The Godfather of Surgery

Chapter 0012: The Director's Rounds

Zhang Lin didn't disappoint his Northeastern roots, downing several bottles of beer and still managing to stand up and shout, "Check, please!"

It was supposed to be Yang Ping's treat, but Zhang Lin wouldn't hear of it. Yang Ping couldn't argue and gave in.

The two of them said their goodbyes at the restaurant door. Zhang Lin's steps were a little unsteady, and Yang Ping, concerned, was about to follow him.

But just then, Zhang Lin's pediatrician girlfriend appeared, as if she had been waiting under the tree for a while. She immediately ran up, her small frame helping Zhang Lin walk, taking one step at a time, stopping and starting.

Yang Ping couldn't help but feel a bit envious. Even a commoner's life can have its good sides.

The next morning at 7 AM, Yang Ping arrived at the department and began another busy day of work.

"What day is it today?" Zhang Lin asked as he rubbed a dab of peppermint oil on his temples.

"Tuesday!" Yang Ping replied.

It wasn't uncommon for doctors to forget what day of the week it was; as long as they remembered which days they were on duty, it was enough, since every day was essentially a workday.

"Damn it! It's the Director's grand rounds today! I haven't prepared anything. I'm screwed," Zhang Lin slapped his thigh in distress.

"Just rounds. Why are you so worked up?" Yang Ping tried to comfort him.

The grand rounds with the Director were usually a nightmare for young doctors. It was the time when the Director would review everyone's work and knowledge, and the questions alone could leave the younger doctors drained.

The grand rounds were scheduled for Tuesday mornings, so except for emergency surgeries, no elective surgeries were arranged for the morning. All elective surgeries were pushed to the afternoon.

After the usual morning handover, the rounds began. The entire department gathered for the rounds, a grand and imposing scene.

At the front was Director Han, flanked by Directors Tian, Ouyang, Bai, and Ding, followed by attending physicians, residents, fellows, and interns.

The hierarchy was clear, and the formation was orderly. In medicine, the hierarchy was as rigid as the military. Junior doctors obeyed their seniors, just as surgeries couldn't bypass ranks, and neither could positions in line.

Director Han, impeccably dressed in his white coat, had a strong, no-nonsense presence. His thick, short hair was cropped close, each strand standing straight, and he walked with a steady, confident stride, his body as solid as if reinforced with steel.

Director Tian was the most refined, with his trademark gold-rimmed glasses, a slightly plump build, and dignified features that gave off a scholarly air.

Director Ouyang, despite only being in his early forties, had salt-and-pepper hair. He was tall and lean, dressed in a blue shirt beneath his white coat, which made him look sharp and composed.

Director Bai was the heaviest of the group, standing at 1.7 meters and weighing nearly 180 pounds. His white coat was custom-made, still straining at the buttons, which looked like they might fly off at any moment, turning into projectiles.

Director Ding had a cool, detached air, his expression always neutral and unbothered.

The second tier was made up of attending physicians, with Song Zimo habitually leaving his white coat unbuttoned, his hands in his pockets, the coat flaring out as he walked. He looked more like a model than a doctor.

Tang Fei, always a stunning presence, had a subtle makeup look, with a light purple hairpin holding her ponytail, her white coat accentuating her graceful figure.

The third tier was composed of residents, the bottom rung of the medical pyramid, working tirelessly, often staying late, getting yelled at, and earning just enough to get by.

Yang Ping, a resident himself, stood in this third tier, next to Zhang Lin, moving at a steady pace, mentally going over the details of his patients' cases to prepare for the Director's sharp questions.

At the very back were the interns, the only group the residents had some authority over.

The whole group moved as one, the front cleared the way for them. The rounds followed a strict protocol: how to enter and exit rooms, where to stand—everything had its rules. The attending doctor would go first, then the rest of the team would file in, and when leaving, everyone would give way for the Director, who would lead the procession.

The residents would knock on the doors, greet the patients, and then stand by the left side of the bed. The attending doctors and team leaders would follow in a line, each finding their place naturally. Interns, being in the lowest tier, often had to squeeze in at the door or even wait outside, listening carefully to the rounds.

The C-position—the area to the right of the bed—was reserved for the Director. An intern, unaware of the unwritten rules, tried to squeeze into the spot but was gently corrected by his supervisor, who pulled him aside with a smile. "This position is directly in front of the air conditioning vent. It's easy to catch a cold. Come stand with me."

The intern, deeply touched, felt lucky to have such a considerate teacher, his heart warmed.

The Director took his place, standing firm like a rooted tree, his eyes sharp and penetrating, as if able to see through anything—this was what it meant to have eyes like X-rays, Yang Ping thought to himself. He wondered why, with the same anatomy, some people had such a commanding presence.

