Читать книгу Impuls - Aster - Страница 6

Chapter 5

the word does not heal him, does not resurrect him,

it does not give hope, it does not torture, it does not kill,

Here lays it on a new bandage,

and it presses hard,

it thickens viscous,

it squeezes, it rubs, it pokes,

it melts elusively on the delicate wound,

bleeding under the crust,

leaving a nasty tang of questioning.

"will I live, doctor?" -

and cauterizes.

Emily spins her head, trying to look around her.

In the middle of the operating room there is a huge plastic and steel structure, flashing all the colors of the rainbow and constantly making a nasty, sharp beeping sound. Emily recalls: it seems that in the textbook this structure was called a monoplanar angiographic system and was depicted much more simply than in real life. Johnson can almost hear the advertising slogans in her head: six square screens, an X-ray tube, a seat for the patient – the latest equipment allows you to penetrate the most complex areas of the brain.

A girl is already lying on the bed with a movable leg – still under anesthesia, and the anesthesiologist is chirping in his high chair with wheels (Riley whispers in Emily's ear that his name is Dylan). He has another pair of screens next to him, on a movable tripod; a large computer-like keyboard, and a whole bunch of wires.

Everything around Emily is wrapped in sterile film: the enormous microscope Clark is fiddling with; the surgical bench with the nurse standing by; and even the anesthesiologist's chair. The man sitting in it is talking so loudly that his voice echoes off the walls:

– Look at this! – he shouts in admiration, touching the stem of the microscope. – It's a Leica! You don't even have to do anything with it, just stare and enjoy it! My girl," Dylan adds fondly, patting the plastic.

Clark raises an eyebrow.

– That's what you said about the last one, Kemp," she says wryly.

– "Yuck," he says with a grudge. – That one wasn't as graceful and deep as…

– Don't go on. – Clark walks over to the tool table. – What have you laid out for me here? Why would I want this? I'm going to kill you!

– It's not me," Dylan waves his hands. – That's the new nurse Andrew brought in. The one with the big tits! – he whispers loudly, pointing to the girl standing in the distance.

– And a small brain. I don't need half of that. – Emily can almost feel Clark's lips pursing. – I'm not going to do an LP. And why couldn't we just split this up into two tables?

– Need I remind you to fire her? – Riley's voice booms.

– I'll think about it. – Clark's approaching the patient. – Are we ready? Then let's get started.

The shadowless lights flare and bright white light floods the operating room, making it look like Purgatory. A minute later, there is a click, and the film-wrapped docking station with an iPhone inserted into it begins to play unobtrusive music.

Emily is waved away, told not to disturb her and to stand in the corner, and she, huddled in a chair at the very end of the operating room, keeps her eyes on the surgeons and the screens: they now show the image of the shaved back of the patient's head.

Emily can hardly see what is happening, but she can clearly hear Dylan joyfully informing her that she can dissect.

– Beginning the trepanation," Riley informs her.

Clark, standing on the other side of the patient, yawns under his mask.

The screens show every movement: here the surgeon carefully cuts a small, horseshoe-like semicircle; puts staples on both sides of the skin, secures them; Clark runs a scalpel inside, carefully separating tissue from bone; the operating nurse instantly dries. Clark dissects the periosteum, waits for Gilmore to make a few holes, and then carefully peels away the unwanted part. There is a quiet whirring sound: the small saw gently passes between the holes, leaving only one untouched – at this point the bone flap they peeled off earlier will be connected to the skull through the periosteum that has not yet been removed.

Every movement, every millimeter, every next step is fine-tuned; the precision with which Gilmore performs the trepanation gives Emily's back goose bumps.

And the doctor is amused.

– I've reached…" Riley begins.

– …bottom," Dylan finishes for him.

– Fuck you. Cutting through the hard shell… Great. That's it, you're out.

