Chapter 80: Good Healer (8) |
*
I guided the Count I had met in front of the Green Flag Camp to a tent.
The inside of the tent was small.
“This place is...?”
“It’s a space prepared for those who might find certain treatments embarrassing.”
One might wonder why shame matters in a disaster like this, but even in these situations, privacy is important.
Especially for patients who need treatment on their lower body.
And though I’d rather not mention it specifically,
it’s because trashy people who take advantage of this chaotic situation to do sexually horrid things sometimes appear.
“Please sit here.”
There was a bed inside the tent.
Though it was a sorry excuse for a bed, just a blanket laid over some wooden planks.
The Count sat on the edge of the makeshift bed.
His back was straight to an excessive degree.
“Where does it hurt when you lean your back against something?”
“...I’ve been listening to you for a while now, and it’s strange. How did you figure it out?”
“Simple observation.”
I said, setting up my surgical tools on a wooden box next to the bed.
“You were having difficulty leaning your back on anything, and there were pauses between your words. You also showed a reflex to suppress a cough whenever you made guttural sounds.”
Sshh, sshh.
I poured antiseptic over a cotton ball.
I prepared the disinfecting cotton and set up the needle and tube in a sterile condition.
“I also saw signs of jugular vein distention on the right side of your neck. It’s evidence that your mediastinum has shifted to the right. When you breathe, your left thoracic cage barely moves, but the movement of your right thoracic cage was prominent. Your accessory muscles of respiration were also overly tense.”
“...?”
He looked like he couldn’t understand a word I was saying.
So I explained it more simply.
“It’s a pneumothorax. The lungs inside you are torn. You’re holding on because you’re a Superhuman, but if you go home like this, you will quietly close your eyes tonight.”
“...”
I finished my rough explanation and approached the Count.
“Please take off your shirt. I’m going to perform a simple surgery... no, a treatment.”
“Why do you need a needle for a treatment? Is this, by any chance, excisional surgery?”
The Count said, wary of me.
The excisional surgery of Healers was notorious.
They cut off the problematic part and then regenerate it.
However, this method had the drawback of only being possible on the limbs.
Excisional surgery on the torso did not exist.
That’s why the Count was wary of me.
Wondering if I was trying to use this situation to assassinate him.
But the treatment I was about to perform was not excisional surgery.
“It’s not excisional surgery. I’m just going to make a simple hole in the space where your lungs are.”
“What?”
“There normally shouldn’t be any air inside the thoracic cage, but if the lungs are torn, air can fill it. When the lungs are compressed by that air, it becomes difficult to breathe.”
Not that he would understand even if I said that.
But I didn’t have time to make the Count understand as if I were teaching students.
“I’ve already saved many people with this.”
I lifted the tent flap slightly.
The Red Flag Area outside was visible.
There were people there with needles and tubes stuck in their chests.
Hemothorax or tension pneumothorax.
They were people who had suffered lung injuries, just like the Count.
“If this were an assassination, how would you explain those people who received that treatment moving to the Yellow Area?”
As long as it was treated, pneumothorax was a kind fellow among super-emergencies that could be moved from the red area to the yellow area right away.
All you had to do was stick a needle in front of the lungs.
Besides, it took 30 seconds at the shortest, and 2 minutes at the longest.
There was no reason not to perform this treatment.
“Lord Count. So please take off your shirt. The more you delay, the more danger the people who haven't received treatment could be in.”
“...”
The Count reluctantly lifted his clothes.
Before starting the treatment, I checked a few things on his chest.
Percussing, auscultating, and once again feeling the vibrations.
'Tension pneumothorax, I see.'
I wiped the space between his fifth rib with an alcohol swab.
And then, with a 14-gauge needle, poke.
It was that very treatment often shown in medical dramas.
The one where patients who couldn't breathe suddenly start breathing after you just stick a ballpoint pen refill in them.
I just performed that treatment a bit more hygienically.
“Try breathing.”
Shiiik.
A sound of air came from the needle.
The Count’s expression also became much more comfortable.
“...Amazing.”
“Good.”
