The Day the Surgeon Cried

It was an experience that no one could ever forget unless of course the shock of it made total repression the only real choice.
I was a student nurse at the time - not yet out of my teens - and I was lucky enough to be training in a major Manhattan Hospital. I was back for another few weeks in the Operating Room, having chosen this specialty for my senior rotation. On this particular date, I’m working the evening shift which typically is not a terribly busy time in the OR as all the scheduled surgeries are over for the day.  Basically, it is a time to do peripheral, preparatory type tasks and be physically present in case of an emergency. My OR instructor was with me this particular evening. I remember she had a rather strong foreign accent, an unusually mousy appearance and a nurse's cap that looked like a pleated upside-down cupcake holder.  She also exhibited some rather atypical mannerisms that gave her away as a woman from another country.  She she was quiet, serious and smart as if she were still trying to prove her worthiness in this country.   I really liked and respected her.
In the midst of the quiet, we suddenly got a call to set up for an emergency cardiac surgery.  A woman who had cardiac bypass surgery earlier that day was experiencing problems and was being brought back to the OR.  I remember the massive amount of surgical instruments we quickly assembled; every imaginable tool that could possibly be needed was laid out meticulously on the tables. The complete set up was configured in a large L shape and we stood ready to assist with anything the cardiac surgeon required.
I remember feeling very relieved that my instructor was present and appeared to be in control as I definitely lacked the experience to assist with such a complicated emergency. We were prepared and ready for anything,  or so we thought.
A loud commotion ensued as staff members, including the surgeon, crashed through the OR doors dragging the gurney alongside them. There wasn’t time to transfer the woman from the gurney to the OR table, so the physician began immediate emergency measures right there and then.  Drugs were administered directly through the freshly created breast bone incision and external cardiac massage and electrical shock were applied.  The cardiac surgeon worked frantically to bring his patient back from the brink of demise. Clearly I could see the anguish, the distress, and the desperation that flooded his face as one thing after another failed to get the desired results. His patient was slipping away and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it. I felt helpless. My calm, highly competent, and completely prepared Instructor stood helplessly at my side. All our attention to detail, all our perfectly arranged tools, all our correctly lined up medications, were absolutely futile.  The Surgeon yelled for a scissor, quickly cut open her sutures, grabbed her heart into his hands and began to pump it manually.  He literally held her heart in his hands, but to no avail.   When the realization finally sunk in that nothing he could do was going to make her live, he stood there and cried.
Being a young student nurse, I wasn't responsible for anything more, other than the clean up of this area of the O.R.  I did not envy him, having to tell the family of this 35 year old mother of 5 that their beloved had died.  
Addendum: This real life incident occurred in 1964-1965 when Open Heart Surgical Intervention was in its' infancy.  St. Vincent's Hospital and Medical Center in Greenwich Village, NY had also recently instituted something called a Code 99, basically a "crash team" that would spring to action when a patient unexpectedly arrested.  I do not recall a Code 99 being called that particular night. I do not recall the Surgeon's name although I can picture him in my mind.  The nurse at the top pf this Blog entry is my Surgical Instructor, Ms. Danute Mikulskis, R.N, B.S.