Ken McClure: Past Lives

‘A man barely alive,’ replied Kellerman with mock solemnity. ‘What that woman demanded of me last night ought not to be allowed, and they call them the gentler sex!’

Macandrew smiled as he lathered his forearms. ‘Let’s hear what you remember of the patient’s notes?’

‘Thirty-four year old female, undesignated pineal tumour with a cardiac history, weight one thirty eight pounds, no known allergies, I looked in on her yesterday afternoon.’

‘What did you think?’

‘Seemed strong enough to me,’ replied Kellerman. ‘No worries from my point of view.’

‘Good.’

‘She told me her husband owns Francini Farm Machinery. Think we could be on a bonus if we do a good job?’

‘It could be a horse’s head on the pillow if we don’t,’ replied Macandrew.

‘Francini, Italian? Of course. I think you’ve just got yourself one very alert colleague.’

‘Good,’ replied Macandrew, elbowing off the faucets and accepting a sterile towel from the nurse in attendance. ‘I’d like to get this over as quickly as possible.’

As Kellerman did the same he asked, ‘You don’t really think her husband’s... “Family” do you?’

‘Mr Francini sells tractors,’ smiled Macandrew. ‘On the other hand, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t write poetry or go to the ballet much.’

‘A man’s man eh?’ said Kellerman, putting on an exaggerated male voice. ‘Boy, is he in the right place!’ Kellerman was a Californian.

‘The guy comes on a bit strong but I guess he’s just worried about his wife,’ said Macandrew.

‘Who’s the OR nurse?’ asked Kellerman.

‘Lucy Long,’ replied Macandrew.

‘Good. I thought it might be my “friend”.’

Macandrew smiled. Kellerman’s ‘friend’ was Sylvia Dorman, the other OR nurse working in neorosurgery. She and Kellerman didn’t get along. Dorman was very serious nurse with a Florence Nightingale complex. She saw her career as a Christian vocation. Kellerman’s black humour offended her and he knew it. It inspired him to greater heights, or depths depending on how you looked at it. Macandrew didn’t like working with the pair of them together. An operating room was no place for personality conflicts. He and Kellerman gowned up and left their masks hanging loosely round their throats as they entered the operating room.

‘How are we doing?’ Macandrew asked Lucy Long.

‘All ready.’

Macandrew ran his eye over the instrument trays while Kellerman connected Jane Francini to the equipment he would use to monitor her condition throughout the operation. Green pulses started to chase each other across the face of an oscilloscope and a regular bleep followed the steady beat of the patient’s heart. Macandrew felt comfortable. This was his world: the sights and sounds put him at ease. He supposed it must be the same for truck drivers getting behind the wheel or office workers slipping in behind their desks to begin the day’s work. Familiarity could be such a comfort.

He paid particular attention to the lighting arrangements for this operation. The normal overhead, shadowless lamp would not be sufficient; he would be working close to the patient’s face so he needed angled illumination. Two small ancillary spotlights mounted on the main lighting gantry, which he eased into position, would supply this. The standard route for surgery on the pituitary and pineal glands was through the bone at the corner of nose and eye. There would be no need to shave the patient’s head and very little visible scarring afterwards.

‘How is she doing?’ Macandrew asked Kellerman.

‘More stable than I am,’ came the reply.

‘A comfort... She’s deep enough?’

‘Right on the button.’

Macandrew made a last adjustment to his mask and made a visual inspection of the point of the drill he planned to use before checking the motor function. Its angry insect whine filled the room. He put it back on its stand and asked for a scalpel. It was slapped into his palm. With a slight nod to everyone, he made the first incision. ‘Showtime.’

Sixty minutes later, Jane Francini’s pineal gland lay in a glass dish beside her sleeping form, its normal pine-cone shape distorted by the tumour, which had almost doubled its size.

‘Nasty,’ said Kellerman. ‘But it looks like you got it all.’

‘I think so,’ replied Macandrew. ‘Nice and firm, no break up.’ He turned to one of the nurses and said, ‘Get this to Pathology, will you.’

Gloved hands spirited the dish away and Macandrew got on with ending the operation. ‘Still OK?’ he asked Kellerman.

‘Absolutely fine.’

‘Just what I wanted,’ said Macandrew, ‘A smooth, clean, quick job with no complications. In, out, no messing about.’

He had scarcely left the operating suite when he heard himself being paged. He called in to be told that Mr Francini had been making the staff’s life a misery by demanding constant updates on his wife’s condition. He was insisting on speaking to Macandrew personally the minute the operation was over.

‘I’ll come down.’

Francini jumped up the moment he saw Macandrew approach and rushed over to meet him. ‘How is she, Doc?’ he demanded. ‘She’s OK isn’t she?’

Macandrew had to raise his hands to keep Francini at bay. ‘The operation went well Mr Francini. The tumour has been removed and sent to the path lab for analysis. We’ll know the results in a few hours. Your wife’s in recovery right now. You’ll be able to see her as soon as she comes round.’

‘Thank Christ!’ exclaimed Francini. ‘I don’t mind telling you Doc, Janey means everything to me.’

‘I sort of guessed,’ said Macandrew.

‘You’ll be staying with her?’ asked Francini.

‘That won’t be necessary Mr Francini. She’s in good hands. The nursing staff will take excellent care of her. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get out of these clothes.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Francini backing away a little. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Doc.’

Macandrew felt uneasy. ‘Mr Francini,’ he began cautiously, ‘Jane’s tumour has been removed but we haven’t had the lab report on it yet. A lot depends on that... She’s not out of the woods just yet.’

‘Yeah, but you got rid of the bastard didn’t you? You got all of it out?’

‘I think so but...’

‘Of course you did. I feel it. Janey’s gonna be fine.’

The fact that the operation on Jane Francini had gone well and that the sun was still shining brightly when he walked out through the hospital doors put Macandrew in a good mood. He was whistling as he walked up to the junction of 39th street and Rainbow, trying to decide where to eat lunch. Eating in the Med Centre itself was something he had long given up on. What large institutions did to food was something he no longer subjected himself to. He opted for a quick sandwich at WENDy’s; this would give him time to have a pleasant walk in the sunshine afterwards.

As he waited in line for his sandwich, he became aware of someone smiling at him out of the corner of his eye. It was Lucy Long, the OR nurse. He smiled back and, seeing that she was on her own, took his tray over to join her.

‘I didn’t think neurosurgeons ate junk food,’ said Lucy.

‘What did you think we ate?’ retorted Macandrew.

‘Ambrosia,’ replied Lucy with a straight face.

‘What did I do?’ asked Macandrew, feigning hurt.

‘Not you Mac,’ replied Lucy thoughtfully. ‘But some of your colleagues are a different story.’

‘As long as they’re good at their job,’ said Macandrew, raising his hands slightly to signify he didn’t want to get into this kind of conversation.

‘I suppose so,’ said Lucy. ‘I guess people forgive a surgeon anything if he’s good at his job. It’s just that some of these guys make it a bit hard sometimes!’