An Elegy For The Soul

Chapter Twelve

The Life Blood of Change

The dead did not bleed, but they were full of blood. Five liters, to be exact, of a viscous red fluid, so dark it was almost black, and the older it got, the more colors it became.

Shades of red, green, and yellow separated when vials of blood sat for too long– red sinking to the bottom and yellow floating to the top. Once extracted from the body, the liquid would turn solid, forming an irreversible clot—a problem River currently faced.

Clotting, a vital mechanism for survival, served as nature's safeguard against exsanguination from minor injuries like paper cuts. However, in the context of River's experiment, clotting posed a significant hindrance.

Solidified blood couldn't be administered to his patients. While saline transfusions provided temporary volume, they fell short in the face of extensive blood loss during surgery. They couldn't save a person from dying.

However, a revolutionary concept was sweeping through the scientific community: blood types.

Years ago, physicians had ceased using human donors for blood transfusions. What was once a risky procedure aimed at saving postpartum mothers, became entirely outlawed when doctors failed to comprehend why some mothers were perishing after the transfusion.

The father would be hooked up to the mother, a tube connecting their veins, and from the father, life blood would flow into the mother.

But more times than not, it was death.

With the discovery of blood types, scientists were able to develop a compatibility system, effectively allowing the body to endure life-saving transfusions. It was the most thrilling research breakthrough River had ever encountered. Now, he needed to apply it to his own research.

Hospitals couldn't have civilians on standby, ready to be hooked up to a patient during surgery in case of hemorrhage. The idea was entirely impractical, and because of that, surgery remained at a frustrating standstill.

Hospitals needed blood—unclotted, liquid blood stored in their facilities and ready to be administered to patients.

River mulled these thoughts over in the Anatomy lab where he was busy at work.

Before him, on a cold steel table, lay a cadaver—a recently deceased male in his late 60s who had succumbed to heart failure. His kind widow had permitted Burnell to conduct tests on her late husband's body. However, if she were aware of the full extent of these tests, she likely wouldn't have consented.

At present, River was in the midst of extracting her husband's liver. Blood trickled down his surgical gloves, staining his smocks. With meticulous care, he gently removed the organ from the cadaver's abdominal cavity and placed it onto a metal bowl-shaped scale.

When River dissected his first cadaver, he didn't expect certain organs to be so soft. Their meaty wetness yielded under the slightest touch, unlike the skin or muscles. They lacked durability, melting beneath his scalpel. For weeks, he battled the violent urge to shake the unnaturalness from his body, eventually becoming desensitized to the texture. 

Except for the pieces that crunched. River still flinched every time he heard it.

Proteins synthesized in the liver fueled the clotting process, so it wasn't unreasonable to assume that some type of anticoagulant could be discovered there as well. If he found a way to keep extracted blood in its liquid state, it could revolutionize surgery and potentially bring him one step closer to his ultimate goal: organ transplantation.