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"Just move the fucking lights," I hissed. I was getting impatient. The initial high had long since worn off. The case had turned out to be a pretty standard one. I knew what the problem was, and I knew how to fix it. Radezki stared at me above his mask, his blue eyes magnified by a pair of thick glasses. I knew he was a good guy and that he didn't get a moment's sleep the whole night, but who said surgical residents should sleep? Did I sleep being on call every other night? Did anyone feel pity for me? Just calm down and let him continue. "Yes, yes, yes. Shine it here. Not there. No, no, no. We work here," I pointed, my index finger drifting in a casual circle around the upper abdomen. "Up here under the diaphragm—not in the bloody pelvis. Damn it, Pav, can't you see?"

We still had a long way to go. Probably another two hours at least. Still, I was irritated. How many years do I have to tolerate night surgery with double left-handed resi­dents, semi-comatose nurses and clueless anesthetists? As the years passed, my inner exasperation grew. I could com­plete that operation in an hour or so. For God's sake! Let me only move to the right side of the table and we are out of here for breakfast. Having dealt with hundreds of bleeding stom­achs I could do this operation with my eyes closed. But this was a teaching program and Radezki had to learn. Next year he should be able to cut some poor bugger somewhere in a small American town—on his own. He is a good chap, old Radezki. I like him. So let him continue, just calm down and teach him how to do it. That's what I'm paid for.

"John, please open your eyes and pull on this retractor..." The junior resident appeared to have fallen asleep while lean­ing on the hooked metal instrument with which he should have pulled the rib cage upwards. That would have, ideally, enabled us to expose the liver and the duodenum hidden underneath. That is, if he was doing what he was supposed to.

"Yes sir," responded the somnolent resident.