to Mr Paneth, who took to saying, ‘Did you get that, Westaby? Did you get that, Westaby?’
My surgical logbook opened in spectacular fashion. The Paneth team had a case scheduled after the outpatient’s clinic, a little old lady from Wales for mitral valve replacement. The boss invited me to go and start while he saw a couple more private patients. I proudly changed into the blue scrubs. Not only that, I found a pair of white rubber surgeon’s boots in an open locker. They were well worn and dirty. I could have had new clogs but coveted these discarded second-hand boots. Why? Because down the strip at the back was written ‘Brock’. I was about to inherit Lord Brock’s boots.
By now Baron Brock of Wimbledon was seventy and had stopped operating, Paneth alluding to his having ‘perpetual disappointment at the unattainability of universal perfection’. He was President of the Royal College of Surgeons when I was at medical school and stayed on as Director of the Department of Surgical Sciences, and now I’d be following in his footsteps. Literally. I strode out of the surgeons’ changing room straight into the operating theatre to introduce myself.
The old lady was on the operating table. The scrub sister, who had already prepared her with antiseptic iodine solution and covered her naked body in faded green linen drapes, was now impatiently tapping her theatre clogs on the marble floor, and the long-suffering anaesthetist Dr English and the chief perfusionist were playing chess by the anaesthetic machine. I sensed that everyone had been waiting for some time. I pulled on my face mask and quickly scrubbed up, relishing this first opportunity to showcase my skills.
I carefully located the landmarks, the sternal notch at the base of the neck and the tongue of cartilage at the lower end of the breastbone. The scalpel incision – a perfectly straight line cut from top to bottom – would carefully join the two. The old lady was thin and emaciated with heart failure, and there was little fat between skin and bone to cleave with the electrocautery. At this point there was still no sign of the other assistant surgeon, but I pressed on regardless, seeking to impress the nurses.
I took the oscillating bone saw and tested it. Bzzzz. That was fierce enough. So I bravely started to run it up the bone towards the neck. Then, disaster. After the light spattering of bloody bone marrow there was a sudden whoosh of dark red blood pouring from the middle of the incision. Oh shit! Instantly I started to sweat, but Sister knew the score, swiftly moving around to the first assistant’s position. I grabbed the sucker but she was giving the orders. ‘Press hard on the bleeding.’
Dr English belatedly looked up from the chess board, unfazed by the frenetic activity. ‘Get me a unit of blood,’ he calmly instructed the anaesthetic nurse. ‘Then give Mr Paneth a call in Outpatients.’
I knew what the problem was. The saw had lacerated the right ventricle. But how? There should have been a tissue space behind the sternum and fluid in the sac around the heart. Sister was reading my mind, something she would do many times over the next six months. ‘You do know that this is a reoperation.’ A statement that was really a question.
‘No, absolutely not,’ I replied frantically. ‘Where’s the bloody scar?’
‘It was a closed mitral valvotomy. The scar’s around the side of the chest. You can just see it under her breast. Didn’t Mr Paneth tell you it was a re-do?’
By this point I’d decided to keep my mouth shut. It was time for action, not recrimination.
In reoperations the heart and surrounding tissues are stuck together by inflammatory adhesions, and there’s no space between the heart and the fibrous sac around it. In this case the right ventricle had stuck to the underside of the breastbone and everything was matted together. Worse still, the right ventricle was dilated because the pressure in the pulmonary artery was high, the rheumatic mitral valve having narrowed considerably. We were there to replace the diseased valve but I’d buggered it up right from the start. Great.
Pressing hadn’t controlled the bleeding. Blood still poured through the bone and the sternum wasn’t completely open yet. The patient’s blood pressure began to sag and, as she was a small lady, she didn’t have that much blood to lose. Dr English started to transfuse donor blood but that wasn’t the answer, like pouring water into a drainpipe. In one end, straight out the other. I was the surgeon, it was my job to stop the haemorrhage – and for that I needed to see the hole.
My own perspiration dripped into the wound and trickled down my legs into Lord Brock’s boots. The old lady’s blood flowed off the drapes onto the faded white rubber. By now one of the circulating nurses had scrubbed up and joined us at the operating table. Not so brave now, I lifted the saw again and asked Sister to move her hands. Through a deluge of blood I ran the saw through the remaining intact bone – the thickest part of the sternum, just below the neck. Then we pressed on the bleeding again while more transfusion restored some blood pressure.
As pressure drops the rate of bleeding slows. This gave me a window of opportunity to dissect the heart sufficiently away from the back of the breastbone to insert the metal sternal retractor and wedge open the chest. Now I could see the lacerated right ventricle spewing its contents into the wound. When everything is stuck together like this, spreading the bone edges can tear the heart muscle wide open, sometimes irretrievably. But I’d been lucky and her heart was still in one piece. Just about.
By now my own pulse was galloping. I could see that the problem was a ragged slit 5 cm long in the free wall of the right ventricle, comfortably distant from the main coronary arteries. Sister instinctively put her fist directly on it as I wound the retractor open, and this at last stemmed the bleeding. Dr English squeezed a second unit of blood in through the drips, bringing the old lady’s blood pressure back up to 80 mm Hg, and the back-up scrub nurse divided the long plastic tubes to the heart–lung machine so that we could use it when ready. But as yet not enough of the heart had been exposed for that. First I needed to stitch up the bloody hole. As a surgical houseman I’d stitched skin, blood vessels and guts – never a heart.
Sister told me what stitch to use, and that it was best to stitch over and over rather than using individual stitches. This was quicker and would provide a better seal. ‘Don’t tie the knots too tight,’ she added, ‘or the stitches will cut through the muscle. She’s fragile. Get started and you might finish before Paneth gets here and chews your head off.’
The difficult part was to stitch accurately as blood poured out of the ventricle with every beat. By now my gloves were dripping with blood on the outside and sweat on the inside, and sewing was all but impossible.
Dr English saw this and shouted, ‘Use the fibrillator! Stop the heart beating for a couple of minutes.’
The fibrillator is an electrical device that causes what we’d normally never want to see – ventricular fibrillation, where the heart doesn’t pump but quivers, stopping blood flow to the brain at normal body temperature. In four minutes brain damage begins.
Dr English was reassuring. ‘Just defibrillate it after two minutes. If you haven’t closed it by then we can wait a couple of minutes, then fibrillate again.’
I felt like a puppet with the experienced players pulling the strings. That was fine by me, so I put the fibrillating electrodes on the surface of what muscle I could see and Dr English threw the switch. The heart stopped beating and started quivering, and I began to sew at top speed. Just then Mr Paneth appeared at the operating theatre door. He could see ventricular fibrillation on the monitor and feared the worst. But I didn’t look up and just kept on stitching. By the time Dr English announced the two-minute cut-off I’d almost finished bringing the muscle edges together. I carried on to three minutes. Then the hole was closed, with just the knot to tie.
Putting the defibrillating paddles as close to the heart as possible I said, ‘Defibrillate.’ Nothing happened. The leads to the paddles hadn’t been plugged into the machine, a minor detail. Seconds ticked by. Then came the ‘zap’ I’d been waiting for. The heart briefly stood still then fibrillated again.
Paneth strode across from the door in his smart suit and outdoor shoes. No hat, no mask. He looked over the drapes at the quivering muscle and said the obvious. ‘More