Trauma Red: The Making of a Surgeon in War and in America's Cities - Hardcover
The incredible life story of the trauma surgeon who helped save Congresswoman Gabby Giffords—from his upbringing in South Korea and Africa to the gripping dramas he faces in a typical day as a medical genius.
Congresswoman Gabby Giffords is a household name: most people remember that awful day in Arizona in 2011 when she was a victim of an act of violence that left six dead and thirteen wounded. What many people don’t know is that it was Dr. Peter Rhee who played a vital role in her survival.
Born in South Korea, Rhee moved with his family to Uganda where he watched his public health surgeon father remove a spear from a man’s belly—and began his lifelong interest in medicine. What came next is this compelling portrait of how one becomes a world class trauma surgeon: the specialized training, the mindset to make critical decisions, and the practiced ability to operate on the human body. Dr. Rhee is so eminent that when President Clinton traveled to China, he was selected to accompany the president as his personal physician. In Trauma Red we learn how Rhee’s experiences were born from the love and sacrifices of determined parents, and of Rhee’s own quest to become as excellent a surgeon as possible.
Trauma Red chronicles the patient cases Dr. Rhee has handled over two decades on two distinct battle fronts: In Iraq and Afghanistan, where he served as a frontline US Navy surgeon trying to save young American soldiers, and the urban zones of Los Angeles and Washington, DC, where he has been confronted by an endless stream of bloody victims of civilian violence and accidents. Tough and outspoken, Dr. Rhee isn’t afraid to take on the politics of violence in America and a medical community that too often resists innovation. His story provides an inside look into a fascinating medical world, a place where lives are saved every day.
Congresswoman Gabby Giffords is a household name: most people remember that awful day in Arizona in 2011 when she was a victim of an act of violence that left six dead and thirteen wounded. What many people don’t know is that it was Dr. Peter Rhee who played a vital role in her survival.
Born in South Korea, Rhee moved with his family to Uganda where he watched his public health surgeon father remove a spear from a man’s belly—and began his lifelong interest in medicine. What came next is this compelling portrait of how one becomes a world class trauma surgeon: the specialized training, the mindset to make critical decisions, and the practiced ability to operate on the human body. Dr. Rhee is so eminent that when President Clinton traveled to China, he was selected to accompany the president as his personal physician. In Trauma Red we learn how Rhee’s experiences were born from the love and sacrifices of determined parents, and of Rhee’s own quest to become as excellent a surgeon as possible.
Trauma Red chronicles the patient cases Dr. Rhee has handled over two decades on two distinct battle fronts: In Iraq and Afghanistan, where he served as a frontline US Navy surgeon trying to save young American soldiers, and the urban zones of Los Angeles and Washington, DC, where he has been confronted by an endless stream of bloody victims of civilian violence and accidents. Tough and outspoken, Dr. Rhee isn’t afraid to take on the politics of violence in America and a medical community that too often resists innovation. His story provides an inside look into a fascinating medical world, a place where lives are saved every day.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Peter Rhee is a world renowned trauma surgeon, the Chief of Trauma, Critical Care, Emergency Surgery and Burns at the University of Arizona, a tenured professor of surgery, and a retired US Navy Captain after twenty-four years of active duty. His areas of research include traumatic hemorrhagic shock and resuscitation, suspended animation for those who are about to die from trauma, hemostatic products to stop bleeding without surgery, development of blood products and resuscitation fluids, and advanced portable electronic medical devices. Dr. Rhee lives in Tucson, Arizona, with his wife and two children.
Gordon Dillow has been a reporter, columnist, and war correspondent for more than thirty years. He has written for a number of newspapers, including the Orange County Register, the Los Angeles Times, and the Los Angeles Herald Examiner, and is the author of Fire in the Sky and coauthor of Where the Money Is, Uppity, and Blue on Blue. He lives in Scottsdale, Arizona.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Gordon Dillow has been a reporter, columnist, and war correspondent for more than thirty years. He has written for a number of newspapers, including the Orange County Register, the Los Angeles Times, and the Los Angeles Herald Examiner, and is the author of Fire in the Sky and coauthor of Where the Money Is, Uppity, and Blue on Blue. He lives in Scottsdale, Arizona.
