The Knife’s Edge. Stephen Westaby

Second, would I go to the paediatric intensive care unit where the baby was losing a little too much blood into the drains? Shit. Next, a lady doctor in the accident department of the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital was trying to get hold of me. Why on earth would that be? It was many miles away. And last, the medical director would like to see me in his office with the director of nursing at 4 pm.

      Bugger that. It was already 4.10, and I was in no doubt what the chat would be about – swearing at the unhelpful agency nurse, quite inappropriate conduct for a consultant surgeon. Another ticking off. Nor was I in the mood for an acrimonious discussion with the cancelled mitral lady. After 5 pm there were only sufficient nurses to staff one emergency theatre. The nurses would never allow me to begin an elective operation at this time of day. So my only concern was for the baby. Was it significant surgical bleeding or just oozing through compromised blood clotting after being on the bypass machine? Still hoping to leave town, I went directly to the unit to find out.

      The afternoon ward round was congregated around the cot. On either side crouched an anxious parent holding a cool, sweaty little hand. Suspended from the drip stand was a tell-tale bag of donor blood dripping briskly through the jugular vein cannula in the baby’s neck. Without reading the levels I could see that there was too much blood in the drains. The precious red stuff was dripping in one end and straight out the other. What’s more, they had checked the clotting profile and it was virtually normal.

With that one glance my plans for the evening were dashed. Cambridge might as well have been on a different planet. I had to take the baby back to theatre and stop the bloody bleeding. Abject despair turned to anger. I should have closed the chest myself – but then fishbone lady would be dead now. Acrimoniously I rang my so-called ‘helper’, telling him to lay claim to the emergency operating theatre and that I would push the cot around myself. Five minutes later Mr Putty Fingers called back to say that they couldn’t staff an emergency theatre because the chest surgeons were running late with a lung cancer operation. We would have to wait for them to finish. Until then, no room for emergencies, so keep squeezing in the blood. In the meantime, any remaining chance of seeing my daughter on her birthday had gone. More of the same. Useless absentee father ridden with guilt, and made worse by the fact that I had still not made contact. I was a sorry sight with my bloody trousers and sore bum.

      There was no point in trying to rush the chest surgeons. They operate slowly through small holes with telescopes and invariably overestimate what they can squeeze in to an operating list. Yet no access for emergency surgery spells trouble. I was now glued to the cot side, with the fretting parents wanting me to stop the bleeding. I deployed that old chestnut: ‘It was alright when I left. It can’t be bleeding from the heart.’

Sure enough, over the next thirty minutes the bleeding slowed to a trickle. I fantasised that blood clotting had finally sealed the needle holes, which would allow me to escape the hospital without reopening the chest. Except the jugular veins were distending as the blood loss slowed. Perhaps there was too much transfusion. More likely, the chest drains had blocked off and blood was now accumulating under pressure in the closed space within the pericardium so the right atrium couldn’t fill properly – what we call cardiac tamponade. Should the blood pressure begin to fall, we would be in real trouble.

      The baby’s blood pressure drifted down. We couldn’t wait any longer for an operating theatre. Now I needed to reopen the chest right there in the cot and scoop out the blood clot. Sister carried the heavy pre-sterilised thoracotomy kit to the cot side and dumped it on a trolley. Still wearing theatre blues, I hastily scrubbed up at the sink while calling for the registrar who had left me in this mess. He had already gone home, so we tried to find the on-call registrar. It was a locum, who was already scrubbed up in the thoracic theatre.

      So I got on and did it without help – it was a very small chest, after all – getting the baby prepared, draped and her sternum wide open in less than two minutes. The suction tubing was not connected yet, so I scooped out the clots with my index finger, then packed the pericardial cavity with virginal white swabs. An expanding bright red spot soon showed me the bleeding point, a continuous trickle from the temporary pacing wire site in the muscle of the right ventricle, ostensibly trivial but life-threatening. That’s the way with cardiac surgery. It has to be perfect every time or patients die needlessly.

The cardiac rhythm was normal, so I pulled out the wire and stemmed the dribble with a single mattress stitch. Sure enough the drains were blocked. I changed them for clean ones and closed up. The whole process took ten minutes, but it had been a completely avoidable charade. It transpired that the trainee surgeon lacked the confidence to put a stitch into the baby’s twitching ventricle, simply hoping that the oozing would stop. He would not make it in this specialty.

      7 pm. I was intrigued by that message from Norwich A&E. Were they still waiting to talk to me in the hospital? At first bewildered, I now became uneasy, paranoid even. Norwich was not far from Cambridge. Could Gemma have been out with friends and had an accident? Why did that not occur to me earlier? So I fretfully called her mobile. This time birthday girl answered cheerily and asked whether I was well on my way. The ensuing silence spoke volumes. There was no way I would get to see either of my children that night. Both patients survived, but part of me died. Again.

2

       sadness

      7.30 pm. I had given a child a new life then pulled off one of surgery’s great saves. I should have been floating on air that evening, but I wasn’t. Far from it. I was guilt ridden and inconsolable, still drawn to Cambridge when every element of logic insisted that going there would be futile. I needed to take off for Woodstock and drink myself into oblivion. That bloody phone message was still unanswered – but I wasn’t on call. Why on earth should I bother now? Because I always did, I guess. There had to be a reason for it. My life was never my own.

      ‘Good evening. Ipswich Hospital. Which department, please?’

      ‘Accident department, please.’

      ‘Sorry, that line is engaged. Can I put you on hold?’

      There followed mindless waiting-forever music, tunes that made minutes seem like hours, time more joyfully spent waiting to be castigated by the medical director.

      Then the young doctor was found.

‘Thank you, Professor. I know you’ve been in theatre all day. I’m Lucy, the on-call medical SHO. I was hoping that you would accept an emergency that has been with us for some time. An aortic dissection.’ (In medicine, people are frequently referred to by their condition rather than their name.) ‘He’s a GP and had heart surgery a few years ago – an aortic valve replacement at Papworth.’

      ‘Then why aren’t Papworth operating on his aortic dissection?’

      There followed an embarrassed silence.

      ‘Their surgeon on call said he had another emergency waiting and we should send the doctor somewhere else.’

      I was rather nonplussed by this approach as there were several cardiac centres in London that were closer to Ipswich. Aortic dissection is a dire emergency, where the main artery supplying the whole body suffers a sudden tear through the innermost of its three layers. This exposes the middle layer, which usually splits along its entire length under the high pressure, all the way from just above the valve down to the leg arteries. Branches to the vital organs can be sheared off, interrupting their blood supply and causing stroke, dead gut, pulseless legs or failing kidneys. Worse still, the split aorta is likely to rupture at any time, causing sudden death. And the poor chap was a doctor. He deserved better. Anyone deserved better.

I asked his age and current condition. The man was sixty and had complained of sudden severe chest pain, rapidly followed by paralysis of his right side. That meant he had extensive brain injury caused by the carotid artery supplying the left cerebral hemisphere becoming detached. The longer he was left before surgery, the less likely he was to experience any recovery. The patient couldn’t