Prologue - He is dead

2 years ago

Mikky

@MidnightLibrary

Prologue

Dr. Shubham stepped into the sterile operating theatre, his experienced eyes scanning the room. The patient, scheduled for emergency surgery at 3:00 a.m., lay semi-conscious on the gurney, already positioned on the operating table.

The bright yellow glow of the surgical lights illuminated the scene, casting an eerie radiance on the shaven, antiseptically-prepared scalp. The Alcoholic chlorhexidine solution glistened on the skin, a stark reminder of the critical task ahead.

Dr. Shubham's gaze lingered on the patient's pale, almost deathly complexion. His seasoned instincts kicked in, assessing the situation with precision.

At 46, Dr. Shubham was a renowned Neurosurgeon, with a reputation for calm deliberation under pressure. His team, assembled around the operating table, waited with practised efficiency:

- Two resident doctors, poised to assist

- An expert anesthesiologist, monitoring the patient's vital signs

- Two scrub nurses, gloved and ready to handle sterile equipment

- A circulating nurse, coordinating the procedure with seamless precision

With a deep breath, Dr. Shubham began his methodical preparation, his laser-sharp focus on the complex surgery ahead.

Keithy, a diligent resident doctor, meticulously checked the array of medical equipment lining the operating theatre walls. Her gaze swept across the monitors tracking vital signs:

- Oxygen saturation

- Carbon dioxide levels

- Body temperature

- Muscle stimulators

- Precordial stethoscope

- EKG readings

- Automatic blood pressure monitor

Satisfied with the preparations, Keithy nodded to the anesthesiologist.

The anesthesiologist secured a blood pressure cuff around the patient's right arm, then gently placed a rubber mask over the patient's face.

"Take deep breaths," the anesthesiologist soothingly instructed.

The patient inhaled, exhaling slowly. With each successive breath, their body relaxed further.

"Three... four..." The anesthesiologist counted quietly.

Before the fourth breath, the patient's eyelids fluttered closed, their body succumbing to the anaesthesia.

"Patient is under," the anesthesiologist announced.

Dr. Shubham nodded, his focus intensifying. "Proceed."

The surgical team sprang into action, their movements choreographed by years of experience.

Dr. Shubham's skilled hands moved with precision as he examined the patient's brain. "We have a significant clot causing damage in the middle cerebral artery," he announced, his voice calm and authoritative.

"Originating from the aortic valve, it obstructs a small vessel on the right hemisphere, encroaching on the left." His gaze locked onto the monitor displaying the patient's brain scans.

"Located at the lower edge of the aqueduct of Sylvius," he continued, "this clot requires meticulous removal."

"Scalpel!" Dr. Shubham requested, his eyes never leaving the surgical site.

A resident doctor handed him the instrument, and with a swift, precise motion, Dr. Shubham created a tiny burr hole – no larger than a dime – using an electric drill.

The whirring drill ceased, and Dr. Shubham delicately opened the dura mater, exposing a segment of the cerebral cortex beneath.

"Forceps!" he called out.

Keithy, the resident doctor, handed him the instrument. Dr. Shubham gently retracted the tissue, revealing the clot.

Just as Dr. Shubham was about to remove the clot, the anesthesiologist's voice cut through the focused silence.

"Blood pressure's dropping!"

Dr. Shubham's gaze snapped toward the monitors. "Stabilise BP, stat!"

The team sprang into action, their movements swift and coordinated.

Dr. Shubham's voice cut through the tension. "Get more blood in, stat!"

The team's eyes locked onto the monitor, where the patient's vital signs were plummeting. The once-steady curve now flatlined, punctuated by two erratic heartbeats before descending into chaotic ventricular fibrillation.

"Shock him!" Subham ordered, her voice firm and urgent.

The resident doctor swiftly attached the defibrillator pads to the patient's chest. The machine hummed to life.

"Charging..."

The patient's chest convulsed upward, then fell limp.

"Epinephrine, now!" Dr. Shubham commanded.

Keithy swiftly injected the medication.

The seconds ticked by like hours.

"No heartbeat!" the anesthesiologist announced, her voice laced with concern.

Dr. Shubham's face is set in determination. "Continue CPR. Let's get him back."

The team sprang into action, their movements synchronised:

- Chest compressions

- Ventilations

- Medication administration

The battle to save the patient's life had reached its critical point.

Inside the operating theatre, the team's frantic efforts ceased. The patient's lifeless body lay still.

"No heartbeat!" the anesthesiologist declared, her voice laced with despair. "Asystole. No rhythm at all."

Dr. Keithy's words sealed the patient's fate. "He's dead."

Outside, in the stark hospital corridor, a young girl sat on a steel bench, her medium-length hair veiling her face. Her hands cradled her head, as if holding together shattered thoughts.

Two and a half hours ago, her world had shattered. The memories still sent shivers down her spine.

Unbeknownst to her, this fateful night marked the beginning of a dreadful chapter in her life – one she couldn't have imagined in her darkest nightmares.

A gentle touch on her head broke the trance. Familiar fingers stroked her hair.

"I'm sorry, Sanjh."

Sanjh's head lifted slowly, her gaze meeting the compassionate eyes of the person beside her.

Dr.Shubham's concerned expression mirrored the turmoil within. His presence offered a fleeting sense of comfort amidst the chaos.