the tumor on it. Then, as quickly as possible, Jessie began melting cancer cells once more, all the while getting closer and closer to thinking brain.
“What do you see, Sar? Tell me what the guy’s doing?”
“Ski-ing.”
“And now?”
“Run-ning.”
“She’s starting to swell,” Jessie whispered. “Jesus, is she swelling. Byron, please give her fifty of mannitol.”
“Fifty going in.”
“What do you see, Sar? Talk to me. Talk to me.”
“M ... ma ...”
Jessie felt her aggressive approach to the resection begin to blunt.
“Em, there’s too much swelling. Everything’s shifting, getting distorted. Byron, give her some steroids. Make it ten of Decadron.”
“Ten in.”
“Easy, Jess. You can only do what you can do,” Emily said.
“Sara, what do you see? Sara? Em, suck here. Right here.”
God, I’m too deep. I know I am.
Jessie was far less emotional in the operating room than she was in the rest of her world. But even at her coolest, she was not the ice cube some surgeons were. With the reality of a partial or complete loss of communication for her patient on the line, Jessie knew she was tightening up like a heated bowstring. The sudden swelling and the intertwining of normal and abnormal cells had made further surgery impractical, if not impossible. Maybe she had gotten enough already, she reasoned. Maybe Sara’s own immune system could take care of whatever was left behind.
I don’t think I can go any further.
“Sara, it’s Jess. Tell me what you see. ... Say something. ... Anything. ... Come on, baby, say something.”
The best Sara could muster was a guttural groan.
“Em, I don’t know,” Jessie said. “I’m right there. I’m right at speech pathways. Maybe in them already. It’s like the tumor’s just melted into brain.”
“You want to stop?”
“I ... I don’t know.”
This was it—the moment she had prayed would never come. She had allowed herself to hope for an operation that was perfectly clean—everything crystal clear and well defined. No overwhelming scarring, no dangerous swelling, no wrenching decisions. She surveyed the edema distorting Sara’s brain. If anything, it had gotten a little worse. Too soon , she told herself. It was still too soon to tell if the mannitol and Decadron would reduce the swelling. But as things stood, there was still some definition of structure—not much, but some. If she waited for the treatment to work and instead the swelling worsened, the chances of avoiding critical speech areas, and probably other structures as well, would be even slimmer than they already were. The bowstring tightened.
The only safe thing to do, she decided, was to stop.
Before she could voice that decision to Emily, the door to the OR pushed open and a man strode in wearing scrubs and a mask, but no covering over his rippling brown hair nor his spit-polished wing tips. ... Gilbride.
“Jessie, where’s Skip Porter?” he asked with not so much as an acknowledgment that there was brain surgery going on, let alone on a former patient of his.
Jerk .
“Skip? He had some emergency oral surgery yesterday. I think he went to have it checked before coming in today. He usually only works afternoons on Mondays anyway.”
“Well, I need him. The president of Cybermed was at the meeting this morning. He’s in my office right now and he wants a look at ARTIE.”
Jessie looked down into Sara’s incision. The swelling was no better, but thank God, no worse.
“The prototype from yesterday has been taken apart,” she said through clenched teeth. “ARTIE-Two should be around.”
“Well, it isn’t. I looked all over the lab and I can’t find it. Cybermed has the clout to make ARTIE number one in the area of intraoperative robotics. And here I can’t even produce the damn thing.”
Beneath her mask, Jessie calmed herself with a lengthy exhale.
“Did you look in the cabinet over the central sink? That’s where we always keep both ARTIEs locked
“What do you see, Sar? Tell me what the guy’s doing?”
“Ski-ing.”
“And now?”
“Run-ning.”
“She’s starting to swell,” Jessie whispered. “Jesus, is she swelling. Byron, please give her fifty of mannitol.”
“Fifty going in.”
“What do you see, Sar? Talk to me. Talk to me.”
“M ... ma ...”
Jessie felt her aggressive approach to the resection begin to blunt.
“Em, there’s too much swelling. Everything’s shifting, getting distorted. Byron, give her some steroids. Make it ten of Decadron.”
“Ten in.”
“Easy, Jess. You can only do what you can do,” Emily said.
“Sara, what do you see? Sara? Em, suck here. Right here.”
God, I’m too deep. I know I am.
Jessie was far less emotional in the operating room than she was in the rest of her world. But even at her coolest, she was not the ice cube some surgeons were. With the reality of a partial or complete loss of communication for her patient on the line, Jessie knew she was tightening up like a heated bowstring. The sudden swelling and the intertwining of normal and abnormal cells had made further surgery impractical, if not impossible. Maybe she had gotten enough already, she reasoned. Maybe Sara’s own immune system could take care of whatever was left behind.
I don’t think I can go any further.
“Sara, it’s Jess. Tell me what you see. ... Say something. ... Anything. ... Come on, baby, say something.”
The best Sara could muster was a guttural groan.
“Em, I don’t know,” Jessie said. “I’m right there. I’m right at speech pathways. Maybe in them already. It’s like the tumor’s just melted into brain.”
“You want to stop?”
“I ... I don’t know.”
This was it—the moment she had prayed would never come. She had allowed herself to hope for an operation that was perfectly clean—everything crystal clear and well defined. No overwhelming scarring, no dangerous swelling, no wrenching decisions. She surveyed the edema distorting Sara’s brain. If anything, it had gotten a little worse. Too soon , she told herself. It was still too soon to tell if the mannitol and Decadron would reduce the swelling. But as things stood, there was still some definition of structure—not much, but some. If she waited for the treatment to work and instead the swelling worsened, the chances of avoiding critical speech areas, and probably other structures as well, would be even slimmer than they already were. The bowstring tightened.
The only safe thing to do, she decided, was to stop.
Before she could voice that decision to Emily, the door to the OR pushed open and a man strode in wearing scrubs and a mask, but no covering over his rippling brown hair nor his spit-polished wing tips. ... Gilbride.
“Jessie, where’s Skip Porter?” he asked with not so much as an acknowledgment that there was brain surgery going on, let alone on a former patient of his.
Jerk .
“Skip? He had some emergency oral surgery yesterday. I think he went to have it checked before coming in today. He usually only works afternoons on Mondays anyway.”
“Well, I need him. The president of Cybermed was at the meeting this morning. He’s in my office right now and he wants a look at ARTIE.”
Jessie looked down into Sara’s incision. The swelling was no better, but thank God, no worse.
“The prototype from yesterday has been taken apart,” she said through clenched teeth. “ARTIE-Two should be around.”
“Well, it isn’t. I looked all over the lab and I can’t find it. Cybermed has the clout to make ARTIE number one in the area of intraoperative robotics. And here I can’t even produce the damn thing.”
Beneath her mask, Jessie calmed herself with a lengthy exhale.
“Did you look in the cabinet over the central sink? That’s where we always keep both ARTIEs locked
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