# Ð›Ð°Ð±Ð¸Ñ€Ð¸Ð½Ñ‚ (Ð§Ð°ÑÑ‚ÑŒ 3)

Eduard Dolgunov

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Labyrinth 3

— Doctor!

— the girl asked, frightened, — will he live?

— Who?

— the doctor asked, confused.

— Him!

— and she pointed her finger at her husband.

— He will, he will, — the paramedic laughed, — and HE will live, and the husband will live! Get dressed. The patient has been taken to the hospital.

— Crew No. 15, — an openly laughing voice over the intercom, — on call.

— Good joke, — the doctor gave a crooked smile after reading the paper, — I've had enough. So, what am I really going to now?

— It’s not a joke, — the dispatcher chuckled, — by God, another foreign body on a penis.

— I just came back from such a call, — the young specialist blushed, — I don’t want to do it anymore!

— Happy 'baptism of fire', colleague, get used to it, — an elderly doctor passing by patted her on the shoulder, — our city is large, there are many weddings, and even more fools, so, as they say: go to 'hell'! Experienced ambulance doctors are great jokers, but they didn’t “suffer” from sentimentality. The second patient, likewise, was taken to the hospital. It was already dawning.

— Crew 15, on call!

— Are you mocking me?

— the girl squealed hysterically, reading the paper and throwing it on the table, — I'm not going to any more penises!

— That's all, doctor, that's all!

— the dispatcher fearfully took back the sheet, — I was joking, I apologize, — and handed another one, — you have a call: "Hypertensive crisis". They say that the young specialist did not last long on the Ambulance. More "hardened personnel" work here, not sentimental, but with a sense of humor, and she found another, calmer place. We had one doctor who previously worked somewhere in Siberia as a gynecologist. After his divorce, he married a woman from Chisinau and moved to live with her. He couldn't get a job in his prestigious profession in the capital and went to work for the Ambulance. Honestly, he liked to drink, and at work he was often "tipsy". One day, he was on a call in the suburbs of Chisinau. The reason for the call: "Bloody discharge in a 36-year-old woman after her fourth childbirth." Our not-very-sober doctor, remembering his former specialization, decided to examine the patient gynecologically. It is hard to say what goal he pursued, but under the influence of alcohol fumes, the doctor got somewhat carried away, and then suddenly, during the procedure, the woman had a reflex muscle spasm of the vagina, the so-called "Vaginismus". The hand of the "wanna-be gynecologist" was clamped by the contracted muscles and it was impossible to pull it out.

— Call "central", — he hissed to the frightened paramedic, — let them send another crew. Quickly! The ambulance driver, an unsociable and taciturn elderly man, was dozing in the cab. It was rumored that many years ago he had served 10 years in Stalin's camps under the article "enemy of the people". The paramedic briefly told him what had happened and turned on the intercom.

— Hello, "Poplar" (conditional call sign of the center), Hello!

— he strained, but the radio just hissed, and "central", for some reason, didn't answer.

— Mikhalych!

— he hurriedly told the driver, — you call and request another crew, I have no time, I have to go to the doctor. And he ran off. Finally, the radio started working.

— Hello, "Poplar", — the driver mumbled, — this is crew No. 12. The doctor asks to send another crew for help.

— Crew 12!

— the dispatcher's voice, — this is "Poplar", what happened, who is speaking? Where is the doctor?

— It's me, the driver, — Mikhalych cleared his throat, — and the doctor can't speak, his hand got stuck. Send another crew for help.

— I don't understand anything, — the dispatcher said nervously, — what hand? Where is it stuck?

