Ropi

An unruly night, catheters disconnected, instruments beep their warnings. The arm is wrapped in an inflatable cushion fillrd with hot air. A doctor in the night to reconnect a catheter that had been ripped off. By accident. On the way to the loo.

Later on, breakfast. Brought by a nurse, her weekend shift, the sun outside, she still has to work.
Later on again, the doctor arrives, the bandages are taken off, the wounds on the hands are admired, there is talk of them looking well, talk of beauty. The eye of the beholder is king here, beauty is relative.
Later another doctor. She looks at the injector for the medicine called Ropivacainhydrochlorid. She is unhappy. The whole lot will need to be done again. She goes. The nurses return. A shirt for the operation, and two nurses to push the bed down to the ground floor.
The anteroom to the operating theatre. It is deserted, no hustle, no bustle. It is the weekend, there are only emergency services today. There is only the one aneastheticist and her assistant there today. Quickly, the ritual of the antiseptic wipe off of the arm, the donning of the cloaks and the masks, the covering of the area for the incision. Then the routine of tubes and syringes, the doctor peering into her monitor.
Then it is over, protocols are written, and the left arm has gone inert, uncontrollable.
The bed is pushed to one side, all is done. The next patient needs a caeserean, she is due imminently, and there are only two people available today.

The nurse comes to collect the bed, wheels her patient to the ward. She hooks up all the tubes and goes about her business.

All because of a wounded hand.