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31
Yeah, All Right
“The cardiopulmonary bypass machine adds oxygen to the blood that is pumped from the inferior vena cava during heart surgery. Then once oxygenated, it replaces the blood back in the patient’s system via the aorta. It’s a simple process to draw in diagram form.”
Suit Guy — Michael — quickly outlined the device I was meant to be selling on the whiteboard.
While I thought about Weet-Bix Guy.
“This here is a reservoir for deoxygenated blood removed from the body,” he said. Then drew a squiggle. “This is the oxygenator.” Another squiggle and a round thing. “This is the pump that returns the oxygenated blood to the body,” he added.
While I thought about Joe, the gigolo.
“The perfusionist is solely responsible for the management of the physiological and metabolic needs of the cardiac surgical patient.” He drew a stick figure beside the heart-lung machine. “He’s the guy you’ll be working with the most. Forget the cardiac surgeons. The perfusionist is your gatekeeper.” He drew a large heart shape around the stick figure. “Win him over, and you’ve won the sale.”
He turned around and looked at me. While I thought about angels singing. And elevators not working. And kids hiding in crashed cars.
“Now you draw it.”
You have got to be kidding me.
His lips twitched.
“It’s a lot to take in, huh?” he said. I nodded.
He looked back at the diagram and frowned.
“I guess I’m no Picasso,” he mused.
“Actually, I’d say you’re more Picasso than Renoir.”
He laughed. “OK. Let’s take a break. You hungry? Like coffee?”
I nodded my head eagerly. “Now, if they made a cardiopulmonary bypass machine for caffeine, I’d be able to draw you a diagram with my eyes shut.”
He laughed as we exited the meeting room.
“It’ll get easier,” he said, as we walked out to his car.
I wasn’t sure if he was just talking about the bypass machine.
“Are you familiar with the cafes around here?” he asked.
“Not in Epsom, but we used to park up in front of Starbucks on Broadway while waiting for our next call.”
“Starbucks,” he said unimpressed. “I’ll take you somewhere, which will blow Starbucks from your memory banks forever.”
“Bring it,” I said.
* * *
We sat at an outdoor table as happy and conversely harried pedestrians strolled past. The coffee was good. Michael watched me while I watched the shoppers.
“So, how’s the book?” he asked.
“The book,” I said.
“Yes. Where were we? She’s just started standing up for herself. Hope is on the horizon. Has she found her happily ever after yet?”
