Love Nothing Alive

© 1982, 2013 by Dr. Jack Birge. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/30/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4905-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4904-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4903-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013909815

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Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Crafter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

About The Author

This book is dedicated to my wife Barbara who has sailed the sea of life with me for many years.

INTRODUCTION

The story and all the characters are fictional. It’s a what if book and the what if’s are carried to extremes to make the points of the story. The events described in no way typify the people of Georgia. I have been practicing medicine in rural Georgia for 54 years and I know of no one who actually fits the behavioral pattern of the characters in this book. The only part of the story based on fact was the discovery of a body within a statue of a desperado of the old West on display in a Fun House in an amusement park in California where they were filming an episode of the Six Million Dollar Man TV series. An arm was broken from the statue revealing a human bone inside leading to the discovery of a mans body encased in plaster and acrylic in essence a human statue. The man inside was found to be a bank robber killed by a posse in the late 1920’s whose body had been displayed in circus side shows for several years before disappearing until 1978 when he was found to be in the statue. This story was printed in the Atlanta Journal Constitution in the fall of 1978.

I wrote the book in 1982 after completing a prior book titled Murder Without Death which was based on events that actually took place in a small town in Georgia. The writing of something purely fictional was like a cathartic getting all that true stuff out of my mind. My 79-year-old father typed the handwritten manuscript on an old mechanical typewriter built somewhere around 1939. I don’t think he liked the book since he obviously did not reread any that he typed leaving a large number of typographical errors many of which were from striking more than one key at a time leaving unintelligible graphics. I had actually forgotten about the manuscript but encountered it one day when looking through my books in my library and after reviewing it I decided to rework it and offer it for publishing. This proved to be quite a task but I think I have achieved a readable form in spite of the fact there is evidence of the deficiencies of the old mechanical typewriter. There are some letters darker than others with variances in size and shape of the letters. I hope the reader does not find this to be intolerable and a distraction from the story.

CHAPTER 1

The last of anything has a certain luster that sharpens the senses to build lingering memories. Things unnoticed become visible, the ugly becomes less vile, beauty catapults, and becomes inspiring, and what seemed miserable often changes to not so bad. Dr. Eric Ransahoff felt all of these as he coursed his aging Fiat sports car along the streets of Greenwich Village towards the ramp to the Henry Hudson Parkway, for his last trip to the New York Medical Center.

At dawn the narrow streets of Greenwich Village were dimly lit and dull and gray, broken only by dots of yellow light,’from windows of the tall buildings, that marked early risers.

Then, as he escaped the tall buildings and moved up the ramp onto the Parkway, it was like the entrance to another world, for the rising sun light came into view and sparkled off the wide, blue waters of the Hudson River, changing the drab gray of the sleeping city into a world of color and activity. Sea gulls glided lazily close to the water. A tugboat moved slowly up river, striping the blue water, trailing a decorative white wake.

Ad such serene beauty greeted him every morning? He hadn’t noticed. This was the seventh June in a row he’d passed this way, so he’d had plenty of time to see it. He just hadn’t looked—too engrossed in becoming a good surgeon. He thought back over the seven years of his surgical training. Hardly seemed possible that after today they would be over.

Warm summer air, cleaned by the cool of night just gone by, soothed his face, as it rushed through his topless sportcar. Traffic on the Freeway was light and he could drive relaxed. He didn’t know exactly why he got such an early start each morning. Perhaps it was to get out of the deadly jaws of Manhattan before it awakened. Running away—that was it. He had been running from everything in life that wasn’t pertaining to medicine and didn’t happen in a hospital.

That’s why he hadn’t noticed the beauty of New York. He had been too busy running from its ugliness. Funny, he was leaving New York, but not running away. Quite the contrary. Where he was going took all the courage he could muster. The glare from the rising sun broke his train of thought. There ahead, in darkened silhouette, a towering cluster of buildings—his destination, the New York Medical Center. The sun’s bright rays seemed to burst from the building tops and reach out towards the sky, like bands of glistening platinum, as if decorating them with a giant crown. A regal look. Appropriate. The Medical Center was like a ruling power, and he had been hidden in the sanctity of its security. How would it be, otherwise? Arrival at his exit mercifully cut off his mental search for an answer to that compelling question. He wheeled off the Henry Hudson Parkway towards Mid-town Manhattan, and the front of the giant Medical Center.

