Godplayer (6 page)

Rinsing off the suds, Thomas lifted his hands to prevent water from running down his arms. He opened the OR door with his hip. As he did so, he could hear the conversation in the room trail off into awed silence. He accepted a towel from the scrub nurse, Teresa Goldberg. For a second their eyes met above their face masks. Thomas liked Teresa. She had a wonderful body that even the bulky surgical gown she was wearing could not hide. Besides, he could yell at her if need be, knowing she wouldn’t burst into tears. She was also smart enough not only to recognize that Thomas was the best surgeon at the Memorial but to tell him so. Thomas methodically dried his hands while he checked out the patient’s vital signs. Then, like a general reviewing his troops, he moved around the room, nodding to Phil Baxter, the perfusionist, who stood behind his heart-lung machine. It was primed and humming, ready to take over the job of oxygenating the patient’s blood and pumping it around the body while Thomas did his work.

Next Thomas eyed Terence Halainen, the anesthesiologist.

“Everything is stable,” said Terence, alternately squeezing the breathing bag.

“Good,” said Thomas.

Disposing of the towel, Thomas slipped on the sterile gown held by Teresa. Then he thrust his hands into special brown rubber gloves. As if on cue, Dr. Larry Owen, the senior cardiac surgery fellow, looked up from the operative field.

“Mr. Campbell is all ready for you,” said Larry, making room for Thomas to approach the OR table. The patient lay with his chest fully opened in preparation for the famous Dr. Kingsley to do a bypass procedure. At Boston Memorial it was customary for the senior resident or fellow to open as well as close such operations.

Thomas stepped up to his position on the patient’s right. As he always did at this point, he slowly reached into the wound and touched the beating heart. The wet surface of his rubber gloves offered no resistance, and he could feel all the mysterious movement in the pulsating organ.

The touch of the beating heart took Thomas’s mind back to his first major case as a resident in thoracic surgery. He had been involved in many operations prior to that, but always as the first assistant, or second assistant, or somewhere down the line of authority. Then a patient named Walter Nazzaro had been admitted to the hospital. Nazzaro had had a massive heart attack and was not expected to live. But he did. Not only did he survive his heart attack, but he survived the rigorous evaluation that the house staff doctors put him through. The results of the work-up were impressive. Everyone wondered how Walter Nazzaro had lived as long as he had. He had occlusive disease in his main left coronary artery, which had been responsible for his heart attack. He also had occlusive disease in his right coronary artery with evidence of an old heart attack. In addition he had mitral and aortic valve disease. Then, as if that weren’t enough, Walter had developed an aneurysm, or a ballooning of the wall, of his left ventricle of his heart as a result of the most recent heart attack. He also had an irregular heart rhythm, high blood pressure, and kidney disease.

Since Walter was such a fund of anatomic and physiologic pathology, he was presented at all the conferences with everyone offering various opinions. The only aspect of his case that everyone agreed upon was the fact that Walter was a walking time bomb. No one wanted to operate except a resident named Thomas Kingsley, who argued that surgery was Walter’s only chance to escape the death sentence. Thomas continued to argue until everyone was sick of hearing him. Finally the chief resident agreed to allow Thomas to do the case.

On the day of surgery, Thomas, who had been working with an experimental method of aiding cardiac function, inserted a helium-driven counterpulsation balloon into Walter’s aorta. Anticipating trouble with Walter’s left ventricle, Thomas wanted to be prepared.

Only after the operation had begun did the reality of the situation dawn on him. Excitement had changed to anxiety as Thomas began to follow the plan he had outlined in his mind. He would never forget the sensation he experienced when he stopped Walter’s heart and held the quivering mass of sick muscle in his hand. At that moment he knew it was in his power to restore life. Refusing to consider the possibility of failure, Thomas first performed a bypass, an experimental procedure in those days. Then he excised the ballooned area of Walter’s heart, oversewing the defect with rows of heavy silk. Finally, he replaced both the mitral and aortic valves.

