Mitt nodded as if agreeing, but after the previous day and night, he wasn’t sure that enjoy was the right verb. He was thinking survive might be more applicable. Nor did he feel all that lucky. Although he was presently fascinated by the operation, he was exhausted mentally and physically after only one day and one night. The worrisome question of how he’d be feeling after a week or a month dogged him.
Despite how bad he felt physically, he’d somehow gotten through rounds at 6:30 a.m., during which he was introduced to the rest of the surgical residents. Andrea had been particularly eager to learn how his evening had gone, but there hadn’t been time for him to explain in any detail. All he said was that he’d fill her in later. During rounds he’d managed to briefly present his three cases, including Ella Thompson, whose surgery he was now witnessing, along with those of Roberto Silva and Bianca Perez, whose surgeries were to follow Ella Thompson’s in the same OR.
During rounds, Andrea had presented her cases as well, but no one had told her beforehand to be succinct. Instead, Dr. Kumar had interrupted her first two presentations to speed things up and encourage her to concentrate on just the important facts. By her third, she’d finally gotten the message.
All in all, the morning rounds had gone smoothly, with just a few minutes spent on each case. If there were clinical management problems, like a postoperative fever or lack of bowel sounds after abdominal surgery, the whole group lingered a little longer until a consensus was reached.
At the very end of rounds, there’d also been a brief discussion of the Benito Suárez calamity, but the conversation mostly revolved around the details of the patient’s aortic pathology, the difficulties that such pathology caused in suturing the graft, and the associated genetics. To Mitt’s chagrin, little was mentioned about the clinical catastrophe that had taken place and whether there was anything that he could have done when he first arrived on the scene to avert what had ultimately happened.
When rounds broke up, Dr. Van Dyke did take Mitt aside to commiserate briefly with him about the Suárez experience. Mitt appreciated her concern and could tell she was genuinely sensitive to his mindset. As a result, he was tempted to bring up his weird olfactory and visual hallucinations to get them off his chest, so to speak, and maybe find out if she had ever had a similar experience. But then at the last moment, he changed his mind. He’d not had time to adequately think through the experiences himself, and besides, he was worried that it might make her question whether he had what it took to be a surgical resident.
Mitt truly didn’t know what to make of the experiences, and they seemed crazy in the light of day. He’d always thought of himself as being reasonably creative, but conjuring up out of the blue horrific smells and a mysterious child seemed beyond his capabilities. Actually, now that it was daylight, it was even difficult for him to recall exactly how bad the smell had been and what the child had looked like, both of which lent support to the idea that it had been some aberrant, brief waking-nightmare.
After the rapid rounds, those who were scheduled for 7:30 surgical cases went to the elevators to go down to the eleventh floor, including Mitt and Andrea. As their elevator descended, he at least had an opportunity to tell her exactly how exhausted he was and that he hoped her on-call night would be a hell of a lot easier. Her response was to ask to hear more, specifically about the Suárez case.
“Let’s just say it was the worst clinical experience of my life,” Mitt had said, knowing that he wouldn’t have time to elaborate before Ella Thompson’s surgery. At that exact moment, the elevator door had slid open on the eleventh floor, and everyone, including Mitt and Andrea, piled out en masse and headed for their respective ORs.
“While we’re waiting to go on bypass, Dr. Fuller, let me share something with you,” Dr. Harington suddenly announced with obvious pride, breaking into Mitt’s brief reverie. “I happen to be an armchair devotee of Bellevue Hospital history. Maybe that’s not quite strong enough. Maybe a ‘connoisseur’ or ‘aficionado’ of Bellevue’s intriguing history is more accurate. To be honest, I can’t get enough of it. It’s a fascinating three-hundred-year saga with an astounding list of medical firsts. Let me ask you: Are you aware of the extraordinary history of this hospital, Dr. Fuller?”
“Yes, to an extent.” Mitt had no idea where this new discourse was heading, especially in the middle of an open-heart surgery case while waiting for the perfusion machine to be ready.
“One of the most interesting aspects, as you might imagine, is that there’s an extraordinary cast of characters involved, any one of whose life stories would make for a great Hollywood movie.”
“I’m sure,” Mitt said, wanting to be agreeable.
“Why I bring it up is that I recall there were actually a number of Dr. Fullers who served as Bellevue attendings over the years and who were, in their lifetimes, very well-known characters. Are you aware? Could these Fullers have been any relation?”
Mitt tried to look into the depths of Dr. Harington’s eyes to get some sense of where she was going with this unexpected topic. Yet it was almost impossible to tell because she was wearing a pair of surgical magnifying eyeglasses with a built-in bright light such that when he looked directly at her, all he saw was a glare. He had very mixed feelings about being associated with past medical and, in particular, surgical greats, which was why he’d never mentioned it during his application process. But at the moment, he didn’t see any way to skirt the issue. “Yes,” he said after a brief pause. “I am related.”
“Oh, my goodness gracious,” Dr. Harington said with obvious pleasure. “Oh, wow! I can’t believe it! That’s fantastic. As I particularly recall, there were three Fuller nineteenth-century surgeons. Are you related to all three?”
“I am,” Mitt said reluctantly.
“Oh my goodness! Isn’t this rather incredible, Dr. Rodriguez? We have a direct descendant of three historic Bellevue surgeons currently on our residency staff and helping us on this case. I think that’s outstanding.”
“Amazing,” Dr. Rodriguez agreed.
“I’m also related to Samuel Fuller,” Mitt said, attempting to divert attention away from his association with surgery at Bellevue. “He was the physician in the Plymouth Colony.”
“Interesting, no doubt,” Dr. Harington said. “But I’m more impressed with your connections to the Bellevue Fullers. I remember reading that Dr. Homer Fuller had been clocked doing a mid-thigh amputation in nine seconds. That’s skin to skin including sawing through the femur. Can you believe that? I can’t!”
“That’s incredible,” Dr. Rodriguez agreed.
“How close a relative was Homer Fuller?” Dr. Harington asked.
“He was my paternal great-great-great-great-grandfather,” Mitt said. “He was born in 1801.”
“My word! I think this is beyond fascinating,” Dr. Harington carried on. “I really do. Your relative must have been an amazing individual, although quite religious, I understand. Maybe even a bit over the top. But despite that, he and Dr. David Hosack, another famous Bellevue surgeon, were part of a team that took grave-robbing for dissection corpses to new heights, which, by the way, put Bellevue on the anatomical map. Wow! I mean, we’re talking about a very colorful history here. The downside was that Homer Fuller, who was some thirty years younger than David Hosack but significantly more religious, ended up being the leader of the anti-anesthesia group here at Bellevue.”