The trip from his one room Village apartment to the parking place at the Medical Center marked Reserved-Chief Surgical Resident helped start his day; for it usually freed his mind from turmoil for a short interlude. But this morning was different. His mind was nothing but turmoil, and even the trip had seemed unfamiliar. He cut off the Fiat’s motor and sat in silent thought about his plans to practice medicine in a part of the country totally unfamiliar to him. Come to think of it, that was nothing new. He had known little about New York City, for his movements of the past seven years had been like those of the figures in the famous Austrian clock,—moving on schedule, along a track. For Ransahoff, life had heen to the hospital and back to the apartment, as precisely on schedule as the clock; for he had been a loner, dedicated to his work, with no one in his personal life to change it.

Until the last six months, such a lonely routine life hadn’t bothered him; but then something happened inside his mind, and his monk-like existence began to etch his emotions and push him to seek a change. He had done just that Today marked the end of that kind of life; for it was the last day of his surgical residency. He had refused a lucrative offer to practice surgery with a group of highly successful New York surgeons. Sight of the glowing Medical Center and the sign at his parking place reminded him of that fact, as well. Ransahoff pulled the Fiat’s convertable top in place, fastened it, then struggled through the opened window—the door hadn’t worked in months. He then h·urried towards the ·newsstand on the broad sidewalk near the hospital’s entrance. The saddened face of Paddy McGlaughlin, the newsstand vendor, was waiting. The bent, gray bearded old Irishman seemed limp, as if the checkered cap atop his head weighed a ton and was pushing him into the concrete sidewalk. Paddy was sad because he was losing a friend. Not only his first customer every morning for the past seven years, that gave him a few moments of his time in idle conversation, but also a man he loved who had saved his life!A ruptured aneurysm. could have meant death if it hadn 1 t been for Ransahoff. Since then, they had been closer than just friends. For a moment they faced each other in silence. Words that flowed through their brains couldn’t find their lips. Tears moistened their faces. The old man grimaced and momentarily looked away, then he grabbed Ransahoff in tight embrace;

God be with you, Son. For a moment he trembled, then shoved Ransahoff away: Now, get outa here, and take this damned paper, or I’ll call a cop.

The stern look he had constructed didn’t hold, collapsing into melancholy: I’ll miss you, Doc. Who’s gonna come by and argue with a worthless old Mick about how ugly that statue that clutters up the.· front of the hospital is? Who’s gonna do that?

Ransahoff couldn’t speak. The mental turmoil he brought with him now swirled out of control, checking words long before they could get to vocal cords. His thanks to the aging Irishman came with but wet eyes and a grip to the old man’s shoulder. He then turned to leave.

Hey, Doc!

Ransahoff looked around.

You’re the expert on statues. Read the article about the human· statue on the front page.

Ransahoff nodded with a warm smile, glanced at the folded front of the Times, tucked. it under his arm, and stalked the massive, ornate arches and glass of the cathedral-like entrance to the large hospital. He hesitated, and mumbled: The last time I’ll walk through these doors as a resident. I’ve lived like a monk in this monastery, but no more. He suppressed a slight feeling of apprehension and pushed through bronze doors into the medicinal atmosphere of a marble corridor. He walked rapidly through a faceless crowd of bustling people to an elevator. Hurrying was another bad habit he had learned in New York. He was rushing without need, for he was early, as usual. Plenty of time to change into his white clothes and read the newspaper before rounds with the junior residents and. interns. Ransahoff left the solemn, wordless group in the elevator at the third floor and entered the residents’ quarters. The dark, dingy, musty smelling old recreation room had changed very little in the three quarters of a century the New York Medical Center had been healing the sick and training young doctors in the latest methods to aecomplish this. It was rarely occupied, for doctors in training had little time to relax and play; so only time had worn its appointments. Covering the walls of the room were pictures of stiffly standing figures in short white coats, shirts and ties, and starched white pants:the young doctors that had learned the arts of medicine and surgery at the huge hospital.