Trauma Red
CHAPTER 1
TRAUMA RED
The sound of the gunfire had barely faded away when I got the text message on my phone: “Heads up. Trauma red. We’ve got ten GSWs coming in.”
My first thought was, Oh, no, not now. Not today.
It was Saturday, January 8, 2011, my first scheduled full day off in weeks. I had just finished a thirty-six-hour shift the night before at Tucson’s University Medical Center, where I was chief of Trauma, Critical Care, Emergency Surgery, and Burns—thirty-six straight hours of handling whatever sick, bruised, battered, bloodied, and near-dead humans the EMTs wheeled through the doors. I’d had a couple of shootings, two stabbings, several traffic accidents, a pedestrian run over by a car, a guy who fell off his roof while trying to fix his air conditioner. We do medical emergency surgeries, too, for people who just can’t wait, or who have waited too long, so I had done an emergency appendectomy and also cut out a cancerous tumor that had perforated the bowels of a guy who bragged to me that he hadn’t been to a doctor in thirty years. In other words, it had been the typical day.
Trauma is a 24/7 business. I had been on call from seven A.M. Thursday until seven A.M. Friday, meaning I’d had to handle all the patients who came through the door, and after that I’d had to work another regular twelve-hour shift, so I hadn’t gotten home until Friday night. Having a Saturday off was a rare event, and I was ready for some home time with my wife and kids. But first I needed a little me time—and that meant going for a run around the block. In my part of Tucson, in the mesquite-and-cactus-covered rolling hills north of the city, a block is about six miles around.
And now, shortly after ten A.M., and just five minutes into my run, this: “Trauma red, ten GSWs.”
There was a lot of information in that brief message. Under the University Medical Center trauma activation criteria, a trauma code red indicated a patient or patients coming in with any of a variety of serious injuries: penetrating injuries to the head, neck, or torso; traumatic brain injury; amputation of an extremity; traumatic cardiac arrest; and so on. Trauma codes White and Green indicate progressively less severe types of injuries. The codes set in motion a series of steps at the UMC Trauma Center to ensure that the proper levels of staffing and resources are available to deal with them.
“Ten GSWs” was even more specific. “GSW” is short for “gunshot wound.” It meant that somewhere out there were ten people who had been shot, ten people who were in desperate need of someone who knew all too well what damage bullets could inflict on a human body, and, more important, someone who knew how to fix it. In other words, ten people in desperate need of a trauma surgeon.
I turned around and started running back home.
I picked up the pace a bit, but I knew I didn’t have to sprint. Four years earlier, when I took on the job of creating a Level I trauma center at UMC, I had been determined to put together one of the best trauma teams of doctors and nurses and technicians in the country—and in my opinion, I had done just that. Other trauma surgeons were on duty, and I knew that until I got there they could handle anything that came in.
It wasn’t as if we hadn’t handled mass-casualty situations before. Even in Tucson, multiple gunshot victims were almost a Saturday-night ritual, and every now and then a chain-reaction pileup on the I-10 would flood the trauma center with a dozen badly injured people. Certainly in my fifteen years as a trauma surgeon, fifteen years in the urban battlefields of Seattle and Washington, DC, and Los Angeles, and as a forward-deployed US Navy surgeon in Afghanistan and Iraq, I had seen more than my share of individual and mass catastrophes. There was no reason to suspect that there would be anything unusual about this one.
Still running, I called my wife, Emily, and had the same conversation we had had so many times before.
“Emily, sorry, but there’s been a mass shooting, and I have to get back to the hospital . . . Yeah, I know it’s my day off, but I have to go . . . No, you don’t have to pick me up, I’ll be home in a couple of minutes. Could you do me a favor and put a clean set of scrubs in the car? I’ll change on the way . . . Thanks . . . I love you, too.”
I knew she was disappointed that I wouldn’t be spending the day with her and the kids, but I also knew that she understood. I loved being a trauma surgeon, but for Emily, being married to one wasn’t always easy. The job always came first.
I called in to the trauma center to get some more information. Details were still sketchy, but it appeared that a gunman, motive unknown, had opened fire outside a supermarket in a shopping mall, shooting into a crowd. A half dozen people were dead at the scene, and the wounded—maybe ten, maybe as many as twenty—were on their way to UMC by ground and air ambulance. No word yet on the extent or the seriousness of their injuries.
