an intrusion …
She looked around at all the surgeons in the lounge, and then, to cover her unease, she went to the phone and dialed the seventh floor.
“This is Dr. Ross. Is Mr. Benson on call?”
“He was just sent.”
“When did he leave the floor?”
“About five minutes ago.”
She hung up and went back to her coffee. Ellis appeared and waved to her across the room. “There’ll be a five-minute delay hooking into the computer,” he said. “They’re tying in the lines now. Is the patient on call?”
“Sent five minutes ago.”
“You seen Morris?”
“Not yet.”
“He better get his ass down here,” Ellis said.
Somehow that made her feel good.
Morris was in the elevator with a nurse and Benson, who lay on a stretcher, and one of the cops. As they rode down, Morris said to the cop, “You can’t get off on the floor.”
“Why not?”
“We’re going onto the sterile floor directly.”
“What should I do?”
“You can watch from the viewing gallery on the third floor. Tell the desk nurse I said it was all right.”
The cop nodded. The elevator stopped at the second floor. The doors opened to reveal a hallway with people, all in surgical greens, walking back and forth. Alarge sign read STERILE AREA. NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION . The lettering was red.
Morris and the nurse wheeled Benson out of the elevator. The cop remained behind, looking nervous. He pushed the button for the third floor, and the doors closed.
Morris went with Benson down the corridor. After a moment, Benson said, “I’m still awake.”
“Of course you are.”
“But I don’t want to be awake.”
Morris nodded patiently. Benson had gotten pre-op medications half an hour earlier. They would be taking effect soon, making him drowsy. “How’s your mouth?”
“Dry.”
That was the atropine beginning to work. “You’ll be okay.”
Morris himself had never had an operation. He’d performed hundreds, but never experienced one himself. In recent years, he had begun to wonder how it felt to be on the other side of things. He suspected, though he would never admit it, that it must be awful.
“You’ll be okay,” he said to Benson again, and touched his shoulder.
Benson just stared at him as he was wheeled down the corridor toward OR 9.
OR 9 was the largest operating room in the hospital. It was nearly thirty feet square and packed with electronic equipment. When the full surgical team was there—all twelve of them—things got pretty crowded. But now just two scrub nurses were working in the cavernous gray-tiled space. They were setting out sterile tables and drapes around the chair. OR 9 had no operatingtable—only a softly cushioned upright chair, like a dentist’s chair.
Janet Ross was in the scrubroom adjacent to the operating room. Alongside her, Ellis finished his scrub and muttered something about fucking Morris being fucking late. Ellis got very nervous before operations, though he seemed to think nobody noticed it. Ross had scrubbed with him on several animal procedures and had seen the ritual—tension and profanity before the operation, and utter bland calmness once things were under way.
Ellis turned off the faucets with his elbows and entered the OR, backing in so that his arms did not touch the door. A nurse handed him a towel. While he dried his hands, he looked back through the door at Ross, and then up at the glass-walled viewing gallery overhead. Ross knew there would be a crowd in the gallery watching the operation.
Morris came down and began scrubbing. She said, “Ellis wondered where you were.”
“Bringing down the patient,” he said.
One of the circulating nurses entered the scrub room and said, “Dr. Ross, there’s somebody here from the radiation lab with a unit for Dr. Ellis. Does he want it now?”
“If it’s loaded,” she said.
“I’ll ask,” the nurse said. She disappeared, and stuck her head in a moment later. “He says it’s loaded and ready to go,
She looked around at all the surgeons in the lounge, and then, to cover her unease, she went to the phone and dialed the seventh floor.
“This is Dr. Ross. Is Mr. Benson on call?”
“He was just sent.”
“When did he leave the floor?”
“About five minutes ago.”
She hung up and went back to her coffee. Ellis appeared and waved to her across the room. “There’ll be a five-minute delay hooking into the computer,” he said. “They’re tying in the lines now. Is the patient on call?”
“Sent five minutes ago.”
“You seen Morris?”
“Not yet.”
“He better get his ass down here,” Ellis said.
Somehow that made her feel good.
Morris was in the elevator with a nurse and Benson, who lay on a stretcher, and one of the cops. As they rode down, Morris said to the cop, “You can’t get off on the floor.”
“Why not?”
“We’re going onto the sterile floor directly.”
“What should I do?”
“You can watch from the viewing gallery on the third floor. Tell the desk nurse I said it was all right.”
The cop nodded. The elevator stopped at the second floor. The doors opened to reveal a hallway with people, all in surgical greens, walking back and forth. Alarge sign read STERILE AREA. NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION . The lettering was red.
Morris and the nurse wheeled Benson out of the elevator. The cop remained behind, looking nervous. He pushed the button for the third floor, and the doors closed.
Morris went with Benson down the corridor. After a moment, Benson said, “I’m still awake.”
“Of course you are.”
“But I don’t want to be awake.”
Morris nodded patiently. Benson had gotten pre-op medications half an hour earlier. They would be taking effect soon, making him drowsy. “How’s your mouth?”
“Dry.”
That was the atropine beginning to work. “You’ll be okay.”
Morris himself had never had an operation. He’d performed hundreds, but never experienced one himself. In recent years, he had begun to wonder how it felt to be on the other side of things. He suspected, though he would never admit it, that it must be awful.
“You’ll be okay,” he said to Benson again, and touched his shoulder.
Benson just stared at him as he was wheeled down the corridor toward OR 9.
OR 9 was the largest operating room in the hospital. It was nearly thirty feet square and packed with electronic equipment. When the full surgical team was there—all twelve of them—things got pretty crowded. But now just two scrub nurses were working in the cavernous gray-tiled space. They were setting out sterile tables and drapes around the chair. OR 9 had no operatingtable—only a softly cushioned upright chair, like a dentist’s chair.
Janet Ross was in the scrubroom adjacent to the operating room. Alongside her, Ellis finished his scrub and muttered something about fucking Morris being fucking late. Ellis got very nervous before operations, though he seemed to think nobody noticed it. Ross had scrubbed with him on several animal procedures and had seen the ritual—tension and profanity before the operation, and utter bland calmness once things were under way.
Ellis turned off the faucets with his elbows and entered the OR, backing in so that his arms did not touch the door. A nurse handed him a towel. While he dried his hands, he looked back through the door at Ross, and then up at the glass-walled viewing gallery overhead. Ross knew there would be a crowd in the gallery watching the operation.
Morris came down and began scrubbing. She said, “Ellis wondered where you were.”
“Bringing down the patient,” he said.
One of the circulating nurses entered the scrub room and said, “Dr. Ross, there’s somebody here from the radiation lab with a unit for Dr. Ellis. Does he want it now?”
“If it’s loaded,” she said.
“I’ll ask,” the nurse said. She disappeared, and stuck her head in a moment later. “He says it’s loaded and ready to go,
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