Among those pictures were the faces of Ransahoff’s father and his two brothers:Donald the eldest, and Michael the brother just older than he. He knew the location of each very well, for he often stood before them in thought—as a matter of fact, more often during the past six months.

He paused before each of them momentarily, then progressed to a picture hung only yesterday:the newest group of residents finishing their training. The fact that he was the scrawny, short, bushy headed guy with a large nose and thick glasses on the front row didn’t dim the pride he felt over his accomplishment. He was now a damn good surgeon, and he felt it.

Maybe pride and self confidence, of being a polished surgeon, would overcome his self-consciousness over his physical attributes, or lack of them. He knew that hangup had been one reason forthe secluded, anti-social life he had lived and had now pledged to himself to change.

Ransahoff fingered a small gold honor medical society key (.AOA) in his pocket. It had been awarded to his brother Michael for scholastic achievement in medical school. Michael was brilliant; and his medical school grades reflected that. Ransahoff had earned one of his own, just like it; but during the past year he preferred carrying Michael’s. It reminded him of what both Donald and Michael had preached to him through the years. They still preached it, for he could hear their voices saying: Learn to love people. That’s where happiness lies. Recalling their words now seemed to give him courage—to change his life and do what they said.

After his brothers were killed, he had become totally withdrawn but he was handling their memories better now and wantedto hear their voices in his mind; and he was ready to seek the happiness they had found. Maybe he was ready because he had achieved everything they did. Anyway, thoughts of them were rescuing him from loneliness, and he was convinced such thoughts, and the courage they brought, would lead him to happiness.

Ransahoff surfaced from his trance, took one last glance at the pictures before him, then proceeded to his room in the quarters—his home when he was on duty. He quickly changed from his jeans into starched white coat and pants. The tie he was wearing was atrocious and his button-down, Oxford, blue shirt was frayed and without buttons to button it down, for clothes, amongst most material things, had meant little to him. He checked his watch. He had thirty minutes to read the Times before rounds. He flopped down on the creaky, ancient, flat-springed, iron bed. It probably antedated his father and filled most of the cubbyhole-like room. He gathered the pillow under his head and unfolded the paper. A Human Statue :Found! The article stirred Ransahoff’s emotions. It told of an outlaw named McCurdy, who was killed in a desolate part of Oklahoma in 1911, after robbing a bank. Instead of being buried, his body was displayed in circus side shows for 15 years, then disappeared to be discovered that week, coated with a ceramic covering, standing in a house of horrors in Los Angeles, California—a human statue for countless years. Description of the violent death of the outlaw McCurdy kindled unpleasant and buried memories of his brothers, Michael and Donald. Both had died violently, murdered. Such memories always opened up wounds and unleashed a gnawing sickness in his stomach.