— Where, where, — Mikhalych tensed up, trying to choose his words, then waved his hand in despair, — where... well, in the p...ussy! (Pardon the reader, but you can't throw words out of a song). The help arrived quickly, relieved the muscle spasm, and freed the gynecologist's hand from "captivity". The patient was taken to the hospital and everything ended well, but... I don't know why, but the radio communication of our Ambulance was on the same wavelength as the Ambulance of the city of Nikolaev, and sometimes we could hear each other. As luck would have it, this happened this time too, and the Nikolaev folks heard Mikhalych's negotiations with the dispatcher. Probably for another year they mocked us and laughingly inquired:

— Hey, Moldovans! Did you pull the gynecologist's hand out of the p...ussy? Need any help? We can help, we have good specialists... etc., etc. The doctor, unable to withstand the mockery, quit, and his subsequent fate is unknown. But the dream was cool. The work suits alone of today's ambulance employees are worth it! Pale blue, with many pockets. Great! And jackets with hoods, and phonendoscopes around the neck? Just beautiful! And I remembered my coat, which I put under the woman in labor when I covered her perineum with my hand in February. It was remade for me from my dad's coat, which he wore before the war. It was good material, drape. It's a pity that after that incident, the coat was ruined and had to be thrown away. Although I'm lying, it's not a big pity, the main thing is that the baby was born healthy. And a year later they made me another one. Well, here it is, it happened! The state exams thundered, the studies at the institute were left behind, the student became a doctor and rapidly entered adulthood. Everything like a grown-up. Having completed sub-residency, then internship in the "surgery" specialization, I went to work in a completely new, recently built 850-bed hospital. The team of surgeons was of about the same age. I knew some from before, and quickly made friends with others. My experience working on the Ambulance and many shifts during my internship helped me a lot, so I fit into the work quite quickly. Several of my classmates worked in other departments of the hospital, we constantly communicated, so it was fun and I went to work with pleasure. A surgeon's job is not easy. Endless shifts, daily operations, sometimes several a day. But I want to tell you about something else. It was a happy time, our time, the time of our youth. Everything was clear, familiar, and frank. We were confident in today and were not afraid of tomorrow. We worked a lot, but also managed to rest, often, due to lack of free time, right at work. We loved, joked around, laughed a lot, and, honestly, drank on duty. The doors to the intensive care unit opened with a combination lock. By dialing the code, we knew in advance who was on duty: 362 - one team, 412 - another (3.62 rubles - the cost of a bottle of "Vodka" - popularly called "crankshaft", 4.12 rubles - "Stolichnaya"). But there was a certain flaw in the ICU doctors drinking vodka. The work is extremely difficult, responsible, and at the same time, very thankless. Mostly, patients in intensive care were unconscious or confused, and when their condition improved, they were transferred to specialized departments for aftercare. Often, these patients did not even know their saviors by sight, and all the gratitude upon discharge went to the attending physician. So, the resuscitators consumed vodka, and, of course, medical alcohol. Alcohol always enjoyed special respect among doctors. Of course, surgeons were in a more privileged position, and we always had cognacs and champagne, not to mention wines, but alcohol was still deservedly revered by us too. We usually didn't drink pure alcohol, but made a "cocktail" with the addition of ascorbic acid and glucose. Some people liked 40% glucose, others 20%, and the volume of ascorbic acid was also to the consumer's taste. Everyone had their favorite recipe. Oh, how delicious it was! I'm tired, I need to rest and take a walk through the labyrinths of my memory again. How did we live? Well... although... Now, from the height of my elderly age, it's hard for me to imagine the pace and the workloads we had at that young age. By rough estimates, work took up about 70% of our time. At that time, there was a joke about medics: "On one salary - a doctor has nothing to live on, on one and a half - no time to live." With meager salaries of 110 rubles a month, we tried to have 1.5 positions, which meant a working day from 8:00 to 18:00. Plus at least 2 night shifts a week + 1-2 Sunday (24-hour) shifts a month! Hence the question - when to live? But we lived! And we lived great, true, mostly at work. I will briefly tell you about the work of surgeons. The hospital was multidisciplinary, it had 4 surgical departments, and every other day we served the city for urgent surgery. On those days, a team of 4 surgeons is on duty; on other, so-called planned shifts - 2. A therapist was on duty daily in the admission department, two more for the hospital. And, 2 doctors in the ICU. During the day, surgeons served the admission department under the system - who is free? And at night, the team divided the time among themselves by 2 hours. But this was only if there were no urgent operations, which happened extremely rarely. As a rule, there were always operations, and then two operated, while the rest worked in the admission department. That's how we worked, but even at this rhythm we managed to drink. Youth! Closer to 23:00 - a general dinner in the resident's room. From the evening, everyone chipped in a ruble and sent a messenger to the store. During dinner we'd "skip" a glass each. Does today's youth know what it's like to chase the first glass with a sprat in tomato sauce? M..M..M... You take a fish with a fork, soak a piece of bread in the sauce and.... Delicious!! Well, and then however it went, depending on the workload and the composition of the team. But I want to note that we did our job honestly, and all patients were served on time and efficiently. Although... there were cases... At one time, in the admission department of our hospital, there was a dental office for providing urgent care to the public in the evening and at night. A young doctor worked there, fanatically in love with Vysotsky's work. He knew all his poems so well that you could name any word and he would lightning-fast reproduce a line from Vladimir Semyonovich's songs where it was present. We were convinced of this time and again. He became so used to the image of his idol that he probably also adopted his love for alcohol. On duty, he locked himself in his office and, to Vysotsky's songs, got drunk to the point of "loss of consciousness". One night, a patient was brought to the admission room. The ambulance driver had a severe toothache, and while the doctor was registering the patient, he turned to the duty dentist. Our doctor was already "tipsy", and after examining the patient, he decided to pull out the bad tooth, which he did without a second thought. Having finished the job, he handed the extracted tooth to the patient and locked himself in his office. Arriving at the substation, the driver asked his doctor to see why his gum was still bleeding. Having examined the oral cavity, the doctor surprisingly discovered that the bad tooth was in place, and a neighboring, healthy one had been extracted. The driver, spitting "bloody saliva" at his shift, immediately returned to the admission department, but could not get into the dental office, as the door was locked. He demanded that the hospital management be called, and upon the arrival of the deputy chief physician for medical affairs (nicknamed "NIKA", whom everyone feared like "fire"), he showed her the extracted tooth. After much persuasion, the doctor opened the door, but there was no point in talking to him, as he understood nothing. The driver demanded that a protocol be drawn up. "Nika" called the duty doctor and ordered him to assess the condition of the doctor, peacefully sleeping in the dental chair. The unfortunate "expert", having examined the incapacitated colleague, taking into account "corporate ethics", evasively said:

— I think this is a "State of hangover syndrome, after alcohol intoxication the day before".

— The day before?

— the driver was outraged, demonstrating the "material evidence", — yesterday he got drunk, and today he pulled my healthy tooth?

— Tooth?

— muttered the sleeping dentist suddenly, — here you go: Spit on it - poker partner kicked the bucket. Spit on it, that the brownie dreams at night. Spit on it - neighbors knocked out two teeth. Just say thank you for being alive. And added: Vysotsky - "Say thank you that you're alive"!

— Thank you that I'm alive?

— the victim turned blue with anger, — is he mocking me? What Vysotsky, is it some gang here?

— He's not mocking, — the "expert" explained to the illiterate driver, — it's from a song.

— So he also sings?

— the driver raged, — I'll kill this singer myself right now! We don't know how this story was hushed up, but rumors had it that the doctor was transferred somewhere to the periphery, and his subsequent fate is unknown. And the dental office in the admission department was closed. What does the office have to do with it? So, anything could happen! Something makes me drowsy. I need to rest and... Now I am already dreaming... Oh, what is this? A yellow car with the sign "Ambulance" drives up to the hospital at a frantic speed, they pull out a gurney with a bleeding man from it and take him to the admission room. A short dialogue between a young, unshaven, bald doctor in a blue, ironed suit and without a cap on his head, with an equally young and also unshaven one, but in a green, ironed operating suit with a white coat thrown over it and in a playful, multi-colored cap on his head. Who are these people? Ah... well, of course, I recognize them - the bald one is Gosha Kutsenko, and the one in the cap is Maxim Averin, that is, Dr. Bragin from the Sklifosovsky Institute.