I said as I tidied up my tools.
“This is belated, but why did you hide your symptoms?”
“It might be hard for you to understand, but the position of a Count is one where you cannot show weakness.”
The Count gave a bitter smile.
“If it becomes known that a Rank 3 Superhuman was taken down by a mere troll’s club, people might start to question my skills.”
Oh, dear.
It seems even a Count has his own share of troubles.
To have to hide even an internal injury to avoid showing weakness.
It’s just lamentable that he has to worry about such things in a situation where he should be focusing solely on demonic beasts.
“Then let’s finish up.”
I inserted a tube into the spot where the needle had been.
Then I took out a pair of surgical rubber gloves from my bag.
'Tsk. Thick as expected.'
I had asked them to make surgical gloves on the side when they were making condoms.
Naturally, I ordered them to be made thin, so that the sensation at the fingertips would be keen.
So the company is also trying its best to make the gloves thinner while making the condoms as thin as possible.
But due to the lack of technology, the gloves were still thick.
Whenever I saw this, I couldn't help but miss the ultra-thin(?) latex surgical gloves of the 21st Century I used to live in.
'Well, this is enough for now.'
I cut off the index finger part of the glove with scissors.
I placed the cut rubber finger over the end of the tube stuck in the Count's chest and tied it tightly with thread.
Ta-da.
A one-way flutter valve is complete.
It was a technique I learned at a disaster site in my previous life.
...I was told it was a safe and rewarding mortal world medical volunteer trip.
But that crazy professor of mine took me to an overseas explosion site.
Something about it being safe since it had already exploded once.
Finally, I pushed the tube under his shirt and neatened his attire so it wouldn't be visible from the outside.
From the outside, nothing looked different.
“Normally I prefer the underwater seal drainage method, but since you don’t want anyone to see, I did it this way for you.”
“It’s seamless. Thank you.”
“Still, if you keep the tube under your clothes, you might have trouble breathing again, so it would be good for you to rest alone in a carriage or something.”
“I will.”
The Count got off the bed.
Meanwhile, I tidied up my tools and spoke.
“Unfortunately, I would like to cast Heal on you right here, but I don’t think that will be possible.”
Patients with conditions treatable with 21st-century methods, including pneumothorax, do not get divine magic.
This is for the patients who cannot be saved without the miracle of divine magic.
“I know.”
The Count’s reply was also calm.
“For my rank, this much treatment is enough. God's Miracle should go to others who are more desperate. On the battlefield, God's Miracle and potions were always in short supply.”
“Thank you for your understanding.”
The Count’s pneumothorax would probably improve in a few days.
The Count briefly reached for his armor.
But I did not permit it.
“Don’t put on the armor. The tube might get pressed, and it might not work properly.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The Count said, holding his breastplate in one hand.
“Director Schun.”
He gave me a slight nod.
“I pay my respects to your devotion.”
I shook my head.
“On the contrary, I am more grateful.”
“For what?”
The Count asked back with a puzzled face.
I didn’t answer.
My gaze was fixed on the tip of the rubber glove I had just cut.
— “I’m fine. Please see to the other citizens first.”
In a worn-out memory.
The fellow, tricked by his liar professor and dragged to an explosion site, was talking to a firefighter.
— “I’m just a little out of breath from the intense exercise.”
— “Your physical examination results are certainly all normal.”
— “See? So you can go to the others quickly.”
Me, my professor, and that firefighter.
We all diagnosed him as green.
And when it was all over.
What greeted us was the cold corpse of the firefighter.
The cause was Blast Lung Injury.
A disease where the inside of the lungs is wrecked by blast pressure.
This disease shows no symptoms or abnormalities right after the explosion, but after 24 hours, the inside of the lungs suddenly starts to fill with bodily fluid and blood.
And so, the patient quietly drowns in their own bodily fluids.
At that accident scene, there were countless people who had quietly closed their eyes like this.
But I remembered that firefighter the most.
He smiled at the end, saying he was fine, and I genuinely believed that smile,
but that belief, in turn, must have been the fault that brought tragedy.
After that day.