There was something else about the article that stirred Ransahoff: a human being had been made into a statue’!· Ransahoff dwelled on that thought, for he had more than a casual interest in statues. In fact, he had accumulated a whole library on the subject and had studied sculpture and sculptors during most of his off time. Actually, his interest in that field provided the main source of his entertainment and led to his collection of the many ceramic and plaster figures that cluttered his one room apartment. Ransahoff referred to the figures as his friends and spentmany hours studying them;for in ach of them he perceived an emotion: happiness, sadness, rage, strength, pity, helplessness. To him the small statues represented moments of life, captured, that would never die. Reading the article made Ransahoff think about the emotions the outlaw McCurdy, as a statue, captured. He visualized a face of agonized horror. That was it: terror and agony. Could any artist create a figure that could capture those emotions as well as plaster—following the lines of a real face, with real expressions, from real horror and agony? No sculptor could reproduce that. Oh, how he would have loved to have seen that statue. Amazing that a body could be preserved that long. Ransahoff became uncomfortable with his thoughts, for they were leading him along old lines that he had pledged to abandon. Until now·he thought, Love nothing alive, then death will never hurt you. In many ways that creed still seemed appealing, and a haven protected from the pain he had felt before. He had to rid his mind of that creed if he was going to follow the advice of his brothers, and look for love and happiness. That meant he would have to care for living things, not inanimate objects. He discarded the paper, go·t up, stepped towards the door, hesitated in momentary thought, then returned to the paper. A search of the drawer in the bedside table yielded bandage scissors. Carefully he clipped out the article and tucked it in a compartment of his wallet—not sure why he wanted to keep it—then hurried out the door to the elevator, the tenth floor, and rounds on a surgical ward. Ten West was one of six surgical floors the Chief Resident supervised, operating on the most difficult cases admitted there, and instructing the residents junior to him in surgical technique, as they operated on the less complicated ones. At center corridor, a glass enclosed nurses’ station guarded a seventeen bed ward. Down the corridor in either direction were semi-private rooms. The beds were eternally full, and many of the occupants wore neat incisions from the scalpel of Dr. Eric Ransahoff, under their gauze dressings. At precisely eight o’clock, Ransahoff stepped from the elevator into the heavier atmosphere of inner hospital. The twang of intermingled antiseptics mixed with odors of sick humanity. He glanced at the collection of white clothed residents and interns clustered between the double row of beds in the ward, ready for rounds with the Chief Resident, and proceeded to join them.

Mrs. O’Brien, head nurse of the floor, appeared from her glass enclosure and intercepted him. Behind her was an unfamiliar but pretty, olive-skinned face peering from under an unfamiliarly shaped, winged nurse’s cap. Dr. Ransahoff, I want to introduce you to Miss Delbello, one of our new nurses. She’ll be working on this floor.

Ransahoff’s expression emerged from removed thought, as he paused and focused on the white clad pair before him. Oh, he said. It was a surprised Oh. His facial expression explained, then changed to uneasiness as his eyes repidly covered the dark haired, dark eyed beauty in white. Glad to meet you, Doctor, Delbello smiled warmly. The presence of the beautiful woman brought Ransahoff discomfort, and it was obvious. He searched for words, then instinctively extended his right hand, judged that improper, quickly withdrew it and fumbled clumsily, shoving it into his starched pocket: Uh… glad to meet you, too.

Ransahoff’s eyes seemed to be glued to the source of his discomfort, and lingered, as he quickly turned to join the waiting group of young doctors. Far too consumed to have noticed the approach of the tall Assistant Chief Resident, Dr. Sandy Silverstein, Ransahoff’s sudden move brought collision. Silverstein staggered back a step and caught the flailing arms of Ransahoff sprawling forward. He set the small man back on his feet, cast a look of consternation, and asked, Are you ready for rounds, Dr. Ransahoff? Ransahoff smiled sheepishly, looked back at Miss Delbello and said, Hope you like it here. He waved departure with two fingers, and turned to Silverstein: Sorry about that, Sandy. He then constructed a professional look and accompanied the towering Assistant Chief Resident to their waiting colleagues clustered around the bed of the first patient. Nurse Delbello was apprehensive. Did I say something wrong? she asked. O’Brien remained silent with a puzzled look for a few moments, stroking her chin. Finally she spoke: I’ve known Dr. Eric Ransahoff for seven years, and I’ve never seen him act quite like that. He’s always been timid and withdrawn, but never upset. Too bad he’s leaving tomorrow. From the look on his face, I believeyou’re the one that could bring him out of his shell. looked at you, and for him, that’s unusual.

He really Delbello was relieved. Her over heated welcome had been planned for young, single doctors; but she was glad inside that she didn’t have to answer for her flirtations to the odd little man. So that’s the Dr. Ransahoff? To be such a talked about surgeon, he isn’t much to look at, cornrnented Delbello. "I have an idea there’s a great deal more to him than meets the eye;otherwise he couldn’t be that good a doctor. I’ve watched him fight for a patient’s life as if it were his own, and save many no one thought could possibly survive. Take my word for it, behind that fumbling exterior are some powerful feelings. Too bad he won’t be around so I can see them break out. I have a feeling they’r very close to the surface.

