Chapter 839: What I Saw Along the Way
“Yes.” The nurse nodded and led us in. A group of doctors followed her, putting a lot of pressure on her. However, it also made her less afraid to enter the old hospital.
The deeper we went into the old hospital, the more oppressive the environment became. The dim light from the crystal wall lamps, placed every few meters, was insufficient to fully illuminate the corridor, making it appear very dark.
The hospital rooms on both sides of the corridor were sealed with heavy steel doors. I didn’t know what kind of dangerous patient would require iron doors for isolation, but there was a window on each iron door, allowing a view of the patients inside.
The old hospital contained more than just an infectious disease department. I saw a patient bound to an iron plate by numerous iron bars. He wore an iron ring around his head, and his hands and feet were shackled with thick iron chains.
When he struggled, the chains clanged, and he let out muffled “wuwuwu!” sounds from his gagged mouth. The passing doctors didn’t stop or even glance his way, as if this scene was commonplace.
“That’s a mental patient, supposedly a rich man, but his son sent him in for some reason.” I overheard a doctor who seemed knowledgeable speaking to another. My mind immediately conjured a touching story of filial piety.
On the wall next to the door, there was a small slot containing some documents, primarily detailing the patient’s name, condition, treatment method, and precautions, for easy reference by doctors and nurses.
For patients like the one fixed inside, the door read: “Intermittent psychosis, manic disorder, cannibalism, highly aggressive.”
It seemed this was the psychiatry department; no wonder iron doors were necessary. Suddenly, a piercing scream came from the steel door in front of me, followed by continuous “crackling” sounds of electric shocks.
This time, there was no diagnosis written on the door. The first paper read: “Electroconvulsive therapy.”
Looking through the window, I saw a little girl tied to a chair. A doctor in a white coat was holding two defibrillators, pressing them against her body. Instantly, electric sparks flashed, and the screams continued unabated.
“Dr. Yang is still as dedicated as ever. Can his electroconvulsive therapy really help people quit addictions?” a passing doctor joked.
“Not sure. Anyway, as long as the patient’s family believes it can, that’s what matters. They’re the ones paying,” another doctor chimed in with a laugh.
They waved towards the room, and the doctor turned to greet his colleagues. The face that turned towards me almost made me cry out in fright.
His face was like a zombie’s. His eyelids and mouth were fixed open by strange iron frames, making it impossible for him to close his eyes. I could see that his eyes were bloodshot and filled with madness.
I couldn’t bear to meet his gaze and hurried away. Amelia said as we walked, “They say he sees terrifying visions every time he closes his eyes, which is why he doesn’t let himself sleep. Apparently, while treating a mental patient, he heard some of the patient’s words and then became like this.”
“Remember, doctors must learn to protect themselves and act within their limits. Don’t dig too deep into some dangerous conditions, or you might end up like him, seeing things you shouldn’t.”
Ah, I understood this situation. I was even quite familiar with it. If Older Brother Jayad hadn’t held me while I slept, I would have been plagued by nightmares and eventually gone insane. That Dr. Yang looked like his sanity was on the verge of collapse. If this continued, he might even become a patient in this psychiatry department himself.
Continuing forward, the corridors of the old hospital were not even. Perhaps due to a lack of staff and immense medical pressure, medical equipment was often misplaced.
Every few steps in the corridor, we saw stretchers, handcarts, medicine chests, and portable IV stands scattered around. Fortunately, the corridors of the old hospital were quite wide, allowing our large group to pass through.
After the psychiatry department, we came to an open cold room. Assistants were moving things inside. I looked in and saw rows upon rows of sliced human specimens, with the pungent smell of formalin assaulting my nostrils.
As expected, the door was labeled “Specimen Room.” Most of the specimens inside had already been dissected, and many showed clear signs of pathological changes or even mutations. I saw one person with an extra arm growing out of their back, or another whose leg had become as thick as an elephant’s. Of course, the mutated parts were the focus of dissection.
“The dissection room of Central Hospital. This is a paradise for anatomy students. Not only are there many specimens, but also many samples, including many un-dissected pathological corpses,” Amelia praised.
“If you join Central Hospital, you can cut up any sample here as you wish, and you won’t have to pay if you damage it,” the Vice Dean said generously.
Both of them seemed to think this was a great place, but I shook my head repeatedly and walked past quickly. If I stayed here any longer, I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night from the fright.
Further ahead was the surgery area. This old hospital surprisingly had a surgery area. As I passed, I saw that the operating room was spacious, with an operating table in the center. Surrounding it were tiered seats rising from low to high.
This operating room was like a small lecture hall. I soon understood why it was designed this way when I realized someone was undergoing surgery in the next operating room.
A person was bound to an operating table, and a doctor beside him held a red-hot cleaver. The tiered seats around the operating table were filled with spectators, some appearing to be students, others interns. It was an open surgical demonstration.
They were all in prime audience seats watching the doctor perform surgery. The type of surgery was quite obvious: the patient’s left hand had completely mutated into a pincer-like appendage, with bone spurs emerging from it like serrations. Such severe mutations could only be treated by amputation.
The doctor was now preparing for the surgery. He first picked up a transparent glass bottle with a double-layered structure. A tube led from the inside to the outside, where the other end was connected to a trumpet-shaped mask.
The patient appeared very nervous and uneasy. I felt anyone would be scared seeing the cleaver, saw blade, clamps on the nearby cart, and the red-hot cleaver in the brazier.
At this moment, the doctor pressed the head of the glass bottle. The dual-layer gas inside immediately mixed, forming a white smoke. The doctor put the mask over the patient’s nose and mouth. After a brief struggle, the patient lost consciousness.
Then, the doctor skillfully began to ligate the mutated arm, constricting the upper arm with a tourniquet. He then took out the red-hot cleaver and swung it towards the mutated arm.
“Sizzle!” White smoke rose, and I could smell the scent of roasted meat even from the doorway. The cleaver not only cut through the flesh but also cauterized the wound, stopping the bleeding.
This method of cauterizing and stopping bleeding with a red-hot cleaver was remarkably similar to the electric cautery I knew from my previous life, though this era’s method was far more wild.
