Read Online MIRACLE ON KAIMOTU ISLAND/ALWAYS THE HERO by Marion Lennox - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marion Lennox
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there was no time to take.
He cut, searched, while Margy swabbed. There was so much blood! Trying to locate the source of the bleeding...
‘One on each side,’ Ginny snapped to the nurses and they rearranged themselves fast. Ben hadn’t had time to think about it but the way they had been positioned only Margy had been able to swab, with Abby preparing equipment.
‘I can do the handling as well,’ Ginny said calmly. ‘Get that wound clear for Dr McMahon. Fast and light. Move.’
They moved and all of a sudden Ben could see...
A massive ulcer, oozing blood from the stomach wall.
That Henry wasn’t dead already was a miracle.
‘Sutures,’ he said, and they were in his hand. He glanced up—just a glance—in time to see that it was Ginny who was preparing the sutures. And monitoring breathing, oxygen saturation, plasma flow.
No time to think about that now. Stitch.
Somehow he pulled the thing together, carefully, carefully, always conscious that pulling too tight, too fast could extend the wound rather than seal it.
The blood flow was easing.
How fast was Ginny getting that plasma in?
He glanced up at her again for a fraction of a moment and got a tiny, almost imperceptible nod for his pains.
‘Oxygen saturation ninety-three. We’re holding,’ she said. ‘If you want to do a bit of pretty embroidery in there, I think we can hold the canvas steady.’
And she’d taken the tension out of the room, just like that. He and both the nurses there had trained in large city hospitals. They’d worked in theatres where complex, fraught surgery took place and they knew the banter that went on between professionals at the top of their game.
Ginny’s one comment had somehow turned this tiny island hospital into the equal of those huge theatres.
They had the skill to do this and they all knew it.
‘Henry’s dog’s name’s Banjo,’ Margy offered. They were all still working, hard, fast, not letting anything slide, but that fractional lessening of tension had helped them all. ‘We could tell him we’ve embroidered “Banjo” on his innards when he wakes up.’
‘He’d need some mirror to see it,’ Ben retorted, and went back to stitching, but he was smiling and he had it sealed now. That Henry had held on for this long...
‘Oxygen level’s rising,’ Ginny said. ‘That’s the first point rise. We’re aiming for full within half an hour, people. Margy, can you find me more plasma?’
And Margy could because suddenly there was only the need for one to swab. Ben was stitching the outer walls of the stomach closed then the layers of muscle, carefully, painstakingly. Ginny was still doing her hawk thing—the anaesthetist was the last person in the room to relax—but this was going to be okay.
But then... ‘Hold,’ Ginny said into the stillness. ‘No, hold. No!’
No!
They’d been so close. So close but not close enough. Ben didn’t need to see the monitors to interpret Ginny’s message—he had it in full.
A drop in blood pressure. Ventricular fibrillation.
He was grabbing patches from Margy, thanking God that at least the bulk of the stitching was done, but not actually thanking God yet. Saying a few words in his direction, more like.
Or one word.
Please... To get so close and then lose him...
Please...
The adrenaline was pumping. If Ginny hadn’t been here...
Please...
‘Back,’ Ginny snapped, as he had the patches in place, as he moved to flick a switch...
A jerk... Henry’s body seemed to stiffen—and then the thin blue line started up again, up and down, a nice steady beat, as if it had just stopped for a wee nap and was starting again better than ever.
‘Oh, my God,’ Margy said, and started to cry.
Margy and Henry’s daughter had been friends before they’d both moved to the mainland, Ben remembered. That was the problem with this island. Everyone knew everyone.
‘Every man’s death diminishes me.’ How much more so on an island as small as
He cut, searched, while Margy swabbed. There was so much blood! Trying to locate the source of the bleeding...
‘One on each side,’ Ginny snapped to the nurses and they rearranged themselves fast. Ben hadn’t had time to think about it but the way they had been positioned only Margy had been able to swab, with Abby preparing equipment.
‘I can do the handling as well,’ Ginny said calmly. ‘Get that wound clear for Dr McMahon. Fast and light. Move.’
They moved and all of a sudden Ben could see...
A massive ulcer, oozing blood from the stomach wall.
That Henry wasn’t dead already was a miracle.
‘Sutures,’ he said, and they were in his hand. He glanced up—just a glance—in time to see that it was Ginny who was preparing the sutures. And monitoring breathing, oxygen saturation, plasma flow.
No time to think about that now. Stitch.
Somehow he pulled the thing together, carefully, carefully, always conscious that pulling too tight, too fast could extend the wound rather than seal it.
The blood flow was easing.
How fast was Ginny getting that plasma in?
He glanced up at her again for a fraction of a moment and got a tiny, almost imperceptible nod for his pains.
‘Oxygen saturation ninety-three. We’re holding,’ she said. ‘If you want to do a bit of pretty embroidery in there, I think we can hold the canvas steady.’
And she’d taken the tension out of the room, just like that. He and both the nurses there had trained in large city hospitals. They’d worked in theatres where complex, fraught surgery took place and they knew the banter that went on between professionals at the top of their game.
Ginny’s one comment had somehow turned this tiny island hospital into the equal of those huge theatres.
They had the skill to do this and they all knew it.
‘Henry’s dog’s name’s Banjo,’ Margy offered. They were all still working, hard, fast, not letting anything slide, but that fractional lessening of tension had helped them all. ‘We could tell him we’ve embroidered “Banjo” on his innards when he wakes up.’
‘He’d need some mirror to see it,’ Ben retorted, and went back to stitching, but he was smiling and he had it sealed now. That Henry had held on for this long...
‘Oxygen level’s rising,’ Ginny said. ‘That’s the first point rise. We’re aiming for full within half an hour, people. Margy, can you find me more plasma?’
And Margy could because suddenly there was only the need for one to swab. Ben was stitching the outer walls of the stomach closed then the layers of muscle, carefully, painstakingly. Ginny was still doing her hawk thing—the anaesthetist was the last person in the room to relax—but this was going to be okay.
But then... ‘Hold,’ Ginny said into the stillness. ‘No, hold. No!’
No!
They’d been so close. So close but not close enough. Ben didn’t need to see the monitors to interpret Ginny’s message—he had it in full.
A drop in blood pressure. Ventricular fibrillation.
He was grabbing patches from Margy, thanking God that at least the bulk of the stitching was done, but not actually thanking God yet. Saying a few words in his direction, more like.
Or one word.
Please... To get so close and then lose him...
Please...
The adrenaline was pumping. If Ginny hadn’t been here...
Please...
‘Back,’ Ginny snapped, as he had the patches in place, as he moved to flick a switch...
A jerk... Henry’s body seemed to stiffen—and then the thin blue line started up again, up and down, a nice steady beat, as if it had just stopped for a wee nap and was starting again better than ever.
‘Oh, my God,’ Margy said, and started to cry.
Margy and Henry’s daughter had been friends before they’d both moved to the mainland, Ben remembered. That was the problem with this island. Everyone knew everyone.
‘Every man’s death diminishes me.’ How much more so on an island as small as
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