The loud ring of the ward phone ended O’Brien’s analysis, and set her in motion. From the phone, she hurriedly informed Ransahoff he had an emergency call. Ransahoff trotted to the telephone without even a glance toward Dalbello.

The voice from the phone was frantic, and Ransahoff’s face reflected it as he listened instantly, then barked orders: Get him straight to the operating room. Dr. Silverstein and I will be waiting there. Tell the intern to grab all the 0-negativeblood he can find and get it to the OR as fast as he can. And, forGod’s sake, keep the IVs running. Ransahoff slammed down the receiver and bolted to the elevator, shouting over his shoulder, Let’s go, Sandy. We’ve got one about to leave us. Silverstein got the message and was not far behind. Six floors down was the operating suite, a cold, long, tiled corridor, with the odor of anesthetic gases and antiseptics. Hooded, masked figures draped in baggy, Nile green clothes hurried about in silence, preparing for a bevy of operative procedures with long, complex names, posted on long sheets of paper adjacent to the twelve heavy doors that would soon be opened for their sinister business. Movement in the corridor suddenly ceased, responding to the voice of the scrub suited Chief Resident: Get ready for an emergency case, on its way up. We’ll use Room 4. The case scheduled there will have to wait. Movement resumed. Ransahoff turned to Silverstein walking briskly behind, taking one step to Ransahoff’s two, and said, Check the instruments, Sandy. The patient should be here any moment."

Ransahoff stopped at the OR door as Silverstein proceeded into a larger, dimly lit, tiled roam highlighted by a narrow, metal table with a thin, rubber mattress. Broad belt restraints, and many levers:the operating table. Above the table hovered a giant, kettle-drum light. Around the operating table were curved, stainless steel tables draped in green, displaying stacks of shining instruments. Electronic gadgets on lbeels stood close by. At the head of the t ble was a machine with gauges, hoses, and tanks, that looked as if it probably came from under the hood of a custom made automobile, instead of being a vehicle to take the brain out of the conscious world temporarily, then bring it back again.

The upper half of an entire wall of the large operating room was occupied by glass for viewing. Behind it were three rows of seats for the observation and education of spectators. Ransahoff was ready and waiting when the elevator door atthe end of the corridor opened and a gurney burst forth, propelled by a cluster of blood-spattered, white uniformed people. The wheeled stretcher moved rapidly down the corridor like a giant caterpillar with fast moving legs. IV poles at the gurney’sfront added to the illusion, appearing as large antenae decorated with swaying bottles of fluid, trailing tubes to a blanket covered human form, a young man shot by a policeman, after robbing a bank. Within seconds, the patient was in the operating roam and transferred to the operating table. Ransahoff snatched away the blanket. The patient’s skin was wet and cold with a bluish, pasty white color, the face lifeless,. eyes wi hin dark circles were rolled back. Ransahoff’s bandage scissors cut away a hastily applied, blood soaked chest binder from the blood smeared, naked body. Air hissed to and fran a circular wound in the left anterior chest, spewing blood with each gasping attempt to breathe. Death was near. Ransahoff quickly stuffed a handfUl of gauze 4x4s into the sucking chest wound, to stop the inward rush of air that collap ed the lungs of the dying man. He held them tightly as the anesthesiology resident, Dr. Abalone, hooked the blade of a laryngoscope in the patient’s mouth and skillfully slipped an endotrachael tube into place—he could now breathe for the patient, and life giVing oxygen could be provided, if the patient had any blood left to carry it. Abalone then lowered the head of the table with the quick flick of a lever, to direct what blood was left in the patient’s body towards his brain.

