Post 1 Catastrophe



Catastrophe

Utterly dejected, I collapsed into the dilapidated armchair in the corner of the room, my head in my hands, tears in my eyes, my confidence shattered. I was distraught; my mood one of total wretchedness and despair. I felt sick, my mouth was dry and my hands trembled. It was four in the morning and it was the events of those four hours, events for which I had been wholly responsible, that were the cause of my distress. What had happened had been a disaster.
I had been the leader of the team, the one everyone respected, the one to whom they turned for guidance, the one supposed to be in control and able to cope in difficult situations; but the night’s events had shown me to have been a complete failure.


I felt ashamed. I had let myself down, had let the team down and still lying on the operating table in the adjacent theatre, drained of his life giving blood, was the man who had paid the ultimate price for my incompetence. The previous evening William Wilson had been fit and well. He had enjoyed a lively game of bowls followed by a drink and a chat with his pals in the pub. Now the nurses were washing the blood from his lifeless body in preparation for its short journey to the hospital morgue. Later, they would clean the operating table, scrub the floor and sterilise the surgical instruments in preparation for the next day’s list. By morning the theatre would again be spotless, all signs of the disaster that had unfolded in the night erased. If only they could wash away my shame, my pain and guilt as easily.


During my surgical training, I had grown accustomed to occasional disappointments. There had been lows in my life before, times when patients had developed complications from treatments I had initiated, such things were inevitable for anyone who chose medicine as a career, but I had never experienced anything remotely like this. If only the ground would open up and swallow me.  
   
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I glanced round the room, eyes vaguely noting the jumble of discarded caps, masks, vests and pants left behind by the rest of the team as, one by one, they had drifted wearily to their beds leaving me alone with my misery. Loyally, they had muttered words of sympathy, insisting that I should not blame myself; but their words brought no comfort. I did blame myself; who else was there to blame? My eye settled on the laundry skip in the corner of the room. A loose fold of a gown, heavily stained with blood, hung at an odd angle over the metal ring that formed its lip. A crimson pool was forming where blood was dripping onto the floor.
It brought to mind an image that had haunted me as a child. Whilst on a family holiday, I had seen hundreds of dead pheasants, their bloodied heads hanging limply, at grotesque angles over the side of a trailer, leaving a trail of blood on the rutted earth as they passed. The sight of their ruffled feathers and shattered bodies had sickened me. Walking alongside were half a dozen men, laughing and joking as they drank beer, their guns over the shoulders. Only a few hours before, we had fed the pheasants by hand as they roamed freely through our campsite. They had strutted proudly, bright eyed, their heads held high, showing off the brilliant colours of their beautiful plumage, iridescent reds, brilliant greens and blues. I suffered nightmares for weeks afterwards.
I looked again at the crumpled blood stained gown. Poor Mr Wilson had died as needlessly as those birds and in my heart I knew that I was responsible.


There was a quiet knock at the door and the theatre sister entered, a mug of tea in her hand.
“It’s been a long night, Mr Lambert,” she said, a sad, sympathetic smile on her face. “Have a drink before you leave.”
I mumbled my thanks, head bowed, not trusting myself to look her in the eye.
“Look, you mustn’t blame yourself. We must accept that from time to time these things happen; not all operations are successful. If all your patients made a full recovery, you wouldn’t be human; you’d be a miracle worker. Besides, when a major blood vessel bursts there’s a high mortality, you know that as well as I do. Had Mr Wilson not had surgery he would have died. You tried to save him, you did your best, no-one could ask for more.”
“And my best wasn’t good enough, was it, Sister?”
Sister laid a hand on my shoulder. I wanted to shrug it off, but didn’t. “Not this time maybe,” she said softly, “but I’ve no doubt that others you operate on in the future will survive. Now drink your tea and go to bed.”


Alone again, I took off my theatre greens, pulled on my shirt and pants and looked in the mirror. A pale unshaven, weary face looked back at me. I stared at it in disgust.
‘Bloody idiot’ I muttered, cursing the ambition and misplaced ego that had reduced me to this state. “What the hell are you doing trying to become a surgeon? You haven’t the skill to be a success, nor the strength, the resilience to deal with the pain of failure.”
 Then, turning away from the mirror, I collected my white coat and braced myself for the task that would compound my misery. I had to meet Mrs Wilson and tell her that her husband had not survived my surgery.
                                             This story is an extract from my latest novel ‘Invisible Scars’
Thought for the day;        
‘What is more dull than a discreet diary?’
                                                              Chips Chapman   1897-1958



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