Medical Terms [Carlisle Cullen]

2 - Carlisle Cullen [Twilight] Pt 2

[ Part 2 ]

"Because no one has more thirst for earth, for blood, and for ferocious sexuality than the creatures who inhabit cold mirrors" ― Alejandra Pizarnik

The term "hemorrhage" is a frequently encountered word in medicine. It may be described in a way that is mind-numbing and nearly impossible to understand, as is the way of doctors, as the leaking of blood from a blood vessel due to a lack of integrity in the vessel wall or clotting mechanism, which should not be confused with a hematoma, which is the accumulation of leaked blood inside the body within tissue plains. This lengthy description can be summed up in one simple, uncomplicated word - "bleeding".

It is common knowledge to the medical profession that two cases of hemorrhaging exist; an internal hemorrhage, in which there is no sign of bleeding outside of the body, that may be seen in the rupturing of a spleen or liver, and an external hemorrhage, in which the blood flow is caused by an injury visible on the body's surface, such as a paper cut.

The difference between the theory and when it is put into practice is, again, rather simple to relate. The theoretical approach included detailed descriptions, perhaps a complicated diagram or two, and the odd interesting fact. In practice, it hurt like shit. 

The blood was hot across my skin. Flaringly hot. I had felt the sticky, syrupy substance thousands of times before in surgery, but when it was your own fluid leaking from your own vessels, it seemed indescribable and almost intolerable. I knew the blood was staining my clothes, absorbing into the fabric that would always be scarlet red after my wounded touch. My head was throbbing and the dull screech of a heart rate monitor pierced the hallways; the dull sound hammered on my temples like tiny fists as I stumbled away from room three. Nurses blurred past me in the opposite direction. I was going into shock. I could feel it in my punch-drunk stagger and heavy breathing, not to mention the blurry silhouettes of people rushing around me, which meant my eyes were dilated. Soon would come the tremors and I needed to be alone for that.

The lock bolted shut on exam room one and I stumbled as I rushed to close the blinds. No one would bother me here, I insisted to my panicked mind, and I hurried to find the surgical supplies I needed: a sewing needle thinner than an eyelash, bundles of cotton swabs, a stinking bottle of disinfectant and cleaning probes for the wound. The metal examination table sent a shock of cold through my fingertips as I drenched the cotton swabs in disinfectant, hissing when I smothered the swabs against the wound. It continued to bleed, almost rebelliously, as I held the scalpel and prepared to probe the hand-wound.

I cried out in pain, stifled only by my clenched teeth. Buried deep in my flesh were glass shards, shards that would prevent the wound from healing or even stopping its bleeding until they were removed. The surgical tweezers trembled in my hands and all I could do to soothe myself was to let the tears wobble from my eyes and streak down my cheeks. With another failed try to dislodge the shard, I cursed loudly and slammed my fist against the table in frustration.

Then came the knock at the door.

My breath hitched and I went rigid. It had to be hysteria, I reassured myself.

There was another soft knock and I jerked up from the table, knocking over the stool in my panic. It was a scramble to spruce the examination room before I had to open the door - but there was blood everywhere! The furniture was shoved to the side and my instruments flung in a random drawer and, having no time to fix my wound, I bundled a swab around my hand and fisted it on the small of my back. When I opened the door, I made sure to appear nonchalant - if not bored out of my mind - and took only one short breath to compose myself.