The attending physician was momentarily stunned. He glanced at the injured patient and gritted his teeth, saying, “Then start the emergency treatment first. Have Little Eric keep trying to contact the patient’s immediate family as much as possible.”

The nurse responded and hurried out.

The attending physician hesitated no longer and began the resuscitation procedures.

“Anesthetist, prepare. Prepare for abdominal decompression. Prepare for emergency blood transfusion.”

On the operating table, the attending physician was sweating profusely, his expression growing more severe. Assistants frequently wiped the sweat from his forehead—astonishingly, seven times in just one minute.

The assistant didn’t even need to look at the patient’s condition; just from the attending physician’s demeanor and the level of activity, it was clear the patient’s injuries were extremely serious.

“Blood pressure continues to drop, heart rate keeps rising, platelets are still decreasing.” A series of urgent reports rang out.

“Adjust blood volume, correct fluid and electrolyte imbalances, restore balance, supplement platelets.” The attending physician remained relatively calm, issuing a rapid series of instructions in response to the situation.

This patient’s injuries were far more severe than the initial diagnosis had suggested. Only after performing an exploratory laparotomy under general anesthesia did the attending physician discover two ruptures in the duodenum, a ruptured pancreatic head, a lacerated right lobe of the liver, spleen damage, and a hematoma several dozen centimeters long behind the peritoneum. So many critical organs suffering such severe ruptures and injuries was truly rare in clinical practice.

The attending physician was simultaneously performing a duodenectomy and liver repair, his mind highly focused, not daring to be the least bit careless.

“Something’s wrong.” An assistant suddenly called out in a low voice, “The patient’s blood pressure is zero, heartbeat has stopped! But the EEG is normal?” Finding it hard to believe his own eyes, the assistant rubbed them and looked again at the monitor—sure enough, it was true. How could this be?

The attending physician was momentarily shaken, but quickly regained composure, calmly operating the instruments in his hands without slowing down. Moments later, he finished the remaining sutures, glanced quickly at the ECG, and said in a deep voice, “Prepare for defibrillation.”

The equipment was already ready. He glanced again at the ECG. “Defibrillation, CPR.”

After three shocks, the ECG showed the patient was in ventricular fibrillation, the myocardium contracting erratically. The attending physician felt a glimmer of hope. “Administer cardiac stimulants.”

“Dr. Sullivan, the patient’s blood pressure is rising, there’s a heartbeat signal, but it’s very weak.” The assistant suddenly stopped in surprise, rubbing his eyes. “But there’s no EEG signal!” After confirming it wasn’t a problem with the equipment, the assistant finally said cautiously, “The patient is already brain dead!”

Dr. Sullivan felt a chill in his heart, sighed, and looked wearily at the patient on the bed. “Put him on a ventilator, continue administering cardiovascular drugs to maintain the heartbeat, repeat the tests twice within 12 hours, and give me the results tomorrow.” He had done everything he could; now, it was up to the patient’s luck. He was just a doctor, not a miracle worker.

Feeling utterly exhausted, the ordeal of this rescue was as grueling as a battle. He left the operating room feeling somewhat dejected, changed his clothes, took off his gloves. Dr. Sullivan was in a terrible mood. He knew what brain death meant, and what it meant for the family. But what else could he do?

A nurse quickly approached. Her jet-black hair was tied in a ponytail, making her look youthful and energetic. Her face was a bit thin, her eyes clear and bright, her lips pressed into a line, her expression somewhat serious. She was quite young.

“Dr. Sullivan, we’ve contacted the patient’s family: father Ping Brooks, mother Helen Carter. Helen Carter has already arrived at the hospital, Ping Brooks is still on the way. They’re both local residents. The mother wants to see you.”

“Little Eric.” Dr. Sullivan said weakly, “Issue the critical condition notice.”

Nurse Foster trembled all over. She knew that once the critical condition notice was issued, there was basically no hope for the patient. Although it wasn’t her first time doing this, it was always hard to bear—especially when facing the middle-aged woman she had just comforted.

After a moment, she said, “Dr. Sullivan, is there really no hope?” She actually already knew that Dr. Sullivan would never make this decision unless absolutely necessary, but she still found it hard to believe—a promising college student had already reached the end of his life.

She didn’t like this part of her job. Although she sometimes saw patients recover, most of the time she witnessed partings of life and death. Just now, she had seen the anxious mother, and had comforted her, saying everything would be fine. But now, she had to hand her a death notice. For anyone, it was unbearable.

But life doesn’t bend to your will. Many things must be done, whether you want to or not.

Little Eric the nurse held the critical condition notice, pacing at the door. Gritting her teeth, she finally walked up to the anxiously waiting Helen Carter. “Aunt Carter.”

Helen Carter was a medium-built, slightly plump middle-aged woman, sitting in a daze in the hospital room, looking lost. As soon as she received news of her son’s car accident, she dropped everything and rushed to Anping Hospital. By now, she had been waiting for over two hours. The agony of waiting was something only those who had experienced it could understand. If Nurse Foster hadn’t been constantly comforting her, she might have already rushed into the operating room regardless of the consequences.