Scalpel Read Online Free PDF Page B

and skin to be pulled and sutured together before her side of the operation was concluded successfully.
    'Sister Mullan,' continued Lynch, relishing the tension and discomfort he had placed the nurses in, 'would you reach me a one chromic catgut? I'd like to get home before midnight if you don't mind.' He was obviously enjoying the power trip. Mullan and Morrison exchanged angry glances. They could sense his triumphant glee.
    Then a tiny, fleeting whimper was heard. At first it seemed no more than a squeak, the faintest of whispers.
    'Apgar up to four,' shouted Paddy Holland. 'Some grimacing, heart rate up to one hundred. Feeble attempts at spontaneous respiration.'
    His registrar pushed a small plastic cannula into Gordon O'Brien's elbow vein to establish an IV line. The child winced. Then, almost as if furious with everything that had gone before and the sudden pain he was now feeling, Gordon O'Brien took a few spontaneous breaths and tried to cry. His first attempts were no more than gurgles, grunts at respiration. Then he seemed to draw himself up to his full weight with a deep breath and let out a piercing cry of pain. All activity in the theatre stopped, apart from the movements of Dean Lynch's hands as he sutured tissue together.
    'Apgar five at seven minutes,' shouted Holland. 'It's now 12.29 and his apgar is up to five.' There was a collective sigh of relief throughout the theatre. After two or three more convulsive gasps and grunts Gordon O'Brien finally let out a prolonged strong and healthy cry. Two of the nurses clapped with delight and June Morrison felt tears welling up. She blinked furiously to keep her field of vision clear. Breda Mullan gave her a reassuring smile. They both couldn't resist taking a peek at the tiny arms and legs now threshing on the resuscitation trolley. The deathly blue-grey colour had been replaced with a pinkish glow as blood rich in oxygen flowed throughout his body.
    'Apgar up to nine or ten,' shouted Holland triumphantly. 'Well done team. We've saved him.'
    Only Dean Lynch kept his eyes firmly down, continuing his careful and painstaking closure of each layer of Sandra O'Brien's abdomen.
    A figure suddenly appeared beside them, one hand holding a face mask over his mouth. 'What happened? What's going on? Is everything okay?' It was Tom Morgan.
    At the sound of his voice Dean Lynch looked up sharply.
    'Is she okay, Dean?' asked Morgan nervously.
    Lynch turned back momentarily to his suturing. 'Cut,' he snapped and June Morrison snipped the catgut where Lynch had tied a firm knot. He dropped the needle handle onto the floor and kicked it to the far end of the theatre.
    'This is the last fucking time I save your ass, Morgan!' he snarled. He turned on his heels and marched out of the theatre, leaving it in pandemonium.
     
     
    Lynch didn't notice the burly figure of Harry O'Brien hurrying along the corridor towards theatre, nor that of Theo Dempsey, heart pounding with anxiety, following at his boss's heels. The only thing Dean Lynch was aware of was a dreadful pain in his head. His face was white with a barely suppressed fury as he changed out of his operating greens. Within minutes he had left the hospital buildings and was in his car, tyres scattering gravel in its wake as he swung out into Whitfield Square. The car sped along the narrow streets that led away from the hospital complex, finally joining the afternoon traffic along O'Connell Street. Lynch ignored the blaring horns and shaking fists as he cut across, switching lanes without warning. The clock on Trinity College chimed one thirty as he drove past on his way to Nassau Street and out towards Ballsbridge.
    As he neared his flat, one of a group in a modern complex just off Baggot Street, Lynch made a conscious effort to control himself, drawing in deep breaths and letting the air out slowly through pursed lips. He slipped quietly into the car park and glided to a halt in the numbered position reserved for flat twenty-three.