you’ve got a point there, Brenda, about Dr. Rosen I mean.”
Once a cacophony of sound, the room was now silent. The operating room had no windows, and the only link to the outside world was an intercom on the one of the four white walls. The Mozart CD had ended but no one requested more music.
A man’s voice on the intercom interrupted the silence. “Dr. Gianni, do you have a time estimate?”
“No I don’t,” Gianni said emphatically.
“Okay, just checking.”
Rosen had hung the blood for transfusion, and it trickled into the patient’s vein. The surgical pack was soaked bright red with blood, but no new blood appeared around the packing.
“This may just work, Will,” Gianni said.
“I’m saying my prayers, that’s about all we can do for the next few minutes,” Drew said.
“We can at least have some music,” Gianni said.
Brenda selected another classical piece, and this time Rosen kept his comments to himself. His eyes were fixed on the patient and on the suction canister. Chopin played in the background now, a niceselection, Gianni thought, serious but not too gloomy.
“Okay, Will, it’s 8:52. What do you think?” The pack remained bright red, yet still, no new blood was evident around the margins of the pack.
“Gently we go…easy, easy,” Gianni said. He grasped the end of the gauze packing with a forceps and pulled it slowly, straight out of the wound, carefully unwinding the folds of the accordion a few inches at a time. When the end was finally withdrawn, all eyes moved to the surgical site.
“Good,” Gianni said. “It looks good. Let’s just sit tight a little longer to make sure. And I’ll need some Avitene hemostatic, several sheets, please.”
After another few minutes of watchful waiting, Gianni and Drew were able to place a titanium plate to bridge the gap left after the tumor was excised. The wound was finally closed with a delicate, essentially invisible subcuticular stitch.
IT WAS 11:15 IN THE MORNING when Gianni returned to the surgeons’ lounge. He had spoken with the patient’s family after surgery, and he was slouched now in one of the well-worn lounge chairs, a bit worn himself for such an early hour. His day had really just begun. From the pocket of his scrub top he pulled out an index card that listed all of the calls he should be making today. The card was full, and the first three were all consulting physicians for some of his upcoming surgical cases next week. They could wait, as he didn’t feel quite up to those in light of the earlier excitement. The fourth note, written in his own small script the night before, said “Call BRH.” Bradford Randolph Hill. That was one he could readily handle rightnow. It would be a welcome diversion, they could talk about horses.
“Dr. Gianni calling for Mr. Hill, please.”
“One moment.”
“Anthony! Expected I might hear from you today.”
“Listen, I was able to get Stu to meet you for dinner some night soon. You know he rarely does that much anymore, seems to have all the clients he needs, but he does want to meet you. I guess he likes what he’s heard.”
“Anthony, thank you, I really do appreciate that. Now which of the two-year-olds did you say you like?”
As Gianni spoke, he picked at a small hole in the arm of the upholstered chair. “Well, I’ve taken a twenty-five percent stake in Chiefly Endeavor. As far as I know, there is still at least one share left. So maybe we can have some fun with that one. Go to the Derby together, right?”
“Of course, isn’t that what every owner of a reasonably bred two-year-old says?” Hill asked.
Gianni said, “An infamous Kentucky horseman once said, ‘No one ever committed suicide with an untried two-year-old in the barn.’”
“I’ll remember that.”
Perhaps that line coined by the legendary Colonel Phil Chinn summed up the appeal of the thoroughbred game for Gianni— diversion, excitement, and potential, always lots of pure, unbridled
Once a cacophony of sound, the room was now silent. The operating room had no windows, and the only link to the outside world was an intercom on the one of the four white walls. The Mozart CD had ended but no one requested more music.
A man’s voice on the intercom interrupted the silence. “Dr. Gianni, do you have a time estimate?”
“No I don’t,” Gianni said emphatically.
“Okay, just checking.”
Rosen had hung the blood for transfusion, and it trickled into the patient’s vein. The surgical pack was soaked bright red with blood, but no new blood appeared around the packing.
“This may just work, Will,” Gianni said.
“I’m saying my prayers, that’s about all we can do for the next few minutes,” Drew said.
“We can at least have some music,” Gianni said.
Brenda selected another classical piece, and this time Rosen kept his comments to himself. His eyes were fixed on the patient and on the suction canister. Chopin played in the background now, a niceselection, Gianni thought, serious but not too gloomy.
“Okay, Will, it’s 8:52. What do you think?” The pack remained bright red, yet still, no new blood was evident around the margins of the pack.
“Gently we go…easy, easy,” Gianni said. He grasped the end of the gauze packing with a forceps and pulled it slowly, straight out of the wound, carefully unwinding the folds of the accordion a few inches at a time. When the end was finally withdrawn, all eyes moved to the surgical site.
“Good,” Gianni said. “It looks good. Let’s just sit tight a little longer to make sure. And I’ll need some Avitene hemostatic, several sheets, please.”
After another few minutes of watchful waiting, Gianni and Drew were able to place a titanium plate to bridge the gap left after the tumor was excised. The wound was finally closed with a delicate, essentially invisible subcuticular stitch.
IT WAS 11:15 IN THE MORNING when Gianni returned to the surgeons’ lounge. He had spoken with the patient’s family after surgery, and he was slouched now in one of the well-worn lounge chairs, a bit worn himself for such an early hour. His day had really just begun. From the pocket of his scrub top he pulled out an index card that listed all of the calls he should be making today. The card was full, and the first three were all consulting physicians for some of his upcoming surgical cases next week. They could wait, as he didn’t feel quite up to those in light of the earlier excitement. The fourth note, written in his own small script the night before, said “Call BRH.” Bradford Randolph Hill. That was one he could readily handle rightnow. It would be a welcome diversion, they could talk about horses.
“Dr. Gianni calling for Mr. Hill, please.”
“One moment.”
“Anthony! Expected I might hear from you today.”
“Listen, I was able to get Stu to meet you for dinner some night soon. You know he rarely does that much anymore, seems to have all the clients he needs, but he does want to meet you. I guess he likes what he’s heard.”
“Anthony, thank you, I really do appreciate that. Now which of the two-year-olds did you say you like?”
As Gianni spoke, he picked at a small hole in the arm of the upholstered chair. “Well, I’ve taken a twenty-five percent stake in Chiefly Endeavor. As far as I know, there is still at least one share left. So maybe we can have some fun with that one. Go to the Derby together, right?”
“Of course, isn’t that what every owner of a reasonably bred two-year-old says?” Hill asked.
Gianni said, “An infamous Kentucky horseman once said, ‘No one ever committed suicide with an untried two-year-old in the barn.’”
“I’ll remember that.”
Perhaps that line coined by the legendary Colonel Phil Chinn summed up the appeal of the thoroughbred game for Gianni— diversion, excitement, and potential, always lots of pure, unbridled
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