Both I and that professor stopped believing the patients’ words.
To be precise, it’s not that we ignored them.
We just stopped making a diagnosis based solely on the patient's words.
Those trivial things that the patient doesn't know, and that everyone can overlook.
It was probably from then that I started to obsessively focus on such things.
“...Director?”
The Count’s voice brought me back to my senses.
“Do you have any intention of telling me what you’re grateful for?”
“...I meant that I was grateful for the fact that I was able to discover your condition, Lord Count.”
“Why are you grateful for that?”
“Well. It’s just... when you do this kind of work, there are times you become grateful for everything.”
I was just, thankful.
For the fact that I had discovered it this time.
The Count looked at me for a long time, then quietly nodded his head.
***
After finishing the Count’s secret treatment.
I returned to the scene and began to classify the patients again.
“It’s a case of airway obstruction by tongue retraction due to mandible destruction. It's an emergency, so classify it as red. Have the patient lie face down until they receive treatment.”
“There's shrapnel in the eyeball. Bandage both eyes, students. It will be dark for you, patient, but you must endure it. To save one eye, you can’t move either eye. Let’s make the flag yellow.”
“A patellar fracture from a fall. The blood vessels and nerves are fine, so we’ll classify this as green.”
While dealing with the injured, I checked the time.
It felt like it should have been lunchtime already.
But the hour hand had only tilted by one number.
As the sun began to rise, other attack teams also started to return.
Bwooo—bwoooo!
“The injured this way!”
“Don’t distinguish between the rescue team and the attack team, everyone follow the instructions!”
Every time the horn blew, people poured through the castle gate.
The attack teams that had headed outside the Wall a few days ago, and the rescue teams that had left to save them when they were isolated, were carried in on stretchers.
At a glance, more than three times the number of injured from dawn flooded in.
Seeing the sight, Ayla’s complexion darkened.
“D-Director... the injured just keep...”
“It’s what I expected.”
At first, it was half attack team, half rescue team.
Soon, it became one subjugation team to two rescue teams, and in the next wave, it was one to three, and then one to five.
Over time, the exchange ratio had flipped.
More people were returning injured from rescue attempts than were being rescued.
The reason was simple.
It takes five people to save one person.
Even in that famous movie about saving a private, several people were ground up just to save one private, weren’t they?
A rescue operation was bound to have a terrible exchange ratio.
Nevertheless, the guild continued to dispatch rescue personnel to the isolated attack teams.
Because the isolated personnel included A-rank Adventurers, Heroes, and people like nobles.
Of course, being a doctor, I didn't quite understand the strategic meaning of this rescue act.
I couldn’t really feel how necessary it was for humanity to grind people up to save them.
But I knew that they were continuing the rescue operation, trusting us here.
That's why I just focused on treating the exponentially increasing number of injured.
However...
'I'm getting a little tired.'
“Red. Send them up to the surgery tent immediately. Next!”
“My arm... my arm is cut off!”
“Tighten the tourniquet more! It's bleeding! Yellow. Next!”
Bwooo—bwooo—bwoooo!
The horn blew for a beat longer.
I knew without turning my head.
Another group must be pouring through the castle gate.
“Director! We need to change the criteria! From now on, open fractures must be classified as black, not red!”
“Addiction patients must be changed from yellow to red starting now!”
In proportion to the number of injured, the people who could be saved were gradually pushed down the priority list.
Originally, triage is a sorting method with high variability depending on available resources.
If there was enough manpower to handle dozens of cerebral hemorrhage patients, even a patient with a split-open head could be classified as yellow.
But if manpower is lacking, even an addiction patient who just needs one antidote can be pushed from yellow to red.
In the end, reality was always a problem of resources.
“Director...”
Ayla, who had been following me, also kept opening and closing her mouth as if to say something.
It was because I had just classified a patient with a severed arm as black.
Normally, that patient would be red, someone who could definitely be saved with treatment.
But we were severely short-staffed.
I couldn't perform a surgery that would take over an hour.
“...Black.”
This time, a cerebral hemorrhage patient.
