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Desertion
So
much invasion, and so little to see– in
a moment you might put on your hat, toss
your newspaper into the fireplace, empty
your waterbottle into the sink. You
might abandon even the remote control.
Take your shirt from
the back of the chair at
the head of the table. Pack your
dictionary. So little to take with
you. Nothing of use to leave behind.
The empty room full of
your need to
be heard.
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Zen
I
was the medical student on orthopedic surgery. It
was a big case: neurosurgery, orthopedics and
pediatric surgery all involved; a child with
myelomeningocele, respiratory compromise secondary
to worsening scoliosis. He lay on his left
side. One group was to enter the chest, one
the back, one the abdomen. The first incisions were
made by general surgery (the abdomen) and
ortho (the back) then anesthesia spoke: dropping pressures,
irregular rhythm, flat line flat line transfuse shock
shock. Bill Jo, left-handed, four foot ten, stood across
from me, quiet, good-humored; for four hours he
held the heart in his hands, a bag of worms. Pump.
Pump.
Pump. I carried warm saline to lavage the
intestines. Neurosurgery never scrubbed. We
stood under the hot OR lamps as fall light grayed
to black. Bill told quiet jokes in unaccented English.
The first board certified Korean American pediatric
surgeon. Ortho left. Bill squeezed the heart.
Again.
Again. Competent. Steady. Gave me a turn. The
faintest stirring movement. That bag of worms.
Defribulate.
Jolt. And it did. On the eleventh try. Sinus
rhythm. On rounds the next day the child sat
up, CNS fully intact, told us all about kindergarten.
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