“Mazda, they need your help in the next operating room.” It was the unmistakable voice of the panicky nurse who had run in as I was suturing the scalp of an old lady with a brain tumour way past midnight. I usually sign my initials (MT) on the head of every patient I operate on; reflecting on what’s left inside it after I’m done with surgery, but this time I handed over the winding up to my assistant and paced across to the other side to see two of my colleagues operating on a 30-year-old alcoholic with a severe head injury; both their hands saturated with the hues of red on their gloves.