The instant the repair was complete, Thomas tried to take Walter from the heart-lung machine. By this time, unknown to Thomas, a significant audience had gathered. There was a murmur of sadness when it was obvious that Walter’s heart did not have the strength to pump the blood.

Undaunted, Thomas started the counterpulsation device he had positioned before the operation.

He would always remember his elation when Walter’s heart responded. Not only was Walter taken off the heart-lung machine, but three hours later in the recovery room even the counterpulsation assist was no longer needed. Thomas felt as if he had created life. The excitement was like a fix. For months afterward he was carried away by open-heart surgery.

Reaching in, touching the heart, defying death with his own two hands-it was like playing God. Soon he found he became deeply depressed without the excitement of several such operations a week. When he went into practice he scheduled one, two, three such procedures a day. His reputation was so great that there was an endless stream of patients. As long as the hospital allowed him sufficient time in the OR, Thomas was supremely happy. But if another department or the boys in full-time academic medicine attempted to cut back his operating hours, Thomas became as tense and angry as an addict deprived of his daily drug. He needed to operate in order to survive. He needed to feel Godlike in order not to consider himself a failure. He needed the awed approval of other people, the unquestioning approval that was in Larry Owen’s eyes this moment as he asked, “Have you decided if you’re going to do a double or triple bypass?”

The question brought Thomas back to the present.

“It’s a good exposure,” said Thomas, appreciating Larry’s work. “We might as well do three provided you got enough saphenous vein.”

“More than enough,” said Larry with enthusiasm. Prior to opening the chest, Larry had carefully removed a length of vein from Mr. Campbell’s leg.

“All right,” said Thomas with authority. “Let’s get this show on the road. Is the pump ready?”

“All ready,” said Phil Baxter, checking his dials and gauges.

“Forceps and scalpel,” said Thomas.

Swiftly but without haste, Thomas began to work. Within minutes the patient was on the heart-lung machine. Thomas’s operative technique was deliberate and without wasted motion. His knowledge of the anatomy was encyclopedic, as was his sense of feel for the tissue. He handled sutures with an economy of precise motion that was a joy for the aspiring surgeons to watch. Every stitch was perfectly placed. He’d done so many bypass procedures, he could almost function by rote, but the excitement of working on the heart never failed to stir him.

When he was through and convinced the bypasses were sound and there was no excessive bleeding, Thomas stepped back from the table and snapped off his gloves.

“I trust you’ll be able to put back the chest wall the way you found it, Larry,” said Kingsley, turning to leave. “I’ll be available if there is any trouble.” As he left, he heard an audible sigh of appreciation from the residents.

Outside the operating room, the corridor was jammed with people. At that time of day, midafternoon, most of the thirty-six operating rooms were still occupied. Patients, either going to or coming from their surgery, were wheeled through on gurneys, sometimes with teams of people in attendance. Thomas moved among the crowd, occasionally hearing his name whispered.

As he passed the clock outside of central supply, he realized that he’d done Mr. Campbell in less than one hour. In fact, he’d done three bypass cases that day in the time it took most surgeons to do one or two at best.

Thomas told himself that he could have scheduled another operation although he recognized this was not true. The reason he had scheduled only three cases was the bothersome new rule that all surgeons attend Friday afternoon cardiac surgical conference, a relatively recent creation of the chief of the department, Dr. Norman Ballantine. Thomas went, not because he was ordered to do so, but because it had become the ad hoc admitting committee for the department of cardiac surgery. Thomas tried not to think about the situation, because whenever he did so, it made him furious.

“Dr. Kingsley,” called a harsh voice, interrupting Thomas’s thoughts. Priscilla Grenier, the overbearing director of the OR, was waving a pen at him. Thomas gave her credit for being a hard worker and putting in long hours. It was no picnic keeping the thirty-six operating rooms at the Boston Memorial working smoothly. Yet he could not tolerate it when she insinuated herself in his affairs, something that she seemed eager to do. She always had some order or instruction.

“Dr. Kingsley,” called Priscilla. “Mr. Campbell’s daughter is in the waiting room, and you should go down and see her before you change.” Without waiting for a reply, Priscilla turned back to her desk.