A patient I could treat within 30 minutes if I worked on them.
But the moment I enter surgery for 30 minutes, 30 patients outside are neglected.
That’s why I had to classify this person as black.
'To be this bad in less than two hours.'
Just two hours after we started handling the injured, the damage was growing uncontrollably.
314/42
The number of injured and deceased recorded on the guild’s board kept rising.
My chest felt heavy.
It wasn’t out of despair.
'Dammit...'
It was because it was a shame.
I knew a way to overcome this situation.
The current triage was a major deviation from the standard procedure.
A Triage Officer who classifies patients and provides simple treatment.
A Treatment Team Leader who focuses only on the advanced treatment of classified patients.
Emergency triage requires roles to be divided into these two categories.
But right now, I and Merkur Trading Company's Affiliated Healers were in a situation where we had to perform both roles simultaneously.
This was what was causing the inefficiency.
I took a breath and turned my head.
“It’s okay. This will make you feel a little more comfortable.”
Ayla was casting Refresh on the black and red-tagged patients.
Ayla’s friends had already either depleted their divine power or given up mentally.
Nevertheless, Ayla continued to cast Refresh.
Thanks to her, perhaps, the patients’ time was being extended, little by little.
“...Tsk.”
I clicked my tongue under my mask so no one could hear.
The student hasn't given up, yet here I am already thinking of a compromise in my head.
'What's a protagonist doing compromising?'
I hadn't compromised even once since my possession.
To think I’d be thinking of such a thing just because I’m a little tired.
It seems I still have a long way to go before I can be a proper protagonist.
"We are re-arranging the shift schedule! We will re-arrange the personnel, taking into account the prayer time for those whose divine power is depleted!"
Just as I was steeling my resolve and shouting that to the clinic's affiliated healers.
There was a commotion near the guild entrance.
“Make way! Out of the way!”
“It’s the Cult's Healing Delegation! Please open a path!”
The voices echoed in three, four layers.
I stopped my classification and lifted my head.
Several carriages were lined up on the road in front of the guild's front door.
White carriages engraved with a golden sun pattern.
It was the Cult.
The carriage doors opened, and people in white robes jumped out of the carriages.
Priests in pure white robes quickly joined the clinic’s affiliated healers.
“Sorry for being late!”
And from the crowd that poured out, a priest, alone in robes that were not pure white, ran into the guild building.
“Archbishop Raylick has arrived! Guild Master!”
A man wearing a purple epaulet, the symbol of an Archbishop, pushed through the crowd.
Raymond Raylick.
The former Exclusive Healer of the Imperial Court.
The current Diocesan head of the Imperial Capital.
In 21st-century terms, he was someone in the position of a Public Health Center Director.
As soon as he entered the guild, he looked around, then found me and strode over.
And he gave me a nod.
“I am Raymond Raylick, Director Schun. I was delayed in arriving at the scene because I was delivering a mobilization order to all infirmaries.”
I shook my head.
“No, sir. You did extremely well.”
Those were not empty words.
If he had come directly to the scene, it would have been easier at the beginning.
But that would have been all.
Afterward, the situation would have become difficult again.
Because in a situation like this, the most important thing is rear-area medical care.
In the end, no matter how well you classify at the scene, it’s useless if there are no hospitals to back you up.
In that sense, the Archbishop’s judgment was appropriate.
He had mobilized every infirmary in the empire as a backup hospital.
Besides, this was an era where the communication network was not well-developed.
I could understand a hundred times over why he was late to the scene.
“I heard the rough story from the other healers on my way here. A Triage Classification Method, you say? It is truly a magnificent sorting method.”
The Archbishop said, looking around the scene.
“By any chance, what is it that I should do here?”
Instead of demanding the right of command, he immediately inserted himself into the command structure.
He was a very exemplary reinforcement.
Therefore, I could trust the Archbishop and speak.
“Archbishop.”
“Please speak.”
“In that case, would you please take command of the field classification from now on?”
“And you, Director?”
I bobbed the Crow's Beak up and down and said,
“It seems I need to return to my main profession.”
It was time to return to the operating room.