The patient from the replantation surgery the previous night was lying in bed, looking around nervously, possibly intimidated by the grand presence of the doctors.

Director Han began the case presentation, asking Zhang Lin to report on the patient's details: name, age, gender, diagnosis, reasons for hospitalization, medical history, and any relevant test results. Zhang Lin was expected to recall all this from memory, as looking at the medical records was forbidden during the presentation.

The first part of Zhang Lin's report went smoothly. He recited it confidently, with attending physician Song Zimo trying to hide a smile.

However, Zhang Lin's confidence faltered halfway through. His words stumbled, his tongue tripping over itself. He started to mumble, his voice dropping to a murmur. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, and the last drop fell with a loud plop. The flow of his words completely stopped.

What a shame—the other doctors thought. Zhang Lin had been on track to deliver a perfect report, but he had overexerted himself.

Director Han raised an eyebrow.

Song Zimo quickly jumped in to complete the report, smoothing over Zhang Lin's blunder.

"I'll take a look at the medical record," Director Han said, reaching out for the file.

He flipped it open and began reading quickly, his eyes scanning the page with the speed and precision of a machine. "Right thumb completely amputated…" He nodded, impressed. "This report is well written, highlighting abnormalities that others might miss."

The confidence Zhang Lin had lost earlier returned in an instant. To be praised publicly by Director Han was an achievement worth boasting about for weeks in the cafeteria.

Zhang Lin straightened up, feeling rejuvenated.

"Of course, we'll continue working hard," Song Zimo added.

"This patient's male, and you've recorded his menstrual history, age of menarche, and last menstrual period clearly. Outstanding! You're the pillar of the nation!" Director Han continued, deadpan.

A soft chuckle escaped from one of the doctors, quickly followed by awkward suppressed laughter.

Zhang Lin's face turned beet red.

This was all due to a copy-paste error!

The medical record, though written by Zhang Lin, had Yang Ping's influence. Standing next to him, Yang Ping also felt deeply embarrassed. Being from the same team, the eyes of the entire room were now on them, the spotlight unbearable.

The X-ray film was passed to Director Han, who held it up to the light. The next round of questions was coming. Everyone instinctively shrank away, like ostriches trying to hide their heads in the sand, hoping the Director wouldn't notice them.

Zhang Lin, now more composed, could feel sweat once again trickling down his forehead.

"The core of replantation surgery—what is it? What is the key?" Director Han asked, his gaze sweeping over the group.

Everyone froze, the question was deep and probing. It was a summary question that required a synthesis of knowledge.

The young doctors, who had just brushed up on "Hand Surgery" the night before, now looked stumped. The book didn't provide the answer.

Director Han's gaze moved, and the spotlight seemed to shift.

Song Zimo, ever the savior, stood up confidently.

"There are two keys. First, the core is vascular anastomosis. Second, the key is nerve anastomosis."

"Very good. The surgery took only two hours. That's fast. Director Tian is getting quicker these days," Director Han commented, reviewing the surgical record.

Director Tian blushed. "That wasn't me. It was the new doctor, Dr. Yang."

Dr. Yang? Everyone turned their gaze toward Yang Ping. Could he have done a replantation by himself? And in two hours? The questions and doubts rippled through the room, some people still assuming Yang Ping was just an intern.

Zhang Lin cleared his throat and finally spoke up. "Yes, it was Dr. Yang. I assisted him."

Yang Ping's success as a first assistant didn't go unnoticed. The room buzzed with both admiration and skepticism.

"Dr. Yang did it?"

Director Han raised his eyebrows, sizing him up.

"Yes!" Zhang Lin confirmed. He was proud to be associated with this achievement.

"I thought it wasn't that complicated, so I just did it myself," Yang Ping casually said, scratching the back of his head.

Director Tian added, "The quality of the vascular anastomosis was excellent."

The room stirred again. What? A severed finger replantation wasn't complicated?

Director Han nodded. "Answer this: Why is the core the vascular anastomosis, and the key is the nerve anastomosis?"

Yang Ping thought for a moment. "First, you need to ensure the finger survives. Only then can you think about function."

Laughter rippled through the room—some at Yang Ping's answer, some from the relief that they wouldn't have to answer questions themselves.

Director Han nodded, "Exactly. Without good vascular anastomosis, the finger won't survive. Without good nerve anastomosis, the function can't be restored. So, replantation is just the first step; we aim for function."

Someone whispered, "Good genes, good breeding."

Director Han's eyes flicked to the next target.

The rounds lasted for over three hours. By the end, everyone was exhausted, drenched in sweat, with some even showing signs of dehydration.

Those who weren't called on to answer breathed a sigh of relief.

Yang Ping, after the rounds, went to check on the replantation patient. The blood flow was still good.