Chapter One
Alina’s POV
I heard my name before Hanna got to me. By the time she got to me, I was already on my feet and pushing the table back.
“Emergency,” she announced, her voice urgent.
“Right,” I breathed, crossing the short distance between the sitting area of the room and the doorway.
“Yves and Irina have gone to call the others,” she said as we both left the room.
“Okay,” I answered, my eyes on the clock as we rushed down the hallway.
10:16 am.
“Any info yet?” I inquired.
“Motorcycle crash. There may be internal bleeding. 30-year-old male. That’s all I know.”
“Urgent trauma laparotomy, most likely,” I stated as we turned to the left at the end of the hallway. Green scrubs and white coats flew around as we got to the short hallway that led to the operating rooms. It was a normal sight around here, the surest tell that there was another emergency.
“OR 3,” Hanna mentioned beside me.
One minute later we were putting on surgical caps and jackets. Hanna pushed the door open, and the sterile smell of disinfectant hit my nose, welcoming me. The air in OR 3 was thick with nervous energy; it was someone’s life, after all.
“Great! Nurse,” Dr. Smirnov called, nodding towards me. “Massive internal hemorrhage from a motorcycle crash.”
He was one of the doctors I hoped would be the lead surgeon whenever I had to be in the OR. Even under great pressure, Dr. Smirnov didn’t bark insults or even curse words atothers. He yelled, alright. But it was bearable and, sometimes, even effective in making things move faster.
“Understood,” I confirmed, moving closer to where the doctor and other staff surrounded the patient.
With just one blink, I switched to circulating nurse mode. While giving care to recuperating patients was my greatest joy, I had found great fulfillment since becoming the circulating nurse at the clinic. As one of several circulating nurses, the title and its duties didn’t whisk me away from the ward too often. So, I was more than happy to show up and join hands with those who saved lives, first-hand.
While I wasn’t the one who handled the scalpel, in my capacity as the circulating nurse, I was the patient’s eyes, ears, and advocate.
“Let’s save another life, guys,” the doctor said, the smile in his gray eyes unmissable even though his mask practically covered his whole face.
A flurry of activities began with machines beeping and orders resounding.
The anesthesiologist, Dr. Volkova, called out, “BP tanking! 70/40! Pumping in a third unit of O-Neg now.”
With my eyes on her, I nodded. I walked quickly to the fluid warmer controls. The patient was becoming ice cold, a deadly complication known in my field as the trauma triad. I cranked the temperature up, ensuring every drop being pumped into his veins is warmed to combat hypothermia.
“More volume. He needs more volume, Alina!” Dr. Smirnov yelled, already deep into the patient’s abdominal cavity. His strained voice was another sign that he was trying to fight a bleed that threatened to swallow everything.
I moved swiftly to the cell saver machine, verifying the setup with a nod to Hanna. Almost soundlessly, the machine did what it does best—auto-recycling the patient’s lost blood.
“Cell saver on max flow, Dr. Smirnov,” I replied. “Pumping back filtered whole blood.”
I glanced at the whiteboard that read, ‘COUNT: Initial Instrument Count Verified.’
My duty now was to protect the patient from error.
“Scalpel. No, wait. Sucker, fast! We can’t see the source!”
I watched silently as Dr. Smirnov shouted instructions to the others. The scrub nurse passed the large suction tip to the doctor. My eyes went to the count sheet, then to the sterile field, and finally, back to the massive pile of bloody sponges accumulating in the trash bin. They were battling the flood.
Focus, Alina.
