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 rise. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Patel.”
“Please,” she says, “call me Gita. It’s an honor. When Louisa mentioned you to me, I took the liberty of reading some of your papers.” She flashes a smile at me. “I’m impressed, Dr. Lansing. And I’m not easily impressed.”
“Thank you. And call me Jason.”
“Of course.”
Gita sits down in the chair next to mine while Louisa takes a seat behind her desk.
“Gita and I have discussed your case at length, Jason,” Louisa says. “And I agree with her assessment that you may be a candidate for her revolutionary nerve-transplant procedure.”
I glance down at my right hand.
The tremor is so slight that most people don’t notice it, but I know it’s there. I can feel the unsteadiness. The nerve injury that stole my surgical career from me.
From the accident that stole so much more.
“We’ll begin with some new scans,” Gita says. “We need to assess the extent of the damage, understand how it has evolved since your last evaluation. Then we have to map out the path for the new nerves.”
My heart races. “And if the scans are promising?”
“Then we prepare for the procedure,” Louisa says. “The nerve graft will take some time to prepare, given its complexity. It’s not just a simple transplant, Jason. We’re talking about creating a conduit between your living cells and a harvested graft.”
“Yes.” Gita nods, her gaze steady. “The sooner we begin, the better.”
Louisa leans forward on her desk. “Jason, this isn’t without its risks. Gita’s technique is groundbreaking, and though she’s seen one success, it’s still considered experimental. There could be complications.”
I look back down at my hand—my unreliable, traitorous hand. The hand that once performed intricate surgeries.
“I understand,” I say after a moment. “But what do I have to lose?”
Gita looks at Louisa and nods. Then she turns to me. “Jason, there’s a chance this might not work. There’s a chance that your condition might even worsen. But there’s also a chance that you could regain full functionality of your hand, possibly even enough to operate again.”
I glance back down at my hand, now trembling slightly more than before—or maybe it’s just my imagination. The scars on my palm are a constant reminder of everything I’ve lost.
My condition could worsen, she said.
But so what? I’ll be no worse off than I am now—unable to perform surgery.
Fuck it.
“I’m in,” I say.
“Very well.” Gita stands and extends her hand to me. “Jason, we will do everything in our power to bring back your steadiness and your precision. I can’t promise miracles, but Louisa and I can promise our absolute commitment.”
“And I promise my commitment as well,” I say.
“If the transplant takes,” Gita says, “there will be months of physical therapy. You’ll need to relearn how to use your hand. The nerves will have to grow accustomed to their new home.”
I know it won’t be easy, but for the chance to reclaim part of what I’ve lost? It’s worth it to me.
So worth it.
“And if this works…” Louisa begins, her eyes bright. “If this works, Jason, you could open doors for countless other people suffering from nerve damage. You could change medicine.”
Silence for a moment.
Then I ask the question.
“When do we start?”
“Today,” Gita says. “I want to see your scans as quickly as possible. Finding the right cadaver nerve will take time, so every moment counts.”
I look at my hand again, imagining it steady and sure. I nod to them. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
Louisa rises and extends her hand to me across the desk. “Let’s get you back in the operating room, Dr. Lansing.”
Gita gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder as she walks out the door, Louisa following her.
I stand, alone, in Louisa’s office. We’re friends and colleagues, so I know I can stay as long as I need to. I glance at her degrees on the wall, at all her awards. She’s a world-class neurologist, and if she believes in Gita’s work, then so do I.
A soft knock on the open door brings me back. Louisa’s physician’s assistant, James, peeks in. “Ready when you are, Dr. Lansing.”
“Thank you,” I say, following him.
“We’re going to radiology to get your MRI,” he says.
“Great.” I’m not sure what else to say, so I’m silent as we walk through the maze of hospital corridors until we arrive at the radiology department.
James leaves me in the capable hands of a technician. I change into a hospital gown and then settle into the cold, sterile MRI machine. I stare at the white ceiling tiles and breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
I was never claustrophobic before the accident.
Now, I hate being closed in.
Breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Minutes pass like hours as the hum of the machine whirs around me, echoing the anxious beat of my thoughts. My mind spins with what-ifs and maybes.
Finally, after what seems both like hours and no time at all, the machine quiets and I’m helped up by the technician, who offers a smile. “We’ll have these to Dr. Matthews and Dr. Patel shortly.”