The timing of the thing was actually pretty lucky. Dr. Randy Friese was just coming off his shift, Dr. Narong Kulvatunyou was just starting his, and Dr. Bellal Joseph was making the rounds and caring for the patients in the ICU, so we had three exceptional trauma surgeons on-site. The fact that it was a Saturday morning was also a plus. If the shooting had happened on a Monday morning, the UMC operating rooms might have been crammed with patients undergoing planned surgeries, and since you can’t stop a surgery in progress to make room for another patient, no matter how great the emergency, we might have had to make do with the one OR that was always reserved for trauma cases. But since it was a Saturday, we’d have plenty of empty ORs if we needed them—which, as it turned out, we would.
I kept running. My phone rang again. It was Randy—Dr. Friese.
“I’m on the way,” I told him. Moments after we hung up, the first patient from the shooting rolled through the doors. It was a nine-year-old girl.
Her name, as I would later find out, was Christina-Taylor Green. A bullet had hit her abdomen, piercing the main artery, the aorta. The first emergency personnel at the scene had performed CPR on her, but she hadn’t responded. Unlike with heart-attack victims, CPR doesn’t really help people who are bleeding to death; they need to get to a trauma surgeon, and fast. It probably was already too late for this little girl, but the EMTs kept trying, transporting her to our trauma center and performing CPR all the way. Maybe there was a chance.
Dealing with mass-casualty trauma victims is about making choices—often life-or-death choices. The rule is simple. The most seriously injured patients who have a chance at living come first, the less seriously injured come next, and the dead and the certain to be dead have to be left to their fate. If you spend time and limited resources on those who can’t be saved, it might cost the life of another patient who could be saved.
It’s not an easy choice to make—believe me, I know. In my career I’ve had to make hundreds of decisions like that. Once in Iraq I had to look into the faces of twelve mortally wounded but still living men and declare them “expectant”—that is, certain to die. They were sent to a separate area and left untreated so I could help dozens of others who could be saved. It’s something you train for and practice over and over, but in real life it’s not like the drills. You never get over it, and you never forget the faces. But there are times when deciding who lives and who dies is part of your job—and if you think too much about what you’re doing, you wouldn’t be able to do it.
So, yes, the little girl shot down at the shopping center probably was beyond hope. Under the protocols, a trauma patient who arrives at the trauma center without having responded to CPR for fifteen minutes is considered dead—and this little girl was beyond that time frame. But Dr. Randy Friese hadn’t wanted to give up on her. She was the first victim to arrive at the trauma center, and while he knew more victims were on the way, at the moment he had time, the help, and the resources to try to bring her back. This wasn’t the battlefield, where helping one apparently hopeless patient might very well cost the next patient his life. Maybe there was a chance she could be brought back to life. She was a little girl. He had to try.
There had been no time for prepping or getting her to the operating room. Moments after she was wheeled into the trauma room, surrounded by a carefully orchestrated swarm of residents and nurses, Randy performed a resuscitative thoracotomy on her, opening her chest and massaging her heart with his hands, trying to get it to start beating again. But it was no use—and now other shooting victims who needed him were starting to come through the doors. Randy had to move on.
Trauma surgery is a hard and sometimes seemingly heartless business. You do what you can, with what you have, in the time you have to do it. If a little girl dies, you grit your teeth and steel your heart and move on to the still living. You cry later.
My feelings about what had happened to this young girl were mixed. Rage that such a thing was allowed to happen in our society. Grief for a life lost so young. Compassion for the anguish her family would go through. I had a daughter myself, not much older than Christina-Taylor, and I knew that the heartache they would have to endure would never go away.
There was one other emotion I felt about this young girl’s death, and that was a sense of scientific frustration—frustration that the new techniques we were developing for the treatment of trauma victims hadn’t already been available for Christina-Taylor and countless other trauma victims. For fifteen years I and other medical researchers had been looking for a way to stop or at least slow down the dying process in trauma victims, a way to buy them that most precious commodity, time—time for us to repair the damage caused by bullets or knives or blunt force before the victims’ lifeblood drained away and their hearts and brains and other organs irretrievably shut down. And we were convinced we had found the answer in the form of “suspended animation,” a way to dramatically cool down the trauma victim’s body and stop the dying process in its tracks until the damage could be repaired. It’s like a pause button on your remote. It pauses you between life and death, giving us the time to sew up the holes you are bleeding from.
