It Can Be a Gas

While assisting on a carotid endarterectomy (wherein the main artery to the brain is clamped off, opened up, and reamed out) one time during my surgical training, I noticed the anesthesiologist was rummaging around a bit more than usual: opening drawers, drawing up drugs, checking monitors. Finally he casually looked over the ether screen and said to the surgeon, "Jack, you might want to stop what you're doing for a while and push on the man's chest."

* * * * * *

Shortly after I'd arrived in town, the new guy on the block, I told the anesthesiologist assigned to my impending breast biopsy in a frail elderly woman that I'd be happy to inject a bunch of local anesthetic if he thought it would simplify his anesthetic. "I don't need some pipsqueak punk telling me how to do my job," he yelled.


* * * * * * *

In the middle of a big case during which the patient's heart had become erratic, the nurse anesthetist seemed a bit flustered. "Think you should call Dr X (the nurses always worked under the direct supervision of an MD anesthesiologist) to come in," I asked? "He's out on his boat," she replied.

* * * * * *

Debbie the Nurse gives the anesthesia quite frequently for the obesity surgery operations in which I participate of late. Those patients, being quite large and often having associated medical problems, present some unique intra-operative management issues, especially since most are scheduled to go home the same day. More than any of the other anesthetists, nurseoid or doctoroid, Debbie the Nurse can be counted on to have the patient awake and devoid of a breathing tube as the case finishes up.

* * * * * *

The patient is asleep, prepped, draped; the equipment is all ready; it's time to begin. I always ask the anesthesiologist, "OK to start?" before I make the cut, and when the reply is affirmative, I dig in. Sometimes the patient responds a bit, moving. Occasionally it's a pretty vigorous move. I hate it when that happens. (Note: I've never had a patient remember it or comment upon it.)

* * * * * *

During a major abdominal operation, open or laparoscopic, it's imperative that the patient is given muscle relaxants so the belly wall is nice and floppy; otherwise work is nearly impossible. Sometimes it's obvious they are tightening up: I say to the anesthesiologist, "He's getting tight." "I'm on it," is the response, usually. Better: with some docs, it never ever happens. Worse: "No way. Monitor says he's fully relaxed," comes the voice from above the patient's head. "Check the goddamn battery on your nerve stimulator, doc. He's tight as a drum."

* * * * * *

Tough case. Big operation, sick man. Septic, needing ventilatory support, on blood pressure drugs. I'm not sure what I'm going to find, or whether I can pull him through. The anesthesiologist says, "Right. Let's get in a few lines; I'll pop in an internal jug after you're started. Piece of cake." And he sets about his business, gets the man off to sleep without the bottom dropping out, keeps his tank full, making it smooth. What a huge comfort that is. The guy's a genius at what he does. The only tension is on my side of the screen, and it melts away as things progress. The man's gonna make it. I can breathe easier, even ask the anesthesiologist how his kid's doing in school. At the end I -- as usual with the guy -- thank him for a great job.

* * * * *

"The blood looks really dark," I say. "Everything OK up there, Ralph?...Ralph?" I look over the screen. Ralph isn't there. "Where the fuck is Ralph," I ask. "Tell him to get his ass back in here." That's what did it. That's when the rest of the docs in my clinic agreed with us surgeons that it was time to hire our own anesthesia team. Which we did. They're a phenomenal group who, unlike the other group when they were the only game in town, make a continuing effort to remain excellent. (The other group soon did, too. Ralph ain't with them anymore.)

* * * * * *

I'm struggling to see. It's late at night, there's a limited crew, no one extra to scrub in for a few minutes to hold a retractor. "Give it to me," John says. I position the handle of the retractor so he can grab it, layered behind the sterile drape; John gives a good yank and holds it while I finish my suturing, eyeing his monitors, doing the rest of his job at the same time. John spent a couple of years in surgical residency before he got wise and became an anesthesiologist. Nothing ever fazes him. He's sweet as can be to the patients ahead of time, gets scared kiddies to eat out of his hand; he's the one the others call when they can't get the tube in. Everything he does, he makes look easy. I love having him do my cases. Except that he's so handsome and ripped, the nurses are overtly gaga over him and sometimes I have to remind them to pay attention to me. He did my anesthetic when I broke my ankle; my son's when he tore his ACL. We named our new surgery center after him when he died of melanoma, leaving a wife and two young kids. He'd come to me for the biopsy that gave the bad news.

* * * * * *



In response to my post requesting suggestions, Enrico asked about the relationship between surgeons and anesthesiologists. It's a good subject. I'm working on it.