— Fall from the 8th floor, — the bald one hands the papers to the doctor in the cap, — presumed diagnosis: "Rupture of the liver, spleen, left kidney, intra-abdominal bleeding with loss of 3 liters of blood, closed craniocerebral injury, open fracture of the bones of the right lower leg, state of shock". Hospitalization is required.

— I get it, — Dr. Bragin nodded business-likely, — and... we already see him at the operating table. Beep... beep... beep..., the monitors work harmoniously, beeeeeeeep..............

— No pulse, — the anxious voice of the anesthesiologist, — we lost him. Time of death...

— Clear!

— the doctor with a sweaty but smart face grabs the electrodes and throws himself on the patient's chest, — everyone away from the table! Clear! Another shock! The patient bounces on the table.

— You lie!

— Bragin fights fiercely for the patient's life, — I won't let you die! Beep-beep-beep, — the monitor squeaked, — beep-beep-beep.

— We have a pulse, — the anesthesiologist said without surprise, — we can continue the operation.

— Proceeding to liver transplant, — the surgeon said business-likely, — pulse, pressure? After 5 hours the doctor takes off his blue, blood-stained, beautiful gloves, throws them in a basin, and with the words: - "Sew him up", - leaves the operating room and immediately begins to joke wittily with the nurses. Then he looks out the window and sees a yellow car with the sign "Ambulance" standing in the hospital yard, next to which stands Gosha Kutsenko, looking questioningly and anxiously at his window. Max gives a thumbs up and smiles. The doctor below waves his hand in satisfaction, gets in the car and drives away to save other lives. Meanwhile, Dr. Bykov (Ivan Okhlobystin) "tears into" the stupid interns and, as a punishment, leaves them for an unscheduled night shift, while he goes to the venereologist Kupitman's office to drink cognac to the health of Dr. Bragin's patient! Ugh... I woke up in a cold sweat. What was that? Sci-fi again, or a horror movie? No, no, no! That's me having watched the series "Sklifosovsky" and "Interns" too much. To dream of such a thing! But in our time... Do you remember an old anecdote from the "Black Humor" series: A man had a son born. The happy father came to the maternity hospital to pick up his wife and child. Waits in the lobby. A doctor approaches him and asks: — Are you Ivanov? Are you waiting for your wife with a newborn?

— Yes, yes, — the father replies excitedly, — I am Ivanov, Ivanov! When can I see my son?

— You see, my friend, — the doctor says softly, — there is a small problem. The thing is, your son was born without legs.

— Ay, Ay, — the man shook his head sadly, — what can you do, even without legs, but I really want to see him as soon as possible.

— And without arms, — the doctor added.

— Let it be, — the father worries, — the main thing is that he was born! Bring the child out.

— And without a torso, — the doctor doesn't calm down.

— Does he at least have a head?

— the man gets irritated.

— Well, not exactly a head, — the obstetrician clarifies, — but only an ear. Should we bring him out?

— Yes, yes!

— the father waved his hand, — what is, is, but I want to see him as soon as possible. They bring out a bundle and give it to the man. He folds back the edge of the blanket and sees a single ear.

— Hello, son, — he says quietly.

— Speak louder, — the doctor prompts, — he is very hard of hearing. I will explain why I remembered this anecdote. At that time, medicine, both financially and in terms of technical equipment, was in a beggarly, I would even say wretched state. There were no medicines, syringes, needles, surgical gloves, etc. etc.

— It's okay, — the management told us, — just work.

— But there are no scalpels, clamps, suture material, — we said.

— It's okay, — the management replied, — operate.

— But there are no...