I know, it sounds futuristic, maybe even Frankensteinian. But it works. The FDA would soon approve clinical testing of the suspended-animation procedure on human trauma victims at trauma centers across the country, including mine. Of course, this came far too late to help Christina-Taylor. But I’m convinced that in ten or fifteen years the process will be used in every trauma center, and even possibly by the EMTs in the field, and thousands of lives could be saved—if we devoted sufficient resources to it. Not for the first time, or the last, I found myself wishing that we as a nation would spend even a thousandth as much money and resources developing ways to save lives as we spend on coming up with new ways to take lives.
But I couldn’t dwell on that now. Randy called with some more information on the second shooting victim who had been rushed in through the doors, just moments after Christina-Taylor was declared dead. This part was unusual.
“Peter, one of the GSWs is a US congresswoman,” Randy said. “Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords. She’s been shot in the head.”
Gabrielle “Gabby” Giffords was an attractive, popular, politically moderate Democratic congresswoman who had represented the Tucson area in Congress since 2006. She was married to Navy Captain Mark Kelly, a jet fighter pilot who became an astronaut and a Space Shuttle pilot and commander. The fact that a congresswoman had been gunned down in a parking lot in her home district was certainly a tragedy, and I knew it would generate an enormous amount of news media and public attention.
But the fact that she was a congresswoman didn’t make me run any faster—because medically it was irrelevant. Throughout my career as a trauma surgeon, I had always maintained a single overriding principle: everybody gets treated the same. It had never mattered to me—or, as I insisted, to the people who worked for me—whether the patient was a cop or a robber, an American soldier or an enemy insurgent, a rich man or a poor one, a congresswoman or a regular citizen on the street. The courts and the lawyers and the insurance companies could sort it all out later, but in my trauma center, in my operating room, in my intensive care unit, they all got the best medical treatment we could possibly give them.
Randy filled me in on Giffords’s condition. She had a gunshot wound on the left side of her forehead and another wound on the left side in the back of the head. This meant that the bullet might have gone through the left side of the brain. This was bad news and good news.
The bad news, of course, was that she had been shot in the brain at all. Statistically, being shot in the brain means that your chances of dying are 90 percent, and if you do survive, the chances are high that you’ll be technically alive but in a vegetative state.
On the other hand, the fact that the bullet might have passed through only one side of her brain was relatively good news to me. It meant she had a chance. If the bullet passes from one side to the other, it’s usually fatal, with no chance of survival. The statistics have shown that this results in certain death.
It may sound strange, but the fact that the injuries had been caused by a bullet was also a positive, because traumatic brain injuries from bullets are sometimes easier to handle than other types of brain injuries. The holes caused by bullets can kill you because of the bleeding, but at the same time the bullet hole also allows the pressure on the brain to be relieved. If you have really bad traumatic brain injury from blunt forces instead of penetrating forces, the pressure from bleeding inside the skull can kill you, as the pressure and swelling cause the brain cells to die from circulation being cut off to the individual brain cells. It may even push the brain down and out the large hole at the base of the skull, a process called herniation. Herniation results in certain brain death.
But from what Randy was telling me about the congresswoman’s condition, I knew exactly what was going on even before I saw her. It was something I had seen far too many times before.
“She followed my commands,” Randy said. “She kicked her left leg and squeezed my hand with her left hand when I asked her to.”
“Fantastic!” I said. There was silence. Later I wondered if he was confused by my response. But to me this really was fantastic news. I knew instantly that she was going to live. In just a couple of sentences in a very short conversation, I pictured her entire scenario. She was alive, she had brain function, and the bullet hadn’t crossed the midline, meaning it had injured only one side of the brain and it hadn’t gone from one side to the other. Most of the patients who are shot in the brain can’t function at all and are comatose, and if they aren’t comatose they are barely moving or combative.
But the congresswoman could hear and respond, which meant there was a great deal of function still left in her brain. In my mind I could even envision the bullet track. It had inj...
