(no subject)
Sawbones, in four-part harmony.
"If you haven't seen this before," cautions the surgeon, "you might wanna pull up a chair".
His message is clear - fainting volunteers are a royal pain in the ass, and I don't want to be made into a case study for future training sessions. Once, years ago, an observer lost consciousness and fell towards the operating table - the patient was saved from almost certain infection by a quick thinking nurse and a strong set of arms. We lost our operating room privileges for eighteen months after that incident and were warned ad nauseum about the dangers of fainting during a procedure.
I wait until he turns away, then scurry to a corner of the room and get a rolling seat from behind the Dalek-like vacuum stand. The surgeon looks as though he's about to begin, then pauses and frowns at me.
"You've been in surgery before?"
"Yes sir," I nod.
"And you can stand the sight of blood?"
"Yes sir."
"Okay then." He swivels back to the operating table and takes a pen from the scrub tech.
The patient is almost entirely draped in sterile cloth save for their exposed right leg, which ends in a short stump below the knee. At the end of the amputated limb is a foul smelling hole in the muscle tissue, the fibers gray where the infection has spread and yellowed with pus. The surgeon sticks his glover fingers around the abscess and stretches it open, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head at the damage. With his other hand he draws a set of lines above the kneecap and curves them downward to make a circle that ends on the underside of the knee. He looks up at the anesthesiologist.
"All right. Tourniquet on, please."
"Tourniquet is on - pressure is..." trails the reply.
The surgeon pauses for a few minutes, and I look over the operating tables next to him full of wicked looking medical equipment. Most of the items are familiar - surgical towels, a basin of water for irrigation, various metal implements - but there are a few on which my eyes linger. At the corner of the closest table is a bone saw, its horizontal blade dull under the fluorescent lights. Adjacent to it are what look like a trio of steaknives on steroids; ferocious steel tools, blades longer than my forearm, tapering to a razor sharp edge.
I snap out of focus to catch the first incision being made on the leg - above the knee, the inked lines turning into bloody channels under the fluid cuts of the surgeon's scalpel. Even with the tourniquet on, the capillaries in the leg slowly empty themselves of blood while the skin comes apart and the healthy pink flesh underneath is exposed. As the surgeon rounds one corner of the knee he hits the fermoral artery, and it suddenly hits me that I should have equipped a splatter shield when I had the chance.
Blood sprays fucking everywhere.
Ruby red, arterial blood gushes out of the leg and splashes all over the surgeon's face, his mask dotted with tiny circles from the continuing torrent. It pours out in a fountain, heading in my direction and stopping three tiles short of my shoes as I bring my knees up and backpedal in unconscious fear.
He presses on, cauterizing the flood and continuing to cut the leg apart, creating a connected avenue of blood all the way around the lower thigh. That done he puts the scalpel down and picks up one of the gleaming knives, severing through the powerful sinews with ease and working his way all around the leg until the bone is exposed and the wriggling flesh hangs down with little support. He stands up and presses his hip close to the patient in an odd, sensual motion - his blood spattered scrubs gleam for a moment before his arm descends and the saw begins its high-pitched whine, lowering in intensity as it shreds the bone into tiny pieces that fly in all directions and cover the doctor and attending tech in gruesome, confetti-like pieces of pink and white.
Fully disconnected from its healthy counterpart, the infected knee flops onto the operating table and is quickly placed into a large bag labeled "BIOHAZARD", then given to an orderly. It disappears from the room, headed to the bowels of the hospital for some sort of testing. The remainder of the leg is washed and looks like a surprisingly benign piece of meat - a circular section of flesh with the bone in the center, surrounded by three large flaps of skin.
Sutures are brought out and the surgeon begins to slowly knit the flesh together, the immense care in contrast to the previous near-savagery. Nearly an hour later the end of the thigh looks like a carefully constructed quilt; three hairlike suture lines run from the perimeter of the circle to meet in the center.
The end of the procedure ends quietly, the calm after a raging inferno of gore. The surgeon breaks out of his scrubs and regards leans over to me.
"How was that?" He beams.
