Pool_1

>> OR 2 <<

Last night drudged seamlessly into today. Scheduled surgery begins promptly at seven twenty A.M. so at seven, in the staging area, an odd mix of prepared patients converged on the last checkpoint before heading into the surgical zone. It didn't say Abandon all hope ye who enter here, instead No street clothes beyond this point. Didn't matter. It had the same feel. In the temporary checkpoint stations, which were just parallel parking spots marked with lines on the floor, other surgeons were telling drop jawed adult patients about possible complications of hemorrhage, stroke, paralysis, respiratory compromise, and unforseeable untoward reactions to medications and anesthetic agents. The parents of Dr. Macaluso's patient just stroked their youngster's hair and reassured as each verbalized potential disaster directed at some poor soul in a nearby stretcher, was overheard, "That’s OK honey, we've already done that one. It's somebody else's turn. To that backdrop of monition our doctor suddenly appeared straight away pressing his lips to Henrietta's cheek with a big kiss and a hidden glance at the youngster's feeding tube which punctuated the left upper corner of her abdomen. It was properly capped. "Hey! You ready for a tune up? Huh? Are ya?" The little doll beamed twinkling eyes. Macaluso then quickly reminded mother of the game plan. To the uninitiated it sounded rather complex. Some parents melt at this point, knowing, just knowing, that every single thing that could go wrong was indeed going to go wrong. When did anything ever go right with this child? No prayer had ever been answered. His "I am here for you," was oddly comforting. Was that egotism? Perhaps, to them, a sign?