Page 213 of The Night Shift
“Patient’s crashing!” the anesthesiologist calls out. “Systolic is fifty-four!”
“His iliac is shredded. Clamp the damn aorta!”
My gloved fingers clamp down just above the bifurcation hard and fast.
The bleeding barely slows.
The smell of cauterized tissue hits my nose. Metallic and nauseating. My gloves are slick with blood. “Transection’s jagged,” I say. “Two-point-five centimeters, maybe more.”
“We’ll bypass. Dacron graft. Get the distal end prepped. Dr. Moore, you're on it.”
I isolate the artery below the tear, clamps already in place. I loop a silk tie around the vessel, my hands steady despite the adrenaline jackhammering through my chest.
Corbin snips the graft while I irrigate the field. “You’re doing good, keep going.”
Needle driver in hand, I throw the first stitch through the graft and into the iliac. Corbin handles the anterior wall. We tie off.
“Moment of truth,” Corbin mutters. “Declamp.”
He lifts the aortic clamp. For a second, nothing happens.
Then the blood flows. Smooth. Laminar.
An audible exhale ripples through the OR.
“Nice work, Dr. Moore,” Dr. Corbin says as the resident on closure takes over.
I finally step back and let the circulator unhook my gown. The moment it comes off, cold air hits my sweat-soaked scrubs. Blood’s still on my neck, soaked through my bouffant cap, crusted on my forearms. My hairline is damp too — with sweat and god knows what else.
I wash up at the sink. Once I’m clean enough, I check my phone. It’s 8:52 p.m.
I’d texted Theo an hour ago telling him I have an emergency trauma case, and that I’m going to be really,reallylate for our…dinner meeting…thing.
He hasn’t responded yet.
He probably thinks I’m using surgery as an excuse to bail, which sounds exactly like something I would do. Just not this time.
I tuck the phone into my pocket and head for the locker room. Dinner — or whatever it was — probably isn’t happening anymore.
The locker room is nearly empty when I walk in, save for the lingering scent of antiseptic and sweat. I peel off my scrubs, toss them in the bin, and step into the decon shower.
The water runs hot. Scalding.
Ten minutes later, I’m in clean clothes — a pair of jeans and a purple cardigan, along with sneakers I borrowed from April. My hair is damp and my skin is raw from all the scrubbing. I go to the doctor’s lounge and pour myself a cup of coffee, collapsing on my go-to armchair to breathe for five seconds when my phone rings.
I pull it out, half-hoping it’s Theo. Camille’s name flashes on the screen. I swipe to answer. “Hey, what’s up?”
“You still working?”
“Just got done.” I take a sip of the bitter coffee. “Was gonna head out for dinner, but that’s not happening anymore.” A traitorous pang of disappointment sneaks in before I can shut the door on it.
“Good. Because I’m coming over. Pizza and beer, your place?”
I haven’t seen Camille in days. I can’t say no to her. Plus, this would give me a chance to check up on her injuries face to face.
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll be back in about thirty.”
“Oh thank god. I thought you were gonna bail on me again.”
