This gruesome story almost reads like a horror novel. A Doctor Micheal Wong had been randomly attacked by a stranger and stabbed 14 times at the hospital he worked at. His hands were shredded along with his arms and his chest.
Thankfully the doctor is making a full recovery. The rehab process has been grueling but very humbling. With his hand’s so severely damaged Dr. Wong’s son would have to help him in the bathroom. The doctor credits the hospital team for doing an amazing job of putting him back together.
This incident prompted Wong to start looking at how hospital’s take care of their employee’s. Recently he has been campaigning for better security and taking extra care of the people who he operates on. The doctor says his new mission is not only to improve the quality of life but the safety of it as well.
Read the full article at IBTimes
The attacker struck in the foyer of Melbourne’s Western Hospital on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday morning.
I’d just arrived, and had my mobile phone out to ring my registrar to ask whether I had time to nick up to the wards and see my patients, or whether I needed to go straight to the outpatient clinic.
At first I thought I’d been pushed in the back. Then I slipped on my own blood and fell to the floor. I was being stabbed, over and over again. I remember turning my head so a blow coming at my eye instead landed on my skull. Being a neurosurgeon, I could all too easily picture the blade piercing my brain through the eye socket.
I remember people yelling, and the tug on my clothing as I was dragged along the floor through a set of double doors to safety and along the corridors to Emergency, leaving a trail of blood.
The full story of my rescue and the incredible bravery and people behind it – including nurses, an intern, a hospital technician and a leukaemia patient – only emerged much later.
I remember looking at my arms and hands; there were deep cuts. I remember being aware that I was breathless, and trying to slow my breathing – not knowing I had a punctured lung. I remember the look of absolute horror on my registrar’s face, as I was wheeled past him on a hospital trolley on my way to surgery.
I remember asking someone to call my wife.
I remember the pain of being prepped for surgery, the sting of antiseptics on open wounds, and asking the anaesthetist why they couldn’t put me to sleep first. (They didn’t tell me it was for fear that I would go into arrest, and they wanted to wait until the full medical team was assembled.)
Hazily, I remember waking with a tube in my throat and seeing my wife – then things fade out until I woke to the moment of truth.