With difficulty, Thomas contained his annoyance and continued down the hall without acknowledging the comment. Some of the euphoria he had felt in the OR left him. Lately he found the pleasure in each surgical success increasingly fleeting.

At first Thomas thought he’d ignore Priscilla, change into his suit, then stop in to see Mr. Campbell’s daughter. However, the fact remained that he felt obligated to remain in his scrub clothes until Mr. Campbell had reached the recovery room, just in case there were unforeseen complications.

Banging open the door to the surgical lounge with his hand, Thomas stopped at the coat rack and rummaged for a long white coat to put over his scrub clothes. As he pulled it on, he thought about the unnecessary frustrations he was forced to endure. The quality of the nurses had definitely gone down. And Priscilla Grenier! It seemed like only yesterday that people like her knew their place. And compulsory Friday afternoon conferences ... God!

In a distracted state, Thomas walked down to the waiting room. This was a relatively new addition to the hospital, which had been created out of an old storeroom. As the number of bypass procedures done by the department had soared, it was decided that there should be a special room close by where family members could stay until their loved ones were out of the OR. It had been the brainchild of one of the assistant administrators and turned out to be a gold mine for public relations.

When Thomas entered the room, which was tastefully decorated with pale blue walls and white trim, his attention was caught by an emotional outburst in the corner.

“Why, why?” shouted a small, distraught woman.

“There, there,” said Dr. George Sherman, trying to calm the sobbing woman. “I’m sure they did all they could to save Sam. We knew his heart was not normal. It could have happened at any time.”

“But he’d been happy at the home. We should have let him be. Why did I let you talk me into bringing him here. You told me there was some risk if you operated. You never told me there was a risk during the catheterization. Oh God.”

The woman’s tears overwhelmed her. She began to sag, and Dr. Sherman reached out to catch her arm.

Thomas rushed over to George’s side and helped support the woman. He exchanged glances with George, who rolled his eyes at the outburst. As a member of the full-time cardiac staff, Thomas did not have a high regard for Dr. George Sherman, but under the circumstances he felt obligated to lend a hand. Together they sat the bereaved mother down. She buried her face in her hands, her hunched-over shoulders jerking as she continued to sob.

“Her son arrested down in X ray during a catheterization,” whispered George. “He was badly retarded and had physical problems as well.”

Before Thomas could respond, a priest and another man, who was apparently the woman’s husband, arrived. They all embraced, which seemed to give the woman renewed strength. Together they hurriedly left the room.

George straightened up. It was obvious that the situation had unnerved him. Thomas felt like repeating the woman’s question about why the child had been taken from the institution where he’d apparently been happy, but he didn’t have the heart.

“What a way to make a living,” said George selfconsciously as he left the room.

Thomas scanned the faces of the people remaining.

They were looking at him with a mixture of empathy and fear. All of them had family members currently undergoing surgery, and such a scene was extremely disquieting. Thomas looked for Campbell’s daughter. She was sitting by the window, pale and expectant, arms on her knees, hands clasped. Thomas walked over to her and looked down. He’d seen her once before in his office and knew her name was Laura. She was a handsome woman, probably about thirty, with fine light brown hair pulled back from her forehead in a long ponytail.

“The case went fine,” he said gently.

In response, Laura leaped to her feet and threw herself at Thomas, pressing herself against him and flinging her arms around his neck. “Thank you,” she said, bursting into tears. “Thank you.”

Thomas stood stiffly, absorbing the display of emotion. Her outburst had taken him by complete surprise. He realized that other people were watching and tried to disengage himself, but Laura refused to let go. Thomas remembered that after his first open-heart success, Mr. Nazzaro’s family had been equally hysterical in their thanks. At that time Thomas had shared their happiness. The whole family had hugged him and Thomas had hugged them back. He could sense the respect and gratitude they felt toward him. It had been an unbelievably heady experience, and Thomas recalled the event with strong nostalgia. Now he knew his reactions were more complicated. He often did three to five cases a day. More often than not he knew little or nothing about his patients save for their preoperative physiological data. Mr. Campbell was a good example.