The bewildered, frightened face of the intern, Dr. Julian Baird, burst into the OR, cradling an armful of soft plastic bags containing human blood. This is all the 0-neg I could find, he panted, eyes dancing about, not wanting to look too closely at the bloody form on the table. Abalone grabbed two bags and substituted them for the fluids running in each arm vein, circling them with a pressure pumping device like a blood pressure cuff.

Get another unit of blood ready, Baird, barked Ransahoff, in a voice with the hardened one of absolute authority. His face had hardened, as well; gone was the meek, uneasiness apparent moments before on the ward. He now looked like a man ready to fight a duel, d etennined, defiant, and angry. You1 re wasting your time, Eric. Look at the position of the wound. That bullet went through the man’s heart. He’s a dead man. For God’s sake, don’t be heroic, said Silverstein from the opposite side of the OR table. Ransahoff flashed a piercing glanceJ Gown and glov.e, Silverstein, and do what I tell you, he commanded, as he grabbed a scalpel from the Mayo stand and sliced through the bloodless skin, fat, fascia, sternum to pubis, exposing J.i.i_up… oils of small intestine inside the patient’s abdominal cavity. Baird, the young intern, wavered in fright. Bare handed, slashing entrance into a patient’s abdomen was something he’d never seen before, and rising nausea indicated he was ill prepared. His eyes widened as he watched the continued frantic strugg]e to keep life from sinking into the darkness of death.

Ransahoff’s hands dug through slick coils of bowel to expose the large artery, the aorta. He then thrust a needle thl Gugh its wall. Damn it, give me the blood, Baird, Ransahoff barked as he grabbed the tubing from Baird’s hand, then gs:owled, Now pump, damn you, Baird came out of his trance, grasped the bulb of the pump e ircling the Qll psible container of blood and began frantic squeezing movements. His face reddened as Ransahoff added, Ifyou faint, fall backwards, not forwards into the wound. The cutting remark served its purpose. Baird wouldn’t dare faint now; joining the struggle quelled his nausea.

"OK, Sandy, cut. I’ll get blood out of the pericardium to relieve the tamponade, barked Ransahoff. Silverstein responded immediately to the command, to begin the operation. He quickly pread a windowed, sterile, green paper sheet over the patient’s chest, open at the location he would make the incision. The snap of steel against rubber sounded, as the nurse slapped a scalpel in his hand with crisp, rapid movements. Silverstein went to work. Ransahoff then dug inside the abdominal wound, shoved a needle through the diaphragm and withdrew large syringes full of blood from the pericardium, the sack inside the chest that enveloped the heart. The cardiac monitor bleeped and came to life. Ransahoff glanced at the dancing electran beam, flashed a smile: Pump, damn you Baird, PUMP!" Baird pumped harder, returntng a trace ofa smile.

Ransahoff then donned hood, mask, gown and gloves and mounted an eight inch stool to bring him level with the long, angled incision in the patient’s chest, Silverman’s scalpel had opened. He took the blade and skillfully knifed into the chest cavity, pushed the lung aside and incised the pericardium. A flood of dark blood filled the chest: SUCTION1 The level of blood dropped like water draining from a tub,· and Jthe open pericardium and heartreappeared. A jet of bright red blood shot forth from a small hole near the tip of the thrusting, struggling heart, spattering Ranshoff’s glasses. He didn’t flinch. Sight of the blood directed his finger to stem the tide of hemorrhage until the hole could be closed.

At least we1ve got sane blood pressure Hansahoff 1s canment was casual, a tone surgeons use in tense situations, demonstrating their composure and that things are under control. He added: Give me suction again. I1ve got to see to close this hole,—with a touch of sarcasm; which seemed to propel the instrument nurses into more rapid movement.

