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I nodded.
"I'll be forty-five minutes, maybe an hour, depending on how things go. OK?"
"I'll be here."
He went to the door and looked back at me. "I won’t be long."
I smiled and I waved at him.
He closed the door and left me alone.
I removed my shoes and tucked my feet under me, stretching out on the couch to watch Drake perform brain surgery.
As I watched, activity began to increase in the OR. A couple of gowned, masked and gloved technicians moved equipment around, positioned tables and trays, and arranging implements. I heard music start and turned up the volume. In the background, I just made out Led Zeppelin. Black Dog played over the speakers, and I remembered what Dawn said that first night in the pub when she pointed Drake out. He played Brit Invasion music in his ORs during surgery. I thought that was just TV surgeons, expecting that real ones needed quiet for their very delicate procedures.
Apparently, not.
Soon, a patient was wheeled in and then several people transferred him to a chair like structure. He already had this metal halo-like device on his head. They leaned him back into a semi-reclining position, his head between the arms of the CT. On the walls were monitors that showed various perspectives on his brain.
Several people in full scrubs milled around, moving things into place around the patient, speaking to him in low calm voices. I imagined they were OR nurses and surgeons for they worked on the patient, getting him into position, checking over his shaved head. Then, one of the surgeons started to cut his skull with a drill, the high-pitched whine audible over the music. It wasn't Drake – the man's voice was foreign sounding – East Indian.
Then, two gowned and masked figures entered the OR, holding their gloved hands up and in front of their bodies. They had safety glasses on and what looked like binocular lenses attached.
Drake must have been one of them. I watched, wondering if I could tell which one. One of the two approached the patient and spoke to him, and it was then I knew that was Drake.
He spoke to the camera for a moment, describing the procedure to treat Parkinson's Disease. Mr. Graham was a sixty-two year old man otherwise in good health who began to experience tremors on the left side of his body. Since that time, the tremors increased, and now, he was unable to carry out the most simple tasks of everyday life. He went on to describe the surgery, using lingo I couldn't quite catch. Finally, he went to the patient's side.
"How are you doing, Bob?" he said, his voice firm but warm. "Ready?"
"Cut away, Doc. Great tunes, by the way," Mr. Graham said. "When you asked me, I didn't really believe you'd play Led Zeppelin in the OR."
"I find music relaxes patients. Luckily, we have the same taste in bands."
"You're too young to like this music."
"It's my father's music. I love it, too."
The music was loud, but not too loud so that the audio picked up every word Drake and his team said. Drake consulted the CT images, checking to make sure everything was in proper alignment. He described what he was doing, his voice firm and warm, instructions given for the benefit of his students. As I watched, he explained how he was threading an electrode into a precise position in the brain, guided by a CT-generated image on a screen beside the operating table.
"When I stimulate the section of the brain where the electrode has been placed, Mr. Graham's hand should stop shaking. S
lowly at first, maybe not completely, but there will be noticeable improvement."
I watched Mr. Graham as Drake worked. His head was imprisoned in a metal cage. He lifted his hand at Drake's instruction and it shook wildly. It was clear he could do nothing with it.
"We are now going to send a charge down the electrode to the subthalamic nucleus and the globus pallidus interna, the structures responsible for motor movement."
In a few seconds, Mr. Graham's hand stopped shaking. Slowly at first but in about ten or fifteen seconds, it was almost perfectly still.
"Oh, God, oh God," Mr. Graham said, his voice breaking. "Oh, God I can't believe it."
I couldn't help but smile to myself, the emotion in his voice bringing tears to my eyes.
"Thank you, Doctor," Mr. Graham said, his voice breaking. "Thank you, God."
Drake bent over Mr. Graham, but he kept his hands away from the man. I had the sense he wanted to touch Mr. Graham but of course, he had to keep sterile.
"I love my job," he said, his voice soft. "I can't believe they pay me to do it."