What Clark does next remains a mystery to Emily: she sees two thin wires on large handles bouncing back and forth inside the patient's head; she hears unfamiliar words and Gilmore's approving exclamations:

– Oh, how glorious… I see you had a great morning!

– What makes you think that? – Clark throws a clip in the cuvette and immediately puts a new one in.

– So Moss is on the night shift today.

– Moss has been going to a lot of nights. Who lets him in there anyway?

– He's his own boss. – Riley shrugs. – Give us a zoom on square four…

– Well," Clark puts the instrument aside, "that's his choice. After all, you and I aren't in the waiting room to complain.

– Neither is he in the waiting room at night. – The surgeon pushes the tissue aside. – I don't see any tumors yet, which is what I needed to prove.

– Let him do what he wants. As long as he doesn't show up here," Clark grimaced.

– Exactly," Riley agreed. – Davis, by the way, asked for Saturday off. Daughter's ballet dancing.

– That's good, too. – Clark picks up the thin metal wires again. – Maybe I should take the day off, too, eh, Rye? – Sigh. – Go to the opera house, see the world around me… Oh, here's a cut-out," the neurosurgeon announces. – It's a shitty cut," she adds. – It needs to be cleaned.

– No necrosis? – Riley himself brings a small tube-extractor to the area.

– I can't see it yet. – Clark stares at the monitor while her hands move. – But I can see inflammation, third quadrant; it's spread to the fourth, going diagonal. We can treat it, or we can cut it out. What do you think?

– Cut it already," the surgeon waved his hand. – If it's gone.

– Well, wake up, then.

Dylan hums contentedly. Buttons click; numbers flicker on the screen, there is a beep; anesthesiologist begins counting: ten, nine …

Clark brings the microscope to her eyes – the same one she calibrated – and puts the optics back over her eyes.

– Four, three, two…

Emily jumps up from her chair; one of the nurses lifts the blue curtain covering the main part of the patient's body. Johnson sees the girl open her dry lips and let out a strange, thin, "Ahhhh" as she exhales.

– We're breathing, we're fine," says Dylan. – Now, miss, come on, your right arm up a little… Good! Now the left one… Now bend your leg, that's it, good girl…! Your nurse will speak to you now, so try to answer all her questions, okay? Good. – He's rubbing his hands together. – She's all yours! Keep your oxygen mask on.

– Take the plots at twenty-five," Clark commands. – Rye, get ready… You're good to go, Johnson.

Emily instantly forgets everything she's been trying to think about for so long, and gives out a shameful:

– How's it going?

If Clark could stop her instrument, she'd do it right away; but it's too late; so she just hisses something resembling "brainless girl" through her teeth and shuts up.

– It's okay," comes the patient's faint voice. – I don't feel anything.

– That's good," Emily smiled. – Do not move.

Another silly thing: the girl's head is fixed so tightly that even if the bed starts to rodeo, nothing in her skull will tremble.

Through the endless beeps of tension, Emily asks questions: what color the sky is; how she feels now; where they are; and asks for her name and approximate time. Clark and Gilmore work quickly, almost without speaking; instruments clatter; a microscope barely buzzes.

Finally, there's a hiss-that's Clark literally welding the damaged tissue together.

– That's it, let's go to sleep. We have a mild lesion on the cortical terminal of the frontal oblique bundle. No lesions on the occipital lobe. The visual crossover is probably intact, but I can't get to it. Graciole's radius is badly damaged, as if someone chopped it up in the middle. I don't see anything else. No tumors, no abnormalities, no hematomas. No response to low frequencies… That's it, I've taken the data," Clark finally exhales. – Damn!" The instrument falls to the floor with a thud. – Give me a new tap. Kate, did you fall asleep in there? Kate…?

Emily takes a step, but not in time – the same nurse who was fussing at the surgical table, quietly slips down the glass partition; either from the sight of blood, or from the heat her eyes roll back, and she faints. Johnson stares at the body on the floor for a split second, and then takes Collin's corndog from the tray against the wall and hands it to Clark.

