballpoint annoyingly. Connor leaned
back, crossed his arms, and said nothing. Cop silence to get the other guy to
talk.
Walsh avoided his gaze, and twisted his body away toward the
glass wall of the surgical suite.
“Why can’t I see my sister?” he demanded.
“She’s being operated on,” said Connor. “You already asked
that
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