CHAPTER 1
TRAUMA RED
The sound of the gunfire had barely faded away when I got the text message on my phone: “Heads up. Trauma red. We’ve got ten GSWs coming in.”
My first thought was, Oh, no, not now. Not today.
It was Saturday, January 8, 2011, my first scheduled full day off in weeks. I had just finished a thirty-six-hour shift the night before at Tucson’s University Medical Center, where I was chief of Trauma, Critical Care, Emergency Surgery, and Burns—thirty-six straight hours of handling whatever sick, bruised, battered, bloodied, and near-dead humans the EMTs wheeled through the doors. I’d had a couple of shootings, two stabbings, several traffic accidents, a pedestrian run over by a car, a guy who fell off his roof while trying to fix his air conditioner. We do medical emergency surgeries, too, for people who just can’t wait, or who have waited too long, so I had done an emergency appendectomy and also cut out a cancerous tumor that had perforated the bowels of a guy who bragged to me that he hadn’t been to a doctor in thirty years. In other words, it had been the typical day.
Trauma is a 24/7 business. I had been on call from seven A.M. Thursday until seven A.M. Friday, meaning I’d had to handle all the patients who came through the door, and after that I’d had to work another regular twelve-hour shift, so I hadn’t gotten home until Friday night. Having a Saturday off was a rare event, and I was ready for some home time with my wife and kids. But first I needed a little me time—and that meant going for a run around the block. In my part of Tucson, in the mesquite-and-cactus-covered rolling hills north of the city, a block is about six miles around.
And now, shortly after ten A.M., and just five minutes into my run, this: “Trauma red, ten GSWs.”
There was a lot of information in that brief message. Under the University Medical Center trauma activation criteria, a trauma code red indicated a patient or patients coming in with any of a variety of serious injuries: penetrating injuries to the head, neck, or torso; traumatic brain injury; amputation of an extremity; traumatic cardiac arrest; and so on. Trauma codes White and Green indicate progressively less severe types of injuries. The codes set in motion a series of steps at the UMC Trauma Center to ensure that the proper levels of staffing and resources are available to deal with them.
“Ten GSWs” was even more specific. “GSW” is short for “gunshot wound.” It meant that somewhere out there were ten people who had been shot, ten people who were in desperate need of someone who knew all too well what damage bullets could inflict on a human body, and, more important, someone who knew how to fix it. In other words, ten people in desperate need of a trauma surgeon.
I turned around and started running back home.
I picked up the pace a bit, but I knew I didn’t have to sprint. Four years earlier, when I took on the job of creating a Level I trauma center at UMC, I had been determined to put together one of the best trauma teams of doctors and nurses and technicians in the country—and in my opinion, I had done just that. Other trauma surgeons were on duty, and I knew that until I got there they could handle anything that came in.
It wasn’t as if we hadn’t handled mass-casualty situations before. Even in Tucson, multiple gunshot victims were almost a Saturday-night ritual, and every now and then a chain-reaction pileup on the I-10 would flood the trauma center with a dozen badly injured people. Certainly in my fifteen years as a trauma surgeon, fifteen years in the urban battlefields of Seattle and Washington, DC, and Los Angeles, and as a forward-deployed US Navy surgeon in Afghanistan and Iraq, I had seen more than my share of individual and mass catastrophes. There was no reason to suspect that there would be anything unusual about this one.
Still running, I called my wife, Emily, and had the same conversation we had had so many times before.
“Emily, sorry, but there’s been a mass shooting, and I have to get back to the hospital . . . Yeah, I know it’s my day off, but I have to go . . . No, you don’t have to pick me up, I’ll be home in a couple of minutes. Could you do me a favor and put a clean set of scrubs in the car? I’ll change on the way . . . Thanks . . . I love you, too.”
I knew she was disappointed that I wouldn’t be spending the day with her and the kids, but I also knew that she understood. I loved being a trauma surgeon, but for Emily, being married to one wasn’t always easy. The job always came first.
I called in to the trauma center to get some more information. Details were still sketchy, but it appeared that a gunman, motive unknown, had opened fire outside a supermarket in a shopping mall, shooting into a crowd. A half dozen people were dead at the scene, and the wounded—maybe ten, maybe as many as twenty—were on their way to UMC by ground and air ambulance. No word yet on the extent or the seriousness of their injuries.
