Mourning an Internal Loss

A light poked in through the freshly parted opening. Two other openings were made. Forceps entered through one and a hook-shaped tool entered through the other. It was like the basement scene in War of the Worlds.

The light moved close to the liver as the forceps nudged the liver aside to reach the gallbladder. The forceps turned the gallbladder over and pulled it back while another tool picked at the tissue around the cystic canal and artery. With the two vessels exposed and separated from each other, another tool came into the abdomen and clamped them each off in three places.

The clamp tool left the scene and was replaced by a scissor scalpel that deftly parted the cystic canal and the artery.  The scalpel was, in turn, replaced by a tool that proved capable of both cutting and cauterizing. It parted the tissues holding the gallbladder to the liver and cauterized the bleeders as it went along. The forceps held the organ back from the gradually opening wound between the liver and gallbladder.

When the separation was completed, a long white bag was pushed into the abdomen through the largest of the openings.  The severed gallbladder was encased in the bag and drawn out through the opening. The flesh around the opening suffered bruises from the trauma of this action.

Like lambs in a pen and awaiting slaughter, the other organs gave no indication of fear or even sympathy for the forced removal that had taken place near them. If they mourned, it was without emotion. As the anesthesia wore off the brain came back to consciousness with the lyrics and tune of We Gotta’ Get Outta’ This Place reverberating in the head. 

Somehow, it all just seemed wrong.