— Don't whine, — the bosses got irritated, — there isn't any and won't be! Go... work... But just try to make a mistake! And we went. We went to work, to operate and extricate ourselves as best we could. There is a reason for the saying: "Necessity is the mother of invention"! Glass syringes, needles and surgical instruments were boiled in sterilizers hundreds of times, from which they became unusable. Syringes burst in our hands, cutting our fingers, and repeatedly used needles became blunt and refused to stick into the buttocks of unfortunate citizens. At night, duty nurses sharpened the needles with sandpaper and cleaned their patency with wire "mandrels". In the morning, to prevent hepatitis, the head nurse of the department did a "benzidine test" for residual blood and checked the quality of the needle's "sharpening" with a piece of cotton wool (if the tip caught the cotton wool, the needle was poorly "sharpened"). What about cotton wool? What about gauze? Yes, yes, dear reader, cotton wool! It would seem, what's wrong with cotton wool? Do you know what artificial cotton wool and gauze are? They are very similar to natural ones, with one exception - the lack of hygroscopicity. That is, such cotton wool, like gauze, smears rather than absorbs, so using them for their intended purpose during operations was impossible. To increase hygroscopicity, they first had to be soaked, then dried and sterilized. And again, unfortunate nurses were doing this. And still, they wouldn't absorb! And surgical gloves!! A poem! If we take, for example, a size gradation from 1 to 5, then after multiple sterilization by boiling, the gloves became giant, approximately size 25. When we put them on before surgery, they stretched up to our elbows, where operating nurses secured them with strips of bandage, and tied strings at the base of each finger. Imagine the sensitivity in such gloves?! By the way, we had a period when we didn't even have such gloves, and we used some kind of gel allocated by the management from "strategic reserves". After proper preparation of hands before surgery, we stuck our hands in a basin with this gel and the skin was covered with a film. After surgery, it had to be washed off with a special solution, but there was little solution and this could only be done partially. Then we had to peel off the "scraps" of film from the skin for a long time. On the other hand, we had surgical instruments “Made in USA”! Yes, yes, imagine, the real American ones! They remained, our darlings, from the times of WWII, when in 1942 the USSR received Lend-Lease aid from the Americans, and these instruments were still actively used. Over decades of sterilization by boiling, steam, and other methods, any, even the most hardened steel became brittle, and often instruments simply broke during surgery, bringing surgeons a "lot of fun"! And scalpels? They didn't cut, they sawed! During their service, these indispensable surgical instruments were sharpened hundreds of times, they got thinner and thinner, and eventually, the blades became indecently thin. They were thrown away only when they were filed down to the base. By the way, I almost "made a career" out of scalpels. One patient, in gratitude, gifted me an electric sharpening machine. Either I bragged to someone about the acquisition, or I sharpened something for someone, but the head nurse of the operating block found out about it and, with a charming smile, handed me about ten scalpels with a request to sharpen them. Several times, out of simple-heartedness, I fulfilled her requests, then I realized what's what and began to "blackmail" her for gloves. Imagine, everyone is operating in "wraps", and I'm in properly fitting gloves! Well, besides me, also our professor. Eh? In general, in my younger years, I was sociable and able to make acquaintances, which I sometimes used (for the good of the cause, of course). In those years, for intravenous drip administration of solutions, there were systems consisting of rubber tubes (later plastic) and a glass dropper. If they somehow managed with the tubes, due to their durability, there was trouble with droppers, due to the fragility of the glass. They broke and were in terrible shortage! But I had connections in the laboratory of the "Academy of Sciences" of the MSSR. For hard "currency", in the form of a liter bottle of medical alcohol, the guys in their lab "blew" these glass "cannulas" for me. The head nurses of the departments adored me (or pretended to). The operating room! How many pleasant memories for my heart. Let's see... Shall we play out a scene of how it was in the past life? Cast of characters:

— Operating Surgeon - OS.

— Assisting Surgeon - AS.

— Anesthesiologist - A.

— Operating Room Nurse - ORN (e.g., Valya).

A: — The patient is "out", you can start.

