Sweat puckered his brow. One. Two. Three. Not Harkin. Not after Wynn had given the man his solemn oath of care. It was a vow given on the rarest occasion as it benefited no one but a patient’s peace of mind and set the surgeon to a not-always-possible standard of achievement. A momentary lapse of weakness, or perhaps a sense of reassuring himself in the dangerous endeavor, and the vow hung suspended like a thread of hope between patient and surgeon, ready to be severed at the hand of Fate.
Fate would not sever them now.
Massage. One. Two. Three.
A pulse rippled through the heart. Another. Life thumped into a steady beat.
Wynn let out a shaky breath.
“Heart rate climbing. Breathing maintained. Closing into normal,” announced the anesthesiologist in a shaky tone of his own.
Wynn glanced across the table to where Gerard stood immobilized. “Ready for closure, Doctor?”
Gerard blinked several times at the pulsing heart within reach of his fingertips and finally lifted his gaze to Wynn as a nurse placed sterilized packing gauze in his hand.
“Ready on your count.”
An hour later Wynn sat on the back steps of the hospital, arms looped over his knees and head dragging down. Exhaustion wearied every bone of his body until the angles seemed to morph into one sagging mass. Yet the thrill of success could not escape him. It bounded from one fatigued muscle to the next, skipping over synapses like sparks of lightning that blazed through his nervous system with blinding excitement.
He’d done it. He’d kept his promise to Harkin.
The sheer magnitude of what had been accomplished in that operating theater deprived him of words. A rare occurrence indeed, but mere mortal words could not express the awed response demanded by this unprecedented surgery. The practice of medicine existed in closed, round rooms where the select privileged were admitted to trod. There to bloat themselves among the shelves of practices deemed favorable for centuries, hardly daring to open the door for new possibilities but for the fearless souls in search of better treatment. The doors to Wynn’s medical chamber had been flung wide open. What might exist beyond the walls?
The door banged open behind him. Gerard huffed down the steps. Orange hair blazing like a crinkled carrot, he furrowed his hands through it as he paced on the grass in front of Wynn. Back and forth he strode with a determination lacking conviction of direction.
Wynn sat quietly in the fading heat of day and waited for his friend to settle on the words tossing about in his mind. It wouldn’t be long. Gerard never could bottle his reactions for extended amounts of time.
Gerard stopped directly in front of him. “That was the most insane, terrifying, mad, not to mention off the chump stunt I have ever witnessed.”
Wynn dropped his head. “Anything else?”
“It was bloody brilliant. I’ve never seen anything like that.” Gerard bent over and grabbed his knees. “Don’t ever do it again. My heart can’t handle the theatrics.”
“You call saving a patient’s life theatrical?”
“The way you perform, yes. Always invoking the most drama into theater instead of sticking to the rules.”
Wynn’s head snapped up. “I hardly think Harkin would agree with sticking to the rules in there. He’d be shoving daisies on the table.”
“You were reckless. Sometimes I think you care more for the triumph in the challenge than the actual patient.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Is it? Then why are you always mucking about with things best left out of our grasp? Stop playing God and leave well enough alone because I won’t go down with your foolish need to prove yourself.” Gerard stormed back inside and slammed the door. A second later the door opened again and he huffed back out. “My apologies, chap. I should not have spoken in anger to you.”
Wynn’s defense deflated. As loathe as he was to hear it, his friend had a point. “Anger often reveals our truest meaning when it isn’t being hidden behind good manners.”
“True, but you do not deserve my censorship in so harsh a tone. Please do forgive me.”
Standing, Wynn clapped him on the shoulder. A comradery of candidness was not one he wished to forsake on the grounds of his pride. “There’s nothing to forgive.”
“What happened in there?”
“The heart stopped. I restarted it.”
Gerard gave him a sharp look. “But how did you know?”
“I’ve been reading medical correspondence from the frontline. A similar operation took place at the Battle of Cambrai last year. The surgeons at the casualty clearing station wouldn’t touch the patient, said he was as good as dead. All heart cases are considered such, but the chief surgeon had read in a medical journal years before the war about the groundbreaking research and techniques the Germans were employed in.”
“The Germans and Austrians have always ingratiated themselves to the newest fangled treatment.” A hint of derision laced Gerard’s tone.
“With great success. Consider the sheer number of patients admitting themselves to their spas in the mountains to take the waters. The achievement of their results cannot be denied.”
“My mother goes there, or did, every June for her nerves. Personally, I think it’s to spend the month away from Father when his horse betting kicks into a frenzy.” Gerard grew quiet as two grizzled physicians walked by deep in conversation about a leg amputation. He lowered his voice. “I don’t believe we should be trusting the Jerries when it comes to treatment for our patients. It’s unpatriotic.”
Wynn harbored no such discrepancies as to who heard him. Would do them all some good to open their ears. They ridiculed him enough behind closed doors. Might as well bring it out into the open.
“Disease, sickness, and death have no such boundaries of partisanship. They’re indiscriminate to lines on a map. What that physician did in Cambrai was unprecedented. No one has dared to cut into the heart before to this extent. At least no British physician. Until now.”
“It’s dangerous. Not only for the patient but for you as well. What do you think the board will say when they find out? Or Nestor, for that matter. He’s a real tartar for rule following, and it’s his job as hospital director to ensure we do as well.”
“Nestor should’ve retired decades ago. If it were up to him, we’d still be using leeches and bloodletting. We owe it to our patients to implement the newest advancements, otherwise we are signing their death sentences by not trying.”
“The men in our profession do not often trust what is new. It isn’t safe. By continuing with these practices they will think you aren’t safe.”
“Nothing in our profession is safe. Men are being ripped apart in the trenches and sent to us in pieces. What about bullets, and cannons, and bayonets seem safe to you? As physicians we are charged with seeking the best treatment for those in our care, and if that means bucking against what stuffy old men clustered around their draconian traditions declare, then by God, that’s precisely what I’ll do. I have no use for the doctor whose beliefs are founded on medical authority alone.”
Gerard placed a steadying hand on Wynn’s shoulder. “Tread carefully, Wynn. Your brilliant defiance to toeing the line may be your undoing. How will you care for your patients then?”
“If I toe the line, they might all be dead.”