Chapter 117

Chapter 117

Many medical students, excluding those with extraordinary talents, have painful memories of brown-nosing.

Orthopedic surgery is always like a construction site, with the sound of electric saws, hammers, and drills echoing through the operating room. Changing a hip joint, a femoral head, or holding onto a fat thigh for hours

Keep in mind that one leg of a person constitutes about 1/5 of their body weight. Imagine a 200-pound strong man undergoing surgery, and you have to maintain a specific posture while holding onto a 40-pound object, unable to move

Enduring for three hours, not just the arms, but the entire body's muscles no longer feel like your own.

That's why orthopedic surgeons are usually robust. In Garrett Nordmark's past life, the orthopedic department was filled with men over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, with long legs. Their average arms could carry a horse, and their fists could support a person; they spent their time either in the operating room or the gym.

During the big rounds, from the deputy director to the interns, everyone wore the same outfit, a white coat over them, walking confidently under the leadership of the chief director, automatically accompanied by a background music:

"I roam the world as I please~~ All look up to me~~~"

Garrett Nordmark was not particularly tall, and his muscles were not that strong. When he did his rotation in orthopedics, he suffered enough. This time, with conditions improved, he was determined to find a strong man to assist him.

Father Patrick didn't disappoint him. After Garrett clamped the blood vessels in the thigh, this old fellow separated his hands, firmly holding both ends of the injured person's right thigh, pulling them apart steadily. Garrett just had to focus on his meditative view, constantly giving instructions:

"Pull again, slower this timehey, it's almost there, slow down a bitgood! Hold it steady! Stop here, don't move, wait for me to set the bone!"

As the saying goes, the arm can't twist the thigh. When orthopedics encounters a patient with a thigh fracture, they usually immobilize the upper body and assign a person to grip the patient's thigh with both hands, pulling forcefully. But Father Patrick, with just his two hands, firmly pulled apart the muscles at the fractured bone, keeping them still.

With such assistance, performing orthopedic surgeries was simply delightful

Garrett was happy, and Father Patrick was impressed. In his meditative view, he watched Garrett turn and observe the leg bone from various angles, then carefully manipulated and relocated it, instructing him to rotate it inward. While doing so, he mumbled:

"This is a one-third fracture in the middle of the femoral shaft... Oh, lucky break, a bit higher would be hard to control bleeding, a bit lower would damage more blood vessels and nerves...

After a fracture, muscles pull, causing it to bend. So, we need to stretch the adductor muscles to realign the bone...

Can't you move your hand a bit? You're holding it so tight; I can't move it!"

It turns out this is how bone setting is done. Father Patrick stared at the leg bone in his hands, trying to remember. No wonder he used to treat legs that often ended up crooked; after the bone broke, it naturally inclined, and he, ignorant, just used divine magic, leaving the misaligned bone uncorrected...

Following Garrett's instructions, Father Patrick pulled, moved, and relaxed meticulously. In his meditative view, the broken ends of the bone finally came together seamlessly. Father Patrick prepared himself, ready to cast a healing spell, but Garrett brought over two hooks and called for Evin and little John:

Following Garrett's process, Father Patrick carefully did it once, feeling the leg bones cracking under his hands, watching the damaged muscles become whole. Then, infusing holy power into the broken leg, he suddenly closed his eyes

The sensations of the past hour, the books he had memorized tirelessly over the month, the experience of treating wounded for over a decade, all surged back and forth in his mind.

Successes, failures, moments of confusion, sudden realizations. Joys, regrets, guilt, and acceptance...

Time passed second by second. Patrick suddenly opened his eyes, clasped his hands, bowed his head in prayer

Dozens of white lights descended straight down, enclosing the unconscious patient.

"Peace spell?" Little John blurted out. Garrett paused for a moment, only then recalling that this was what he secretly called the "anesthesia spell," a characteristic spell of the War God's temple, requiring a level five priest to cast

"You leveled up?"

"...Yeah. I leveled up." Patrick stood still, staring at his hands for a while, then at the white light in front of him. After a long silence, he replied with a dreamy voice:

"I finally leveled up... Seven years, seven years..."

Once, he was a genius everyone envied. After reaching the edge of leveling up, he was stuck for four years, clueless, and took the risk of joining battles. In that battle, he lost his best friend and the hope and drive for a breakthrough...

Until today.

Someone told him, maybe it's not your fault, just bad luck; someone guided him to see a more exciting world, realizing that healing spells could be used like this...

"Thank you..." He murmured in a low voice, "Garrett, thank you..."

"What are you thanking me for? Keep healing!" Garrett scolded him.

Seeing Patrick bowing his head in shame, continuing to release healing spells, Garrett turned to look out the window, smiled, and clenched his fist firmly.

Anesthesia spell!

Available on demand!

No need for it anymore; whenever needed, just go find the bald archbishop!

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