“She’s certified.” Jasher hadn’t left her to field Babbage’s insults alone. Bless his beautiful hide. “She assisted me in an appendectomy the other day and did a flawless job.”
Her face flushed. Uh, Sage wouldn’t say flawless.
“So you’re saying she’s already worn out her skills from helping with a surgery this week.” The litany of objections went on. Like Jasher, with his I’m used to being hated on comment earlier, cuts from Babbage were Sage’s status quo.
Sage didn’t respond. She stood dumbly, awaiting instruction. Babbage kept pouncing.
“I’m getting out of here.” He moved to climb out of bed. “I’ll treat myself at home. I have some popsicles in the freezer and some medical tape. I’ll eat the popsicles and use the sticks. I’ll show you how to heal broken bones.”
“Not if you want to keep your career.” Jasher left and went over to the ER desk. “You need fingers with full mobility in order to do your job. You won’t have them if you don’t get the surgery within the next twenty-four hours. There’s splintering of bone in the first phalanges of four of your fingers. Did you miss that on the x-ray, Dr. Babbage?”
“Isn’t there someone else who could perform this surgery?” Babbage hadn’t conceded, even though he was visibly deflating. “I’m not having the likes of Jasher Hotchkiss operate on my hand. If your surgery skills are anything like your skills on the basketball court, I’ll probably end up with metatarsals for phalanges.”
Enough.
Sage shoved the curtain closed around them. “Hush. There are other patients here, Dr. Babbage. Remember yourself.”
“You.” Babbage’s words dripped venom. “You would defend him.”
“He’s an orthopedic surgeon—on our rural hospital staff. I’d say you’re blazing lucky to have him here.”
“Blazing something. Him plus you equals doom for me.” Babbage was extra nasty when he was in pain.
“Sir, I advise you to remember that I will be the one administering your pain relief. You don’t want to upset me and make my hands nervous and shaky.”
That shut him up at last.
She left to go prep her equipment.
An hour later, Sage was perspiring under the bright lamps of the surgical table. As requested, Babbage was fully under general anesthesia for this procedure. The endotracheal intubation had been like clockwork once he was partially sedated with propofol. Now, with the occasional adjustment of the nitrous oxide admin, she was able to occasionally observe Jasher Hotchkiss at work.
And a wonder it was.
The complexity of the surgery, setting the pins, almost looked like a choreographed dance on a particularized scale, performed with a grace she’d rarely seen. It was like watching water ballet, or those people in Las Vegas who danced on long ropes hanging from the ceiling.
“First, I will repair the fracture of the right proximal phalanx.” The biggest bone of Babbage’s little finger had a clean break, but it required pins to set it for healing.
Jasher Hotchkiss could create magic with a scalpel and tiny titanium pins.
“Mr. Babbage here will be a cyborg by the time he gets all sixteen pins holding him together.” The surgical nurse chuckled, but no one else did. This operation required delicacy. Possibly no one else in the whole operating theater was breathing.
Sage wasn’t.
Well, occasionally. Enough to stay alive and conscious to perform her job, but the rest of the time, she didn’t dare upset the minute balancing act going on behind the giant magnifying glass Jasher looked through as he operated on the splintered bones of Babbage’s fingers.
“Next, I will repair the greenstick break of the middle phalanx of the right little finger.”
The respirometer’s alarm sounded, and Sage made adjustments to rectify his inspiratory airway pressure. There you go, Babbage. Breathe easy. You’re actually in excellent hands. She meant Jasher’s, if not her own.
The dance went on, pin after pin being deftly inserted and secured; each of the digits on Babbage’s hands being saved from a sad, arthritic-looking fate of being curled and useless. Despite the ongoing pressure of such an intense operation, Jasher didn’t seem to tire. Perspire, yes, the moisture of which the surgical nurse dabbed away, but tire? No.
Sage shouldn’t wish she was the one on that face-dabbing duty.
He pressed on, as if he was a clockwork automaton wound up so tightly that he wouldn’t slow until the bitter end.
Nine hours later, all sixteen pins inserted, Dr. Jasher Hotchkiss stepped away. His head tipped back and he rolled it around, shrugging and relaxing his shoulders. “Whew.”
“Well done, Dr. Hotchkiss.”