Blood in the chest again rapidly disappeared. The rattling, sucking sound that accompanied the disappearance was like a thousand thirsty kids finishing a drink through a straw, all in unison. Ranaahoff lifted his finger and quickly assessed the exact pointof the hole. The bullet had only nicked the heart. Even an eighth of an inch to the right would have been instant death. The guJ’ was lucky. Ransahoff1s hands moved in rhythm with the rapidly beating heart, as he carefully placed an intricate stitch in the heart muscle, then another and anether, until the hole was c losed and the flow of blood stopped. He glanced up fran the operat ve field, at Baird. The intern’s pallor was gone. Even though the operating roan was cold, Baird was wet with sweat, totally and vigorously involved in his blood pumping task. Ransahoff1s smile was hidden behind his mask—remembering when he was an intern. He had been more frightened than Baird. I can hear a blood pressure at 60, Eric, reported Abalone from the head of the table. Good. Keep pumping, Baird, said Ransahoff, as he searched the chest cavity for damage the bullet might have caused to other structures. A hole through the lung posed no problem. Slight bleeding from the posterior chest wall where the bullet ended its course through the patient’s chest was controlled’. ‘py additional stitches. Ransahoff’s search yielded no other evidence of organ damage.

Pressure1s up to 100 systolic. Pulse now 110 and regular, reported Abalone.

Great. Slow the blood down now, Baird. If his brain1s all right, and the shock hasn’t damaged his kidneys, he might make it. Ransahoff1s words relaxed some of the tenseness in the masked and gowned crowd around the operating table. The meticulous closure of each structure knifed through would take time, and movements of the crew could be slower and more methodical. What had taken moments to open would take hours to close. Start him on some IV Caphalothin, Abalone. We don’t want to lose our patient to infection, Ransahoff said, as he stepped down momentarily fran his perch on the eight inch stand, while a nurse wiped sweat fran his brow and cleaned blood fran the thick lenses of his glasses. He climbed back onto the stool and glanced at his tall assistant.

Silverstein stretched and rotated from side to side, exercising his back to relieve the strain of bending over the patientfrom the opposite side of the operating table. Even though Ransahoff,., ras perched on a stool, the table was uncomfortably low for the tall Silverstein.

Tomorrow you can put the table where you want it, Sandy; you’ll be the Chief. Maybe then your back won’t hurt, said Ransahoff with a furtive look in his eyes. He then resumed the task of putting the patient back together. The remainder of the procedure would be automatic. Ransahoff’s hands,., rere as familiar with each step as they were on the piano, when he played the solo at his Bar Mitzvah twent years before. His mind wandered—he was happy then. His mother and brothers were still alive.

The subject of his thoughts was uncomfortable, so he shifted his thoughts to the pretty nurse he met that morning on Ten West. The sparkle in her eyes· had fired something in him. Maybe others in the past had looked at him in the same way and he hadn’t noticed.

How many opportunities had he missed?He hadn’t given life a chance, up to now. No more. He sure as hell wasn’t going to hide in a hospital the rest of his life. Thoughts of what tomorrow would bring seemed more comforting.

The blood pressure and pulse are good, and stable, Eric. You snatched this one out of the grave. Great job, Doctor. The words of ad ration from Dr. Abalone drifted from behind the ether screen at the head of the operating table.

Ransahoff surfaced from his wandering thoughts only momentarily, mumbled acknowledgement through his mask, then drifted back. Abalone was right. He had won a battle in his war against death. It was a very personal war, and he reali·zed it. When he won, it gave him a high. Those highs had been his main stimulus in life; and all he had looked forward to was another battle and another victory. Was he psychotic? Perhaps he was, in a way. He knew he felt strong, maybe even heroic, when locked in combat with his despised enemy, death.

Death is something to hate. When you do, you’ll be better doctors, he had said many times to junior residents and interns but he never explained what was deep inside him that made him really hate it.

Death had gouged him in the past, taking hismother and two brothers and leaving him sickened by fear and grief.

The only way he had handled it was to live by his father’s code: Love nothing alive, then death won’t hurt you. That code provided him with a sort of armor, and thus he fought death without fear. In so doing, it led him into an existence with a different misery that had grown into intolerance. It had made him lonely, unhappy, without friends, with only the highs his victories brought to look forward to, and with only the companionship of the many statues that filled his apartment.

