Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
When my brief sort through the tumbleweeds in my head that always form when I’m running on zero comes up empty, I seek the patient’s file from a stack on the nurses’ desk.
Mrs. Irina Ivanov’s ER paperwork exposes she was admitted five days ago. Her symptoms aren’t what I would classify as life-threatening, so it has me curious as to why she is in an induced coma and scheduled for surgery first thing this morning.
After ensuring I haven’t mistaken my name on both the surgical schedule and Mrs. Ivanov’s admission writeup, I search her medical record for the correct medical officer so I can adjust the error.
Thirty minutes of searching awards me nothing but more confusion.
Mrs. Ivanov’s patient record would have the most stringent medical insurance company convinced I am the surgeon increasing her premiums. It doesn’t even say surgical resident. It appears as if I am the lead surgeon.
Even if that were the case, I would never seek a medical diagnosis by conducting a dangerous exploratory procedure. That is precisely what Mrs. Ivanov’s surgery is. A risky and most likely unnecessary medical procedure that could detrimentally impact her chances of recovery.
With my unease too high to ignore and my anger at a possibly erroneous practice just as overflowing, I stuff Mrs. Ivanov’s medical file under my arm before directing my steps to the surgical ward instead of the closest exit.
The usually bustling ward is as desolate of staff as the OR. A nurse is behind an unmanned nurses’ station, but with a bowl of vomit in one hand and a used Foley catheter in the other, she isn’t portraying a wish to be questioned.
Instead, I approach Mrs. Ivanov’s room, hopeful a member of her real medical team will arrive shortly to prepare her for surgery.
A peculiar sensation overwhelms me when I enter her room. I’m familiar with rooms as small as the curtained-off cubicles of the ER, but it isn’t solely the impressive floor space of Mrs. Ivanov’s private wing that has my heart breaking into a canter. It is finding a patient starkly contrasting to the notes in her file.
She is gaunt, her skin is pale, and her nails are brittle, but when you look past those points, you see a woman who takes care of herself. Her hair is glossy and voluptuous. Her muscle definition shows she works out, and not even being swamped by an oversized hospital bed and bulky medical equipment can hide the fighter inside her.
She reminds me of how my grandfather has defied the odds every single day for the past almost decade.
Confident that Mrs. Ivanov can do the same, I place down her file and commence a prolonged handwashing routine in the sink in her room.
“Mrs. Ivanov, my name is Dr. Hoffman. I’m a third-year surgical resident at Myasnikov.” After ensuring my hands are more germ-free than the equipment I cleaned for the last several hours, I dry them with a paper towel before snapping on two powdered gloves from a box on the wall next to the sink.
While placing on the gloves, I say, “I know it’s early, but with your surgery only hours away, I was hoping you would allow me to conduct a final assessment.”
I look at the beautiful raven-haired lady who appears decades younger than the fifty-eight described on her medical record. She can’t answer me. She was placed in a medically induced coma shortly after admittance, but after being the lead caregiver for my grandfather for the past four years, I soon learned that bedside manner is as important as the many other skills of a surgeon.
“It will only take a few minutes, and I promise it will not be invasive.”
After smiling like the respirator breathing on her behalf answered for her, I walk to her bedside. Her fighting spirit is even more noticeable from this vantage point.
“I’m going to flash a light into your eyes. It will test your pupillary reflexes with a quick succession of flicks.”
Again, I wait as if seeking permission before I raise her eyelids.
“That’s good, Mrs. Ivanov. You did great. Your eyes are responding how they should.”
After placing my penlight on the table at the side of her bed, I gently grasp her head.
“Now I need to pull down your eyelids to check their coloring.”
I breathe out some of the unease in my chest before doing as stated. The skin beneath her eyelids is extremely pale, which is expected since her primary diagnosis is extreme anemia. However, I’m still not convinced going under the knife is the best option for her.
The severeness of anemia does not correspond with the severeness of her symptoms, so exploratory surgery could place Mrs. Ivanov’s life at unnecessary risk. Surely the surgical consultant on her case knows this. Even a third-year intern can’t mishear the warning sirens wailing in the distance.