OS: — Valya, damn it!

— throwing the scalpel in frustration, — it doesn't cut. Can you give me a normal scalpel?

ORN: — Please don't throw scalpels, there are few of them as it is. Where will I get a normal one? I don't have another.

OS: — @@@(profanity), — damn them (profanity), — spread the edges of the wound, — nervously turns to AS, — dry it, it's flooded with blood, I can't see shit!

AS: — I am drying, I am, — (profanity), — the gauze, damn it, doesn't absorb, only smears. Valya, give me another tupfer (an instrument with a tampon).

ORN: — All the gauze is like that, — Valya says calmly, — work with what we have.

OS: — Look how it's bleeding. We're suturing the vessel, — and stretches a hand to ORN, — suture! What are you giving me?

— OS explodes, — I need a thin thread, a number one, and you're handing me a number five. What the hell do I need such a rope for? My vessel is thinner than your silk.

— There's no other, — Valya habitually answers, — sew with a five.

OS, irritated, addresses the anesthesiologist:

— I can't see a damn thing, intestines are climbing into the wound, give me relaxation ("deepening" of anesthesia to reduce muscle tone).

A: — Where will I get relaxants for you (drugs that reduce muscle tone)?

— the anesthesiologist parries, — I have two more abdominal surgeries today (on the abdominal cavity). Stop whining, finish with what you have. The operation is over. OS and AS exit the operating room, throwing the giant rubber gloves and bloodstained gowns into the basin with disgust.

— Valka!

— OS swears, — pour us at least a "cocktail"! I have no strength left! Curtain. Applause! A bit exaggerated, but only in that doctors, of course, didn't use profanity and always expressed themselves literarily, but otherwise, in essence, it's true. I've gotten somewhat "carried away" playing in my memories, I just want to depict another scene. Since I've touched upon the "theatrical-operating" theme, I can't help but remember a proctologist from our hospital, whose last name was Khrustalov. He was a lousy doctor, but a genius actor. Let me tell you now. Our operating block was large and very long. On one side, it had an exit to the gallery leading to the proctology department, on the other, to surgery. The sequence of operations was determined by complexity, so patients with "minor proctology", which included "hemorrhoidectomy" (excision of hemorrhoidal nodes), went last. On the eve of the operation, our proctologist strictly met with the patient's relatives and very colorfully described to them the "severity" of the upcoming surgery, saying the case is atypical, there is a suspicion of "internal hemorrhoids", so bleeding is possible and a blood transfusion will be required, etc. Having scared the relatives to death, at the end of the conversation he asked them not to say anything to the "severe" patient so as not to worry him before the upcoming ordeal. The unfortunate relatives looked at the doctor hopefully and begged him to make every effort to save their loved one.

— It won't be easy, — Khrustalov said mysteriously, — but I will do everything in my power. On the day of the surgery, he invited the relatives to come early and wait in the gallery of the surgical department. Entering the operating block from the proctology side, Khrustalov came out to them from the other side, said that the patient was being taken for surgery, frowned, and with the words: — It's time, I am ready for any surprises, — went back into the operating block, returned through the corridor to his department, where he continued to work peacefully. After major operations ended, he was called to the operating room, he entered from his side again and, having finished the hemorrhoidectomy in half an hour, came out to the relatives, exhausted by many hours of anxious waiting. Before leaving the operating block, he splashed tap water on his face and put on a mask and cap stained with blood drops, which he always carried in his coat pocket.