The timing of the thing was actually pretty lucky. Dr. Randy Friese was just coming off his shift, Dr. Narong Kulvatunyou was just starting his, and Dr. Bellal Joseph was making the rounds and caring for the patients in the ICU, so we had three exceptional trauma surgeons on-site. The fact that it was a Saturday morning was also a plus. If the shooting had happened on a Monday morning, the UMC operating rooms might have been crammed with patients undergoing planned surgeries, and since you can’t stop a surgery in progress to make room for another patient, no matter how great the emergency, we might have had to make do with the one OR that was always reserved for trauma cases. But since it was a Saturday, we’d have plenty of empty ORs if we needed them—which, as it turned out, we would.
I kept running. My phone rang again. It was Randy—Dr. Friese.
“I’m on the way,” I told him. Moments after we hung up, the first patient from the shooting rolled through the doors. It was a nine-year-old girl.
Her name, as I would later find out, was Christina-Taylor Green. A bullet had hit her abdomen, piercing the main artery, the aorta. The first emergency personnel at the scene had performed CPR on her, but she hadn’t responded. Unlike with heart-attack victims, CPR doesn’t really help people who are bleeding to death; they need to get to a trauma surgeon, and fast. It probably was already too late for this little girl, but the EMTs kept trying, transporting her to our trauma center and performing CPR all the way. Maybe there was a chance.
Dealing with mass-casualty trauma victims is about making choices—often life-or-death choices. The rule is simple. The most seriously injured patients who have a chance at living come first, the less seriously injured come next, and the dead and the certain to be dead have to be left to their fate. If you spend time and limited resources on those who can’t be saved, it might cost the life of another patient who could be saved.
It’s not an easy choice to make—believe me, I know. In my career I’ve had to make hundreds of decisions like that. Once in Iraq I had to look into the faces of twelve mortally wounded but still living men and declare them “expectant”—that is, certain to die. They were sent to a separate area and left untreated so I could help dozens of others who could be saved. It’s something you train for and practice over and over, but in real life it’s not like the drills. You never get over it, and you never forget the faces. But there are times when deciding who lives and who dies is part of your job—and if you think too much about what you’re doing, you wouldn’t be able to do it.
So, yes, the little girl shot down at the shopping center probably was beyond hope. Under the protocols, a trauma patient who arrives at the trauma center without having responded to CPR for fifteen minutes is considered dead—and this little girl was beyond that time frame. But Dr. Randy Friese hadn’t wanted to give up on her. She was the first victim to arrive at the trauma center, and while he knew more victims were on the way, at the moment he had time, the help, and the resources to try to bring her back. This wasn’t the battlefield, where helping one apparently hopeless patient might very well cost the next patient his life. Maybe there was a chance she could be brought back to life. She was a little girl. He had to try.
There had been no time for prepping or getting her to the operating room. Moments after she was wheeled into the trauma room, surrounded by a carefully orchestrated swarm of residents and nurses, Randy performed a resuscitative thoracotomy on her, opening her chest and massaging her heart with his hands, trying to get it to start beating again. But it was no use—and now other shooting victims who needed him were starting to come through the doors. Randy had to move on.
Trauma surgery is a hard and sometimes seemingly heartless business. You do what you can, with what you have, in the time you have to do it. If a little girl dies, you grit your teeth and steel your heart and move on to the still living. You cry later.
My feelings about what had happened to this young girl were mixed. Rage that such a thing was allowed to happen in our society. Grief for a life lost so young. Compassion for the anguish her family would go through. I had a daughter myself, not much older than Christina-Taylor, and I knew that the heartache they would have to endure would never go away.
There was one other emotion I felt about this young girl’s death, and that was a sense of scientific frustration—frustration that the new techniques we were developing for the treatment of trauma victims hadn’t already been available for Christina-Taylor and countless other trauma victims. For fifteen years I and other medical researchers had been looking for a way to stop or at least slow down the dying process in trauma victims, a way to buy them that most precious commodity, time—time for us to repair the damage caused by bullets or knives or blunt force before the victims’ lifeblood drained away and their hearts and brains and other organs irretrievably shut down. And we were convinced we had found the answer in the form of “suspended animation,” a way to dramatically cool down the trauma victim’s body and stop the dying process in its tracks until the damage could be repaired. It’s like a pause button on your remote. It pauses you between life and death, giving us the time to sew up the holes you are bleeding from.
