The_Invention_of_Surgery

from hazing. The extra jolt of adrenaline—accompanying my boss—keeps
me upright, but I bitterly regret that I didn’t bring extra socks or
underwear with me Saturday morning. I am certain that I stink like a post-
call intern, and the swampass from my three-day underwear and the
sweaty feet entombed in cushionless, sodden socks make me even more
desperate to trek home and collapse.
Our three-man team meets with the patient and his family in his room,
conveying the stark reality that his life is forever rocked by one accident.
He knows, as a blue-collar worker, his future is permanently jeopardized. I
would like to think I’m an empathetic person, particularly for a surgical
resident, but in this moment I am cruelly reduced to a psychology class
test-subject of sleeplessness; all I want is to lie down. I can’t care about
anything else, and (I’m ashamed to admit) I think to myself, this guy is
part of the reason I was up all night. The patient’s family, all working-
class people who smell of cigarettes, fried foods, and musty dampness,
grasp the situation, with heads bowed in reticent submission. We agree
that another operation will take place tomorrow, to further clean up the
stump of his hand remaining.
Exiting the room, with heavy sighs emanating from my chest, I
determine to make a beeline for home. Now in the dark hallway, I hear the
patient’s father calling out, asking for a minute. Jaw clenching, I know I
could explode in desperate anger, “WHAT NOW? There is nothing more
to be said.”
The father, in worn-out flannel and dungarees, with muddy Red Wing
boots and a mop of thick bristly hair, pauses. I’m thinking, I bet he’s only
fifty years old, when he hesitatingly starts, “Sorry to waste your time, but I
got a question.” Please—please for mercy’s sake—be quick, I think to
myself.
His leathery, sun-weathered skin and raspy voice belie years of chain-
smoking and laboring outdoors, but his kind eyes reveal a humble decency.
“I’m not a smart guy, and I don’t know nothin’ about doctor stuff, but ...”
he trails off. I wait, and my whole body aches with fatigue. “I’ve lived my
life, I’m forty-three years old, and it kills me to see my boy with a wrecked
hand and no future.”
He extends his roughened, calloused hand, each finger thick with power
from years of exertion, and softly asks, “Would it be possible to take the
fingers from my hand and put them on my boy?”