— Just don't worry, — he said tiredly to the frightened relatives, — the main thing is that he is alive. Such a case happens one in a thousand, — removing the bloodstained mask and wiping his "sweat", he continued, — or even less often. It was hard, even for me, and I did a special course in Moscow. What can you do, anomalous location of nodes, — he explained to the clueless relatives, — we even had to call a resuscitator. Do you see how much time the operation took? Well, it's okay, — he waved his hand, — I will settle accounts with my colleague myself later. The main thing is that we managed and the patient is alive. But you cannot visit him today, — taking off the bloodstained cap and looking sadly at the desperate relatives, he continued, — rest! He needs rest after such a complex surgery. And tomorrow we will see. All the best to you, and I have to work, — and tiredly returned to the operating block. The happy relatives hugged and thanked God that their loved one fell into the "golden" hands of such a specialist, and their gratitude to Khrustalov (both material and gastronomic) and (through him!) to the mythical resuscitator was immense. The patient, as a rule, survived, and everyone was happy. Curtain. Applause. Note: as a true son of the Moldovan people, Khrustalov always chose compatriots, mostly rural residents, for such "operations". The people were not very educated, didn't ask unnecessary questions, there were many sympathetic relatives, so it was easier to work with them, and their sense of gratitude was "richer" than that of urban people. As a doctor, our Khrustalov was very mediocre, but as an "actor", truly a "people's" one. By the way, being recently in Chisinau, I met him. Do you remember how in "The Golden Calf", Panikovsky told Shura about a policeman from Kiev named Nebaba, who became a music critic after the revolution? A very similar story happened with our doctor, who, as soon as Moldova gained independence from the "fraternal family of Soviet peoples", defended a dissertation in friendly Romania. (By the way, very convenient and practical. You, as a citizen of Moldova, come to Romania, sign a document: "Without the right to work on the territory of Romania", pay money in dollar equivalent, after which you are guaranteed to defend any dissertation and return to your Homeland with an academic degree. Everyone is happy!). So today, our "scientist-hemorrhoidologist", a specialist in "atypical hemorrhoids", teaches the course of "proctology" to medical students. I think he is not working in his specialty and it would be better if he taught youth "acting skills". Cards. I don't remember where the cards appeared in our hospital and who was the first to suggest sitting at the "card table". The "poker fever" began around 1978 and, at first, was completely harmless. On shifts, if there was free time at night, we would play some cards. "Poker" is a game played "for fun", so instead of "chips" we used matches. Gradually the character of the game became more complex, players gained experience, everyone developed their own style, and somehow, "naturally", matches were replaced by kopecks. We played for small stakes, for the sake of pleasure, and didn't notice when the stakes began to rise. So as not to rattle coins, we began to keep score on paper, but when you don't see "real" money on the table, the sense of danger is dulled and the game began to take on an aggressive character. Imperceptibly, we began to form duty teams taking into account the duty members' affiliation with the "poker club", and the duration of the game, like the stakes, began to increase. Other poker enthusiasts began to join us, true, only our acquaintances - an associate professor from the Polytechnic Institute, a school head teacher, a chief engineer of a factory, and two doctors who didn't work in our hospital - an ophthalmologist and a surgeon. Gradually, a real "Poker Club" formed, although we rarely played with visiting players. They were older than us, with different financial capabilities, and we didn't match in time. Night games suited us, but there was a "problem" - the patients still distracted us. And we found a "Solomon-like" solution. Four women worked in our surgical team, with whom we managed to conclude a "gentlemen's" agreement. We began to form duty teams so that they included three playing men and one lady, who, according to our "unspoken agreement", took on the work in the admission department until midnight, but rested at night. Such a mutually beneficial "symbiosis". The "poker fever" gained momentum. There was not enough time for the game, and patients "distracted" us, so we started staying after work. The issue of premises for our "battles" became acute, and in the end, we found a small room located behind the gym, where sports equipment was kept. Passions ran high, stakes grew. The lessons of playing that I received in my first year of college in Uncle Sandu's apartment came in handy. But, as often happens in card games for money, the moment of the "big game" arrived, I got a "good hand" and lost a huge sum, amounting to the size of my half-year salary. This was the "point of my sobering up", and having paid off the debt, since 1980 I never played poker again. As an edification for posterity, I want to give another example. One researcher of the department well known to us, who was undergoing a doctorate in Moscow, came home on vacation and, dropping by our place "for a light", sat down at the poker table. He turned out to be such an avid player that one day, when a "big card came", he lost an "astronomical" sum of money to our surgeon. And even when the playing partner wrote off his loss 1:10, the amount was "unbearable" for him. He was forced to take an "Academic leave" due to illness (arranging an "illness" for him was not a problem for us) and, working off the debt, for almost a year he acted as a taxi driver, taking the opponent in his car to work and wherever he needed. Such are debts of honor. Memory is a strange thing! How it filters memories, how it selectively rejects the negative, and so as not to disturb the "owner", obligingly highlights and emphasizes mostly positive events from his past life. Of course, like all young people, we were careless, amorous, enjoyed life, completely unthinking about old age, and sincerely didn't understand why old people couldn't, for example, run up the stairs taking 2-3 steps at a time, or gather at friends' places after a shift, drink and dance until the night. It's so simple, they're probably just being lazy. But, in our life there were not only pleasant events, there were also difficult, complex periods. For surgeons, in general, life is not the easiest. Multi-hour operations, severely ill patients, blood, pus, groans and suffering of patients. And the death of a patient? Unfortunately, any surgeon encounters this quite often. I remember how, working on the Ambulance, I arrived at a call in a student dormitory and saw a guy lying on the bed. He had a "Retropharyngeal abscess" (suppuration of lymph nodes and tissue of the retropharyngeal space), which blocked his larynx, and he was choking. To let him breathe somehow, I shoved a tube from my ballpoint pen into his throat and, praying to all the Gods, brought him to the hospital, where the ENT doctor, right in the admission room, opened his abscess. If you knew the happiness I experienced when the guy inhaled air and opened his eyes. Ecstasy! And when, right in the hospital elevator, I had to open the chest of a patient dying from blood loss with knife wounds and close the through wounds of his heart with my fingers! Unfortunately, the patient could not be saved, but I did everything I could. Then I had to explain myself to the investigative authorities, which cost me a lot of nerves and time. And the charred corpse of a young man resting by the lake not far from our hospital with friends on a Sunday, who, drunk, climbed a high-voltage tower? His friends brought him to the admission department right in a blanket and were so drunk that for a long time they couldn't understand that only coals remained of their friend! I can't forget that smell of a burnt body all my life. Nightmare! Enough, enough! Let's not talk about the sad things. Memory, my memory! I beg you, remember only the good. I need to rest, close my eyes and take a nap. How did Shafutinsky put it:

