Amalia Hussa
2013
Halb, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia
Dim but radiant. The operating room lights spotlighted the patient as the surrounding room remained faint. The singular OR light was a white star surrounded by an empty void of space. Amalia Hussa, age thirty-eight, was part of the surgical team in Operating Theater 13. It was the Surgical ICU of the King Faisal Medical Center.
The patient lay on his back on the OR table, with his upper body elevated and head turned to allow Dr. Bethmann surgical access. With scalpel in hand, the neurosurgeon cut along the patient's shaved head, making his first incision on the right side of the forehead.
Amalia walked to Dr. Bethmann's side and helped him lift off the skin. She held the forehead skin open, and he made another cut against the exposed, dark red flesh. Blood began to seep from the exposed tissue. Amalia and Dr. Bethmann peeled more of the skin, along with the incised muscle underneath, folding both back to expose the skull bone. The pale skull was blood-stained, and the sight was not for the faint of hearted.
Sixty-one-year-old male. Mamoon al-Moustafa. Type A negative blood. Brain tumor toward the front of the brain requiring a craniotomy. Operable, thank God. Dr. Bethmann and the surgical team were here to remove the tumor and save the man's life. Amalia had met Mamoon's family before surgery, and that was when she began to feel that rush of excitement. And being here now, she felt honored to be a part of it.
Amalia looked up at the hanging IV bag, its fluid translucent through the OR lights that shined. This was nourishment for the anesthetized patient. Their water, their purifier. Medicine itself was the fountain of youth. That those who drank from it regained life. She thought, because where would this man be without today's science? He would not survive in any previous time in history. Amalia watched as the IV dripped, with its pool rippling circular waves.
Dr. Bethmann ordered, "Cranial drill."
The surgical technologist, responsible for handling surgical instruments, placed a cranial drill on a sterile tray between them—called the neutral zone.
The surgical tech announced, "Cranial drill down."
The surgeon retrieved the drill and aimed it against Mamoon's exposed skull. He stopped. And pressed the drill's trigger as it howled—its drill bit turning rapidly in accordance with the pressure-sensitive trigger. Dr. Bethmann slowly pushed the drill to meet against the skull—as it maimed the bone. But the drill was shaking along the surgeon's grasp.
The drill was not burrowing in a straight line. A hot sweat broke out on the back of Amalia's neck. Thank God Dr. Hadad was supervising. He stood on the edge of the area surrounding the surgical patient—the operating field. Dr. Bethmann was the new resident surgeon, and this first surgery of his was being supervised by a senior physician. Dr. Hadad stepped forward but stopped once Dr. Bethmann completed the burr hole in the patient's skull.
The surgeon lifted his finger off the handle and pointed the drill away from the surgical site. He aimed the drill again against the patient's skull and pressed the trigger. Drilling the second burr hole.
Dr. Bethmann finished. But did not move. What was he waiting for?
Dr. Hadad ordered the surgical tech, "Craniotome wire saw."
The surgical tech did not move and was waiting by the neutral zone. He extended his gloved hand, "I need the drill back, Doctor."
Amalia exchanged glances with Dr. Hadad as Dr. Bethmann reached to hand the drill back.
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