Last evening, there was a bombing at a bank in the town of Woodburn, Oregon. I'm still trying to make sense of that fact, let alone that the small town's police chief was on the O.R. table before me.
I won't go into detail, because every patient and their family has the right to privacy. I've never actively sought to break that solid creed. When I saw him, he'd already lost a leg and the other one was very badly damaged. When I took a break after five hours of surgery, I went with one of surgeons to meet the family and discuss our progress. The emotion in that room, from dozens of family and friends, was an entity unto itself. Vocal. Impassioned. Present.
What I'm writing may seem graphic, probably unorganized, definitely to be respected as the family and friends of those effected by this incident are to be considered first and foremost.
But I respect everyone too much not to write about my experience; and perhaps I just need to let this one out a little because something happened to me during this case that hasn't happened during the thousands of other cases I've scrubbed in my past nine years.
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