— May you dream of Palma de Mallorca,

In Cannes or in Nice, the gentle surf.

Well, I don't know, I don't know. I haven't been to any of the listed places, so I can't dream of them. Yes, I don't really need to. It's much more pleasant for me to walk through the labyrinths of my memory and see my dear ones, unfortunately already departed relatives, loved ones, friends. To remember the young years, reckless and thoughtlessly beautiful. How can I not remember the brilliant Guberman here:

How young I was! How I flew in my dreams!

There is no return to those years.

What abilities slept in me!

They woke up and washed away somewhere.

I described the years of my childhood, youth, early young adulthood. My dear parents, my childhood friends, many institute friends have long been gone. These dreams are not about me, but about that time, about the people who surrounded me. I look at faded photographs in the album where people dear, very dear to me are smiling, and I remember, remember, remember!! Photo albums have long been gone, replaced by computer ones. I'm not saying it's bad, but, personally for me, the "tactile sensations" are lost when you take a card and, as if, touch the people depicted on it. Doesn't this happen to you? Those were difficult times, and at the same time, wonderful. Our youth! I don't know if I will dream of the times of maturity that rapidly transitioned into the so-called senior, or simply put, elderly age. We shall see, time will tell. At the end of the narrative, I want to be a little mischievous, and again, in the words of my favorite Guberman:

The mistakes of youth were easily gotten away with.

Oh, youth, — the magic sound of a flute.

We often sawed the branch we were sitting on.

Now we are not the same, and the branches have grown old.

Good night and sweet dreams! to be continued