Chapter Five
The monitor in the second floor operating room of Albuquerque Medical Center
was marking the space between heartbeats. Listening to every pulse, neurosurgeon
Lawrence Tice leaned over the thirty-four year old woman. Her shaved head
nestled into a padded horseshoe headrest, and an internal jugular catheter
ran from her neck to a hanging blood bag. From the crow's eye, she looked
comfortable. She seemed asleep, lying still under starched cotton sheets.
Even though her eyes were open, they didn't move. They didn't blink. They
didn't follow light. Her pupils were fixed.
But Adele was not motionless. Or content. She was rioting.
Her brain was in anarchy. Inside her skull, the blood vessels pounded,
buffeting against bone rhythmically. To answer the expanding brain's knock,
the neurosurgeon turned a flap in the fascia of her bald scalp with a knife.
He secured the flap with Children's clips, exposing skull-a skull that
clamored to be opened. Tice's forearm muscled the small-bit drill into
the bone four times, two at the top of her head and two more along its
left side. Bone dust scattered. After irrigating the dust away from her
forehead, the top of her head, and the headrest, Tice opened her skull
with an electric saw, carving two lines, one that made a straight part-for
any hair, if it had been there-and the other that chipped a capital "C"
around her left ear. The saw's teeth razored the bone, slicing it at mega-pixel
speed. When electrocautery removed the bluish tissue and muscle surrounding
her brain, subdural blood squirted out a happy red.
Her brain relaxed. Air pressure in the operating room
relaxed, too. The doctor began to reconnect the craniotome with suture.
"Need three more units of plasma," he intoned to his assistant,
who nodded and turned to retrieve the blood bags. Tice's speech moved with
a regular beat, as steady as the patient's beeping heart monitor, but without
lilt. Finishing up with the same steadiness with which he had started surgery,
Dr. Tice pulled off his cap, mask, and gloves at the sink. He washed his
hands for a full minute. To a nearby nurse he directed an iambic pentameter
line, "I need the boyfriend in my office now."
To read the rest of the story,
order Opening Arteries by Elizabeth McColl today
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