Or; pride comes before a flesh wound.Fridays have been a bugger to schedule for ages, because who doesn’t want a long weekend if they can get one?, and our departmental 2IC seems incapable of turning down leave requests. In desperation, trying to solve last week’s schedule without cancellations, I rostered myself on to work on my day off. Don’t feel too sorry for me, as I get generous financial recompense, and I put myself in to work in my favourite theatre, neurosurgery. Relieving a lady of my age of her brain tumours seemed a very good use of my time.
The medical student attached to the surgical team told me at the start of the morning that he was actually more interested in anaesthesia as a career, than surgery. So, he observed everything I did to get the patient ready. Unusually in that situation, everything went really smoothly with my technical skills. At one point, after a particularly slick iv insertion, he even asked me how I could possibly have known that was where the vein went? I could only say “Years of experience!”, which is a cliche I wasn’t expecting to resort to on a Friday morning.
Then, as I was drawing up more drugs, I felt a sudden pain in my finger: I’d sliced it open on the sharp edge of a glass ampoule. The blood started welling up immediately.
Luckily, by this time, the medical student’s attention was back with the surgical team, and I could apply surreptitious first aid of direct pressure without drawing attention to myself. I had to confess to the anaesthetic technician with me, of course, as she was too eagle eyed to miss it, and well knew the perils of glass ampoules from years of experience. She got me a plaster while I tried avoiding getting my blood over everything. Once the blood flow was staunched and plaster applied, I then discovered a secondary problem: I could no longer access the fancy new fingerprint locked drug cart. Poor Alison had to check out every medication for me for the rest of the case. Embarrassing.
Apart from that, my day proceeded swimmingly: the surgery was a success and the surgical registrar raved about the smooth patient wake up. It was just a shame his boss wasn’t in the room.
….
I was squeezing some home grown limes last night, to make some well deserved post sauna margaritas for Samantha and myself, when I remembered the cut on my finger. I recall thinking: “I’m surprised that doesn’t sting…” when the pain arrived. Yikes. Hopefully it’ll all be healed by the time I’m back in theatre and/or squeezing citrus fruit again.