Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
I squeeze her hand. In that moment, I make myself a promise too. That even if all of this feels pointless, even if it feels like we’re stuck in this perpetual state of grieving with no end in sight, I won’t give up on her.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from all those years in the operating room, it’s that sometimes it’s not about cutting away the damaged parts or stitching up the wounds. Sometimes, it’s about sitting quietly by a patient’s side, holding their hand and waiting for them to heal in their own time.
Except how can we heal when my wife won’t admit that she blames me?
Present day…
I get to the lab early.
Today these students will cut into a human body—albeit a dead one—for the first time.
God, I remember the thrill, the satisfaction of my first time.
And then the first time I cut into a live body.
It was exhilarating.
And something I’ll never again experience.
I look at the lab tables, the bodies covered in cloth. Who were these people? Did they get to live their dreams? Or did they get them ripped away from them by a cruel twist of fate?
As I did?
I jerk when my phone buzzes.
Interesting. It’s Dr. Louisa Matthews, my neurologist.
“This is Jason,” I say into the phone.
“Jason, Louisa Matthews. Is this a good time?”
“I teach anatomy lab in fifteen minutes,” I say. “But I have a little time.”
“Good. I’d like you to come in and see me. This afternoon if possible. We have a new visiting neurosurgeon. She thinks she may be able to repair your hand.”
I nearly drop the phone but catch it in time before it clatters onto the tile floor of the lab.
“What?” I say, not sure I heard her correctly.
“I know. Don’t get your hopes up, but she’s been experimenting with a new technique for a nerve transplant.”
A wave of hope, tinged with the dread of disappointment, rises inside me. “Louisa, I’ve been through this before—”
“I know, Jason,” she cuts in. “But this is different. Dr. Patel is a pioneer in this field. She has successfully performed this operation already.”
“How many times?”
“Well…once. In Switzerland. She’s here on an O-1 visa.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s for individuals with extraordinary ability in their field, such as internationally recognized surgeons with significant accomplishments or publications. The hospital is sponsoring her research.”
“So she’s familiar with my case?”
“Yes. I took the liberty of sharing your file with her. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Are you kidding me? Of course not.”
“Good. It was for a consult, so no HIPAA worries.”
“Louisa, I’m not the least bit concerned about any of that.”
“I know.”
“But what are the chances?” I ask, my voice shaking.
My mind reels with the possibilities. To hold a scalpel again, to feel its cool metal against my skin, to operate on a living body…
“No guarantees, of course,” she says. “But Dr. Patel is optimistic after looking through your records. It’s not confirmed until we run some tests on you and match nerve types. But there’s a fairly good chance this could work.”
My mind whirls.
Is it possible?
To have my hand back, to once again perform surgeries…
I feel like I’m waking up from a nightmare.
I look at the covered cadavers sitting on the tables, waiting for the students to learn from them. “What kind of tests? And are we talking a nerve from a live donor or from a cadaver?”
“We’ll need to do some extensive nerve conduction studies and MRI scans,” Louisa says. “As for the donor… It’s a bit of both. The nerve graft is extracted from a cadaver, but it’s reanimated using living cells derived from your own body.”
I shiver as a chill rushes through me.
I’ve read about such things. It’s cutting edge, for sure. “Reanimated? How does that even work?”
“It’s complex,” she says. “Dr. Patel will explain it all when you meet her. But in essence, we take your cells, nurture them in a lab, and coax them into becoming nerve cells. These are then integrated with the cadaver’s nerve tissue.”
I resist the urge to blurt out that it all sounds like something straight out of science fiction. Again, I stare at the cadavers.
They’re learning tools. Tools that were once people.
That’s how we learn.
How doctors learn.
A cadaver like one of these might be able to save my career.
“Jason?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice breathless. “When can I meet Dr. Patel?”
“Can you come to the hospital this afternoon, around four?” Louisa asks.
I glance at the clock. The students will be here soon. “That should work,” I say. “Unless you can see me sooner?”
“Well…I have time now, and Dr. Patel is in the building. But didn’t you say you were about to teach a lab?”
“Yeah, but I’ll cancel. This is way more important.”
“All right, Jason. I’ll schedule you in. See you shortly.”
The click of the call ending seems to echo in the silence of the lab. The weight of what could happen, what might happen, threatens to pull me under.