A Small Miracle
Beeeep—!!
Soyoon’s heart and lungs were lifted from her wasted little body, and the waiting medical team took them at once and sprinted for the operating room next door. With no pulse left to detect, the machine let out its hair-raising alarm.
“…Turn the machine off.”
“Yes, Chief Jeon.”
“Hoo…”
The organ harvest was finished. The ventilator was disconnected as well. Now… she would not have to hurt anymore.
“Chief, I’ll finish up here. Go in and rest a little. You still have the liver transplant later, don’t you?”
“No. For the close… I’ve already called the PS chief. We’ll switch when he gets here.”
“Sir? Something this simple we can handle ourselves.”
“No matter how cleanly we suture, scar management is better left to plastic surgery. Chief Shin will be down any minute.”
Speak of the tiger and he appears—Chief Shin of Plastic Surgery stepped into the OR.
“I got the call that you were finished.”
“Ah, Chief Shin. If you would close for us.”
“…Yes. You’ve worked hard.”
Chief Jeon and the fellow left for the next transplant. Chief Shin examined the incision, selected the finest suture material he could, and began closing the site one careful stitch at a time. On the surface it was nothing more than an ordinary closure, yet he gave it everything he had. He, too, was someone who kept up with the hospital’s YouTube channel.
—Tak.
“…Finished.”
“Thank you for your work.”
The organ-donation coordinator who had watched the entire procedure set a prepared chrysanthemum on Soyoon’s chest, covering the surgical traces.
“…Per the family’s wishes, we will move her for embalming.”
—Rumble.
The small, fragile life that had been forced to hide its pain every single day had finally found rest. Meanwhile, in the operating room next door, a living hell was unfolding.
“Chief Jeong, ready?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Vitals are yours. Time-out.”
Anesthesiology Chief Jeong read the chart aloud—patient information, procedure name, operative site—and Professor Hwang confirmed it by calling out in a loud voice.
“…Let’s make sure we save this one.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Scalpel.”
—Tak.
Professor Hwang lifted the scalpel that felt heavier than usual today.
I really have gotten old.
As always, he drew a straight line down the center of the chest.
—Sizzle… hissss…
The cardiothoracic chief assisting controlled the micro-vessel bleeding with the electrocautery. A little deeper, and the sternum came into view.
“Saw.”
—Whiiiiine—!!
The mere sound of the electric bone saw was enough to raise goosebumps. Without hesitation Professor Hwang split the bone—at a speed bordering on the miraculous. Once the sternum was opened, a heart far too large for the child’s frame, abused to its absolute limit, ballooned out as if it might burst at any second. They had seen it on echo, but never imagined it would be this bad. Even a man who had spent thirty years doing pediatric cardiac surgery was caught off guard by the sheer size of the hypertrophied heart. It was a wonder the patient had lasted this long.
“Huh… the fact that this patient has held on until now is already a miracle.”
“You have time for admiration right now? Bypass ready?”
“Yes!”
“Get the retractor on and stand the heart up. Hold it.”
“Yes, Professor!”
“Hey!! Don’t pull that hard! This isn’t an adult! No—fuck it. You’re out. Get me someone who can actually use their hands. Jaeyoon. Yeah, tell him to get in here. If he’s in a case, tell him to push it back.”
“…Sir?”
“Get out of here! I can’t operate with someone who can’t even pull a retractor properly!”
The nickname “Tyrant of the OR” was still well-earned; an extremely on-edge Professor Hwang roared at the cardiothoracic chief.
“Professor Hwang, please calm down. Professor Kim Jaeyoon should still be in the OR right now.”
Anesthesiology Chief Jeong, who controlled the surgical schedule and therefore knew every surgeon’s timetable, spoke in a flat tone.
“Haa….”
“I’ll message him to come straight here the second he finishes.”
“Fine. Director Yoo, sort the schedule however you need to.”
“Professor Hwang.”
“What now!?”
Already smothered by the pressure, Professor Hwang snapped the moment Chief Jeong cut in again.
“Please don’t get angry—we need to move fast. Factoring in the lung transplant as well, we don’t have much time.”
“I know that! Labs still okay?”
“Yes. But given the patient’s weight, she won’t hold out long. Heparin’s in; you can start immediately.”
“Haa…. Fine. Get Jaeyoon here as fast as humanly possible. We’re starting.”
The blood-soaked struggle between the one trying to leave and the ones trying to hold on had begun.
The marathon seven-hour operation was finally over.
The cardiothoracic OR was, as always, a bloodbath. Professor Hwang finished the last suture with his own hands and then simply collapsed onto the floor.
“Hoo….”
“Professor Hwang!”
“Stop fussing. I guess I really have gotten old… tsk. Going to need an IV. Chief Jeong—looking after the patient is on you.”
A surgeon’s job was the surgery; what remained was management. He had no choice but to trust Anesthesiology Chief Jeong’s intensive-care skills.
“I’ll stay in the CSICU myself and watch her. Stop worrying and get some rest, Professor.”
“Excellent work, Professor Hwang. Finishing a case like this in seven hours… you really are something else.”
“Director Yoo, you… never mind. We’ll talk later.”
Professor Hwang clenched his trembling hand into a fist. He had done it. At least inside the operating room, he had not let this small life slip away. Completing a heart-and-single-lung transplant in seven hours—on a pediatric patient, no less. Wasn’t that the tiny miracle a desperate doctor, a human being, could create?
“This surgical video is going to become legend. You should present it at the international pediatric cardiac surgery conference, don’t you think?”
“….”
Even though the mask hid his face, Professor Hwang was certain those eyes alone were wearing that familiar, unpleasant smile as he walked past the director.
“That stings a little, you know.”
Korea University Hospital Public Relations Team. The staff member in charge of YouTube and Instagram began typing the post with trembling hands. She agonized over every word of the caption.
For roughly three months she had uploaded videos of those children and grown attached to them herself. She had been the one editing the footage the video team brought back… and so many people had cheered them on.
Even after the final announcement that there would be no more videos because of the children’s health, and even after quite some time had passed without a single upload, there were still people who occasionally left comments asking how the kids were doing.
After the post went up, comments had been locked as a precaution against malicious replies, so people naturally began writing on the social platforms they normally used.