The_Invention_of_Surgery

of comprehensive understanding. I am hoping that my injections into the
hands themselves will work.
The nurse has pulled the lidocaine from the pharmacy and drawn it up
into two large syringes. After removing my temporary dressings, I begin
inserting the needle around the knife wounds, hastening bleeding and
temporarily renewing pain. I keep injecting again and again in both
thumbs and decide to wait a few minutes to let the medicine take effect.
I gather a large metal pan, resembling a baking sheet, to catch the
irrigation water, and the nurse tells me that the orthopedic residents
normally use a battery-powered pulsatile lavage device to blast water into
traumatic wounds. I agree, although I have never used it. This is a bad
mistake.
When I return to the room, I assess how numb Henry’s hands are. The
medicine seems to be working, and I decide to start washing the thumb
wounds. Using the pulsatile device, I start spraying the raw wounds on his
right hand. Henry shrieks in pain—he is clearly not numb enough to
tolerate irrigation. I decide to inject more medicine, but I am afraid to
cause damage to the nerves down his arms if I inject into the nerves
themselves. Instead, I inject into the laceration sites themselves, and
apologize to Henry that the medicine isn’t working as well as I would like.
I understand that my role is to temporize Henry’s situation, but I feel
like all I am doing is making everything worse. I wait another few minutes,
and I’m as frustrated as Henry is scared. I warn him that I need to try
again to wash his wounds, and he positions his hands over the metal pan.
Instead of using the pulsatile device, I use a simple bulb syringe to gently
lavage his open wounds. At first contact, he cries out again, shuddering in
pain, shaking the metal pan and spilling water over the edge of his gurney.
Despite our repeated efforts and a change in technique, his pain is
agonizing.
I stop using the bulb syringe, unable to continue subjecting Henry to
what feels to me like torture. I am at my wits’ end, and not sure what to do.
I glance at this older gentleman, a man with kind eyes despite his
predicament. I shake my head, and I am quite sure he knows I feel
stunningly incompetent.
In a hushed voice, Henry intones, “Lordy, Lordy, help the doctor.” This
beautiful impulse on his part stuns me, and we lock eyes. Perhaps saying