What goes around - Finish the Story #31

What goes around, comes around

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The Contest Introduction:

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Barnard Hall, in the heart of the west wing of the medical school, the Asclepius sancta sanctorum. The light of the sunset dripped from the dusty double-glazed windows and mixed with the cedar scent of the wooden stalls, arranged in steep theatre. A visitor who had passed the heavy double door would have undoubtedly caught the note of animal musk mixing with the wood essence. Smell of anxiety. Smell of hunted prey. Smell of university student exhausted during a long, endless session of exams.

"I strongly advise you to think carefully about your next words," Prof. Angelus said to the student.

Spread over several rows, set in the narrow space between the back and the table top, the remaining students were crossed by the icy scalpel blade of that voice.

"Here we are," Luke thought in a flash of conscious resignation.

It was the sixth time he had to repeat that exam: after five fails in a row his whole life have been interrupted and swallowed up in that black hole. By now he knew every detail of "At Heart of Cardiology", the three volumes treatise written by Prof. Angelus, a widely recognised eminence of cardiology.

For an eternal moment his thoughts dissociated from the scene and flew to that day three years earlier when, at the head of a handful of fifteen other students, Luke had decided to protest the decisions of the seventy-year-old professor.

"Do you mind if I ask you.. do you really intend to graduate in this university?" A stunned secretary had told him at some point, after the insistent protests of the student committee showed no sign of blurring.

And at what levels could the power of an old ordinary professor, close to retirement, ever come? The answer did not wait and, just two months later, Prof. Angelus was acclaimed by the unanimous council as dean of the faculty. Luke was instantly fire-branded and he would never graduate from that university.

"Well?" The assistant, the professor's guard dog, broke the silence.

"The... the... commissurotomy can only be performed if the flaps are not calcified and the subvalvular apparatus is preserved. With a left anterior thoracotomy, the chest is accessed through the resection space of rib 5. Once the pericardium is opened through the left auricle, a diverter is introduced into the mitral ostium which, opening, forces the valvular flaps to separate the merged commissures." Luke answered almost without breathing, tense like a Vietcong in his tunnel paved of sleepless study nights.

The professor's nose had disgusting bright red veins, Luke did not know if he was breathing - or alive at all. He looked down at the white, protruding knuckles of his left hand, clinging to the arm of his chair, and waited for his fate.

"Twenty-six, do you accept?". A note of irony in that electric scalpel voice.

"Yes. Sorry, I'll take the transcripts." Luke stumbled into his bag, looking through the notebooks for the grade transcripts. He had not even brought the booklet with him since there was so little hope of passing the exam.

The professor absent-mindedly drew a twenty-four and a signature in cuneiform spelling.

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The cold light of the Pentaled surgical light-head outlined the instruments neatly aligned as efficient soldiers ready to execute his orders. It was almost pleasant to the watchful eyes of Dr. Luke Richards, a promising cardio-surgeon and head of the famous Royal Brompton Hospital in Chelsea, London.

"Doctor, we have verified that a serious heart attack is going on. The frequency is 207 bpm. We administered 50 mg of protamine sulfate, the patient did not react. Furthermore, his wife informed us of a complication deriving from senile cardiac amyloidosis."

"A very normal case that could be safely entrusted to the Mako-bot" Dr. Richards determined instantly by glancing quickly at the operating table, automated and managed by the hospital central A.I.

He snorted slightly. Evidently the patient had enough influence not only to obtain a human operation, but also to have the Chief Cardiac Surgeon out of bed at three o'clock in the night.

"Who do we have here, doctor?"

"This is a certain Prof. Daniel Angelus".

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My Entry:

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Luke entered the sterile cleaning room. The operation was over. He peeled the gloves from his arms and put his hands under the steaming hot water. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He threw some of the water on his face. He focused on washing the sweat from his skin. The rhythmic sensation calmed him.

He dried off and picked up his stethoscope. He scrunched it between his fist. This part was never easy.

He pushed open the door and went out into the corridor, it was empty. The hospital was extremely quiet. The professor's wife sat on the nearest metal bench. She was a small, old woman, clutching onto her handbag.

Luke slowly approached the woman. She had tear stains on her face and a screwed up tissue in her hand.

“Mrs Angelus.”

She looked up at him with trust in her eyes. She registered the blank look he had prepared.

“I did everything I could, Mrs Angelus. Your husband is dead.”

The woman took a moment to register the words he had said. Like dominoes cascading downwards, her face crumpled. Her willpower to remain prim and proper escaped her. A small wail left her lips. Fresh tears poured from her as she curled into herself grasping at her bag for something solid to hold onto.

Luke watched helplessly. He knew he couldn't apologise, uttering the word ‘sorry’ ensured a lawsuit for accepting responsibility. It was part of the hospital's strict policy for dealing with death notifications.

The professor would have belittled him for his mistake, sent him out of the lecture hall with his tail between his legs for daring to aspire to be a doctor. Well, he had made it, without the professor's help. He just hadn't expected a simple procedure to go so wrong.

He sighed, leaving the widow to her sorrow. Luke doubted he would grieve for the man but the gnawing he felt inside, that something had in fact been his fault, didn't dissipate.

He scanned through the patient’s file looking for mistakes. There was nothing. He closed his eyes, knowing there would be a full investigation, he still felt the relief of never having to encounter the Professor again.

This is my entry to the @bananafish Finish The Story Contest. Thank you for the 24hr extension, I managed to pull this out of thin air.

Find out about the contest here.

Image from Unsplash

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