Her actions take no more than three seconds – as if in a dance: step, turn, step back; Clark quickly clutches the right cloth, Gilmore snorts disapprovingly.

– Let it lie. – Dylan taps the keys. – Then we'll get the janitors to clean it up.

– Damn nurses," Clark gritted through his teeth. – It's trouble. Why can't I get another surgeon?

– Because we don't have any?

– Crohn's to me! – Neurosurgeon commands. – Let's put her back together. What are we talking about? Oh, here we go. We could get someone to do some moonlighting. And this one," she points the needle at Kate, "how did she get in here in the first place?

– You forgot to mention how she made it through half the surgery… Okay, I'm closing.

– I'll think about it later. – Clark rolls his eyes.

– After the surgery?

– After she was fired. Johnson, what are you digging into?

*

Emily walks down the corridor, and everything inside of her is bubbling. Her fingers clutch the envelope: fresh X-rays, looking like a subway map, to take to Higgins, and then give some more folders to Mel and maybe go back to the usual routine.

Routine.

When did she start calling her regular job a chore? Probably the moment she first entered the operating room, smelled sterility, metal, and the subtle, subtle scent of Dr. Gilmore's perfume.

Mel always said: you can't straighten your back here, the walls are narrow, the ceiling is low; if you want to get up, you'll just smash your forehead; forget about surgeries, name forms, surgical help: this is not our department, not my concern, not your future. Just prop up the ceiling with your forehead, and go to work, bent over.

They're all the same – the girls who didn't go to school; they dropped out, abandoned, couldn't get to the higher caste, to the next rung. They couldn't become surgical nurses, they couldn't turn into interns, they couldn't work their way up to the senior ranks. All your life you have to carry patients, give them injections, put them on drips, and don't even think about anything else.

There's snow all around, and the roads are blocked. There's no way to get there.

And now Emily's in surgery.

It's like taking the sun out of the sky and putting it in your pocket: it warms and burns and shines, and there's no hiding or escape. Let it be a mere passing of tools from hand to hand, let it be; it is important, too; Rebecca would die of envy!..!

But she will not tell: the suns in her pockets are not told; they are cherished and kept, not allowed to get dusty. It is only hers, deserved; and it will be a reminder of this day.

And of her own importance.

Emily strides confidently down the hall, and the sun warms her pocket.

*

– Listen, Laurie. – Riley Gilmore holds the neurosurgeon by the sleeve. – I'll tell you something's not right here.

– It's just a fainting spell," Clark waves off. – Let's find another one.

– She's Moss!

– Jesus, Riley. – The woman laughs. – Do you see everything as a universal conspiracy? She's just a little girl not used to the sight of blood. Moss is a bastard, of course, but not that bad.

– I don't like it," Gilmore says. – It shouldn't have happened.

– But it did. – She stops abruptly at the coffee machine. – Got any change?

Riley rummages through her jeans pockets and pulls out a few coins, and the round silver pounds disappear into Clark's hands faster than cards from a magician.

– You're like my wife," he mutters. – You take all the money, too.

– You're divorced! – Coins fall into the machine with a clinking sound.

– That's why I'm divorced. – Gilmore leans his shoulder against the wall. – Will you go to Ray for a replacement?

– Pow! – Clark takes out a plastic cup. – No, I'd rather pick one up myself.

– You know the whole staff. – Riley can barely contain herself from a quip. – Ask Harmon, and he'll send you someone… normal.

The woman snorts.

– I'm not crazy to ask James for something like that. His interns are nothing but trouble. No," she stirs her coffee thoughtfully, "you need someone else. More… fresh? Without all those fancy letters after the name, you know what I mean. And someone we know.

– There's no such thing. – Gilmore pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his inside pocket, looks at it sadly, and hides it back. – You love the letters.

Clark is silent for a minute, then says thoughtfully:

– Look, I think I know.