I know, it sounds futuristic, maybe even Frankensteinian. But it works. The FDA would soon approve clinical testing of the suspended-animation procedure on human trauma victims at trauma centers across the country, including mine. Of course, this came far too late to help Christina-Taylor. But I’m convinced that in ten or fifteen years the process will be used in every trauma center, and even possibly by the EMTs in the field, and thousands of lives could be saved—if we devoted sufficient resources to it. Not for the first time, or the last, I found myself wishing that we as a nation would spend even a thousandth as much money and resources developing ways to save lives as we spend on coming up with new ways to take lives.
But I couldn’t dwell on that now. Randy called with some more information on the second shooting victim who had been rushed in through the doors, just moments after Christina-Taylor was declared dead. This part was unusual.
“Peter, one of the GSWs is a US congresswoman,” Randy said. “Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords. She’s been shot in the head.”
Gabrielle “Gabby” Giffords was an attractive, popular, politically moderate Democratic congresswoman who had represented the Tucson area in Congress since 2006. She was married to Navy Captain Mark Kelly, a jet fighter pilot who became an astronaut and a Space Shuttle pilot and commander. The fact that a congresswoman had been gunned down in a parking lot in her home district was certainly a tragedy, and I knew it would generate an enormous amount of news media and public attention.
But the fact that she was a congresswoman didn’t make me run any faster—because medically it was irrelevant. Throughout my career as a trauma surgeon, I had always maintained a single overriding principle: everybody gets treated the same. It had never mattered to me—or, as I insisted, to the people who worked for me—whether the patient was a cop or a robber, an American soldier or an enemy insurgent, a rich man or a poor one, a congresswoman or a regular citizen on the street. The courts and the lawyers and the insurance companies could sort it all out later, but in my trauma center, in my operating room, in my intensive care unit, they all got the best medical treatment we could possibly give them.
Randy filled me in on Giffords’s condition. She had a gunshot wound on the left side of her forehead and another wound on the left side in the back of the head. This meant that the bullet might have gone through the left side of the brain. This was bad news and good news.
The bad news, of course, was that she had been shot in the brain at all. Statistically, being shot in the brain means that your chances of dying are 90 percent, and if you do survive, the chances are high that you’ll be technically alive but in a vegetative state.
On the other hand, the fact that the bullet might have passed through only one side of her brain was relatively good news to me. It meant she had a chance. If the bullet passes from one side to the other, it’s usually fatal, with no chance of survival. The statistics have shown that this results in certain death.
It may sound strange, but the fact that the injuries had been caused by a bullet was also a positive, because traumatic brain injuries from bullets are sometimes easier to handle than other types of brain injuries. The holes caused by bullets can kill you because of the bleeding, but at the same time the bullet hole also allows the pressure on the brain to be relieved. If you have really bad traumatic brain injury from blunt forces instead of penetrating forces, the pressure from bleeding inside the skull can kill you, as the pressure and swelling cause the brain cells to die from circulation being cut off to the individual brain cells. It may even push the brain down and out the large hole at the base of the skull, a process called herniation. Herniation results in certain brain death.
But from what Randy was telling me about the congresswoman’s condition, I knew exactly what was going on even before I saw her. It was something I had seen far too many times before.
“She followed my commands,” Randy said. “She kicked her left leg and squeezed my hand with her left hand when I asked her to.”
“Fantastic!” I said. There was silence. Later I wondered if he was confused by my response. But to me this really was fantastic news. I knew instantly that she was going to live. In just a couple of sentences in a very short conversation, I pictured her entire scenario. She was alive, she had brain function, and the bullet hadn’t crossed the midline, meaning it had injured only one side of the brain and it hadn’t gone from one side to the other. Most of the patients who are shot in the brain can’t function at all and are comatose, and if they aren’t comatose they are barely moving or combative.
But the congresswoman could hear and respond, which meant there was a great deal of function still left in her brain. In my mind I could even envision the bullet track. It had inj...
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- PublisherScribner
- Publication date2014
- ISBN 10 1476727295
- ISBN 13 9781476727295
- BindingHardcover
- Number of pages256
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