"Wow." Is all I can come up with.
"If you haven't seen this before," cautions the surgeon, "you might wanna pull up a chair".
His message is clear - fainting volunteers are a royal pain in the ass, and I don't want to be made into a case study for future training sessions. Once, years ago, an observer lost consciousness and fell towards the operating table - the patient was saved from almost certain infection by a quick thinking nurse and a strong set of arms. We lost our operating room privileges for eighteen months after that incident and were warned ad nauseum about the dangers of fainting during a procedure.
I wait until he turns away, then scurry to a corner of the room and get a rolling seat from behind the Dalek-like vacuum stand. The surgeon looks as though he's about to begin, then pauses and frowns at me.
"You've been in surgery before?"
"Yes sir," I nod.
"And you can stand the sight of blood?"
"Yes sir."
"Okay then." He swivels back to the operating table and takes a pen from the scrub tech.
The patient is almost entirely draped in sterile cloth save for their exposed right leg, which ends in a short stump below the knee. At the end of the amputated limb is a foul smelling hole in the muscle tissue, the fibers gray where the infection has spread and yellowed with pus. The surgeon sticks his glover fingers around the abscess and stretches it open, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head at the damage. With his other hand he draws a set of lines above the kneecap and curves them downward to make a circle that ends on the underside of the knee. He looks up at the anesthesiologist.
"All right. Tourniquet on, please."
"Tourniquet is on - pressure is..." trails the reply.
The surgeon pauses for a few minutes, and I look over the operating tables next to him full of wicked looking medical equipment. Most of the items are familiar - surgical towels, a basin of water for irrigation, various metal implements - but there are a few on which my eyes linger. At the corner of the closest table is a bone saw, its horizontal blade dull under the fluorescent lights. Adjacent to it are what look like a trio of steaknives on steroids; ferocious steel tools, blades longer than my forearm, tapering to a razor sharp edge.
I snap out of focus to catch the first incision being made on the leg - above the knee, the inked lines turning into bloody channels under the fluid cuts of the surgeon's scalpel. Even with the tourniquet on, the capillaries in the leg slowly empty themselves of blood while the skin comes apart and the healthy pink flesh underneath is exposed. As the surgeon rounds one corner of the knee he hits the fermoral artery, and it suddenly hits me that I should have equipped a splatter shield when I had the chance.
Blood sprays fucking everywhere.
Ruby red, arterial blood gushes out of the leg and splashes all over the surgeon's face, his mask dotted with tiny circles from the continuing torrent. It pours out in a fountain, heading in my direction and stopping three tiles short of my shoes as I bring my knees up and backpedal in unconscious fear.
He presses on, cauterizing the flood and continuing to cut the leg apart, creating a connected avenue of blood all the way around the lower thigh. That done he puts the scalpel down and picks up one of the gleaming knives, severing through the powerful sinews with ease and working his way all around the leg until the bone is exposed and the wriggling flesh hangs down with little support. He stands up and presses his hip close to the patient in an odd, sensual motion - his blood spattered scrubs gleam for a moment before his arm descends and the saw begins its high-pitched whine, lowering in intensity as it shreds the bone into tiny pieces that fly in all directions and cover the doctor and attending tech in gruesome, confetti-like pieces of pink and white.
Fully disconnected from its healthy counterpart, the infected knee flops onto the operating table and is quickly placed into a large bag labeled "BIOHAZARD", then given to an orderly. It disappears from the room, headed to the bowels of the hospital for some sort of testing. The remainder of the leg is washed and looks like a surprisingly benign piece of meat - a circular section of flesh with the bone in the center, surrounded by three large flaps of skin.
Sutures are brought out and the surgeon begins to slowly knit the flesh together, the immense care in contrast to the previous near-savagery. Nearly an hour later the end of the thigh looks like a carefully constructed quilt; three hairlike suture lines run from the perimeter of the circle to meet in the center.
The end of the procedure ends quietly, the calm after a raging inferno of gore. The surgeon breaks out of his scrubs and regards leans over to me.
"How was that?" He beams.
"Wow." Is all I can come up with.