In a way, he had been dead. Then the memories of his brother’s words revealed a way out of his living death: Remember Eric, you must learn how to love before anyone can love you. These words had given him the courage to change, and it took courage, for he knew with such a change he would again be vulnerable to being hurt by his bitter enemy, death. The words of his brother revolved over and over in his mind to maintain his courage to face his adversary with such vulnerability. He did it. He did it today, and he did it well. Ransahoff’s mind shifted back to the flesh on which he worked. He put the finishing stitches in the pericardium, tucking the repaired heart safely in its private, protective chamber, checked for evidence of additional bleeding in the chest cavity, found none, then released the Finichetto rib spreader to begin closure of the chest wall.

Nothing is more beautiful than the symphony of life const.sntly in motion in the human chest, thought Ransahoff. Damn the fools that destroy it. The cops could have caught this kid without shooting him. He then thought of the young bank robber, McCurdy, killed in 1911, he read about in the New York Times. He didn’t have a chance.

Violence was another thing to hate. He had to find love to dilute the horrible feeling violence and death brought every day b—his profession. He was convinced no doctor could live without love, and stay sane. But how about his father? Dr. Israel Ransahoff lived without love. Ransahoff’s mind fleeted through memories of the past. In a way, his father was insane. That thoughtwas painful and he broke it off.

Ransahoff hesitated between stitches, glanced towards themany faces gazing down from the amphi-theatre, then glanced at his assistant, Silverstein.

The hood and mask obscured most of Silverstein’s face, but his eyes seemed full of anger. Ransahoff shrugged and returned to the task of closing the gaping flesh t before him. Dr. Sandy Silverstein’s hands moved in co-ordinated unisonwith Ransahoff1 s. As Ransahoff stabbed a stitch in place, Silverstein executed a double square knot, with exactly the right tension, with such speed and smoothness of motion it was as if a magician were passing hands over a silk hat for a rabbit to appear. But there was more to surgery than manual dexterity, for behind the hands had to be a keen mind and the mysterious mixture within a surgeon that was called judgement and will. those were the ingredients that made good surgeons, great ones. Silverstein was a good surgeon average, but good and he felt adequate except when he was in the OR with Ransahoff. It was vases like the one today that made him feel inadequate. With that feeling, came anger. In Silverstein’s mind burned the idea that Ransahoff had made a fool of him.

He had pronounced this patient beyond help, and Ransahoff had brought him back to life. That kindled another thought that ate at his gut tomorrow he would inherit all of the responsibility—ws he good enough to save a patient like this? Silverstein wasn’t sure. Why did he have to follow a shriveled up little jerk like this, who happened to be a surgical genius? The only answer Silverstein found to that question was more anger.

Silverstein glanced over his mask at Ransahoff. Ransahoff usually carried on idle conversation with him at this stage of the operation, but he had been silent. Maybe that was a gesture of contempt. Silverstein’s thoughts continued to boil. The incessant rhythmic sounds of the respirator and high pitcned bleepsof the cardiac monitors seemed to increase the intensity of Silverstein1s animad-versions and brought sarcasm from his mouth: Is it true the nurses gave you a damned doll for a going-away present?

Ransahoff paused and glanced up: They gave me a lovely ceramic figure of an angel. A reproduction of a Rodin original, done in 1880. I imagine it cost them quite a bit. Isn’t it time you quit playing with dolls;: Eric, and tried a real wanan for a change? Silverstein1 s words were pointed. Ransahoff1s brows narrowed. The look in his eyes answered Silverstein, then returned to the operative field. Silverstein regretted his remark the moment it left his lips. His mask magnified the heat fran his face burning with embarrassment. A cutting glance from the instrument nurse intensified his humiliatioo. Look, Eric, I 1m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.

No problem.

Several moments of silence followed, as the hands of thesurgeonscontinue.d.

Silverstein’s discomfort found its way to his hands. He broke a suture delivering the third loop of a double square knot.

Ransahoff received the smooth pass of another long needle holder from the nurse then looked up and paused, making no effort to replace the stitch. He looked a