picture of a broken and vexed woman.
“There is no way we can save the ball of your shoulder, Mrs. Harrison.
But I can’t leave it where it is. We’ll need to take you to the operating
room, make an incision, and remove all the broken parts. The only way to
treat your shoulder is to take out all the shattered pieces and sew together
the tendons in your shoulder and close you up.”
Dr. Neer was a man of few words and quiet contemplation. He paused,
waiting for Mrs. Harrison to contemplate what he had proposed.
“Well,” she haltingly started, “am I going to be okay? Will my arm be
usable?”
“It’s a little hard to say. This is a fairly rare injury, and we don’t have
much guidance in the medical literature, but I don’t think you’ll ever raise
your arm above your head, and it will be difficult dressing and working
around the house. I’m sorry to tell you this, but you’ll mostly have to use
your arm just by moving your elbow and wrist.”
After a brief silence in which Mrs. Harrison pursed her lips, fighting
tears, Dr. Neer resumed. “I’ve been interested in this very problem for
several years. We don’t do a very good job treating fractures like yours,
and I have been spending a great deal of time trying to figure out how we
can do better. My fracture colleagues around the world can’t even agree
how to describe these kinds of fractures, how common they are, and how
to make a difference. But it all starts with seeing how our patients have
done here in this hospital, and it’s a project that I’m doggedly working
on.” With that, the retinue of residents accompanied Dr. Neer out the door,
making their way to the orthopedic clinic.
The residents knew about Dr. Neer’s new project, digging into old charts
and X-ray jackets and reviewing the results of patients who had been
treated for shoulder fractures at the New York Orthopedic-Columbia
Presbyterian Medical Center since 1929, namely, since the hospital had
opened its doors in the Morningside Heights neighborhood of Manhattan.
This was no small task for the ambitious young attending surgeon, who
knew well the dogged determination required in the bowels of the
hospital’s chart rooms, with their musty gray patient folders and hand-
scribed surgical logs crammed into crenelated shelves, the new fluorescent
bulbs purring overhead and the smell of mimeograph ink permeating the
medical records department.
marcin
(Marcin)
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