The Knife’s Edge. Stephen Westaby

The Knife’s Edge - Stephen  Westaby


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off with them to the mortuary fridge. Yet the minute I turned and walked away from these families, my sorrow was filed in the out tray. Eventually, when I started to lose my own patients, I became well used to it.

      ‘That’s why we came to you,’ she replied, her voice quivering with apprehension. She kissed his forehead and slipped out.

      I let out a chain of expletives. While I pressed hard over the incision to slow the bleeding, I instructed my jelly-legged assistant to cannulate the blood vessels in the groin so we could get onto the bypass machine. As the anaesthetist frantically squeezed in bags of donor blood through the drips in the neck, it all went dreadfully wrong. The cannula dissected the layers of the main leg artery so we couldn’t establish any flow. With continued profuse haemorrhage, I had no alternative but to prise open the rigid bone edges and attempt to gain access to the bleeding beneath, forcing a small retractor through the bony incision and cranking it open. But there was no gap between the underside of the bone and heart muscle. The cavernous, thin-walled right ventricle had been plastered by inflammatory adhesions to the bone by a previous wound infection. So I found myself ripping the heart asunder and staring at the underside of the tricuspid valve. Both the hand-held suckers, then the heart itself filled with air as I fought for better access. I then found that this tissue-friendly saw had also transected the right coronary artery. My paralysed registrar simply gaped, as if to say, ‘How the fuck are you going to get out of this mess?’

      I didn’t see the poor lady again until the inquest, where she sat unaccompanied, listening intently. She bore no malice, nor was the coroner critical in any way. The gruesome fact was that I had unintentionally sawn open that heart and emptied the circulation onto my clogs. In my own mind, I knew that a CT scan would have prompted me to cannulate the man’s leg vessels myself, which could have averted the tragedy and was something that I always did after that. Undeterred, I reopened a sternum for the fifth time in front of television cameras just weeks later.

      Most deaths in surgery are wholly impersonal. The patient is either covered in drapes on the operating table or obscured by the grim paraphernalia of the intensive care unit. As a result, my most haunting experiences of death stemmed from trauma cases. The sudden, unexpected process of injury pitches an unsuspecting individual into their own Dante’s Inferno. Knife and bullet injuries were predictable and easy for me. Cut open the chest, find the haemorrhage, sew up the bleeding points, then refill the circulation with blood – such cases always provoked an adrenaline rush, but usually involved young, healthy tissues to repair.

      I could hear the whimpering before I could see the girl, but I knew from the paramedic’s grim expression that it was something unpleasant. Unusually awful, in fact. The teenage motorcyclist was lying on her left side, covered by a blood-soaked white sheet. This sheet and what I could see of her face were the same colour. The poor girl had been drained of blood. Normally she would have been shunted quickly through to the resuscitation room, but there was every reason not to rush.

      I took her cold, clammy hand more in clinical assessment than humanity. She was in circulatory shock, not to mention profound mental turmoil. Her pulse rate was around 120 beats per minute, but the fact that I could feel it suggested that her blood pressure was still above 50 mm Hg. Before we moved her I needed to scrutinise the anatomical features of the injury so as to predict what damage we would be confronted with. I had seen several cases of transfixion trauma where the patient survived because the implement narrowly missed or pushed aside all the vital organs. Here the degree of shock indicated otherwise. It was time to get some cannulas in place in a calm and controlled manner, and bring group O negative blood ready to transfuse her. And for pity’s sake, she deserved a slug of morphine to take the edge off the sheer terror of her predicament.

      Her pleading brown eyes remained firmly fixated on the stake. I could make out the jagged ends of ribs protruding through macerated fat and pale, bruised skin. The post had entered directly below her right breast, marginally to the right of the midline, and emerged from her body higher up in her back, suggesting that she had slid feet first after tumbling from her motorcycle. My three-dimensional anatomical knowledge left me in no doubt which structures had been damaged. The post must have taken out her diaphragm and liver, the lower lobe of her right lung and probably the largest vein in the body, the inferior vena cava. The lung wasn’t a problem. But if her liver was pulped and the veins torn off the cava, I knew that we couldn’t fix her. Scrutiny of the post protruding from her back confirmed my


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