After being separated from my family, I became a darling of the military region thanks to my medical

The lecture hall was in complete chaos.

A large number of reporters surged forward from both sides of the aisle to the front row, the sound of camera shutters creating a cacophony of harsh white noise.

"Dr. Ye, are you prepared to perform the surgery yourself?"

Will Mayo approve this plan?

Are there any real-world success stories of this standard in China?

The security guards managed to form a human wall, but they couldn't stop the crowd from pushing forward.

Gu Zheng strode down the steps and walked directly through the passageway.

He walked to the side of the podium, without touching Ye Zhen, and positioned himself half a step in front of her in a blind spot. It was a standard tactical defensive stance.

Xu Wenqiang and Officer Li also rushed over from the back row, blocking the passage from both sides.

"The academic session is not over yet!" Xu Wenqiang raised his voice, stopping them in English, "Please return to your seats!"

Old Cohen reached out and pushed aside the Cleveland resident blocking his way, squeezing into the encirclement without any hesitation.

"Get out of the way."

He walked to the projector and picked up the first surgical sketch that Ye Zhen had just drawn. The paper creased in his hands.

"Improved BT torrent splitting." He repeated it twice, his voice not loud, but enough to quiet the surroundings.

"The anastomosis between the subclavian artery and the pulmonary artery is less than two millimeters. A standard cardiac surgeon's needle holder can't go that far." Old Cohen looked up at Ye Zhen. "If the needle deviates by even a millimeter, the vessel wall will be completely torn. Continuous suturing will also cause purse-string stenosis."

The entire room held its breath. This was a direct clash of technological barriers. No matter how perfect the logic of the solution, it's just a piece of paper if it can't be implemented on the operating table.

Ye Zhen pulled another blank sheet of paper from the file box and picked up a pen.

"Discard ordinary instruments and switch to micro needle holders. Use eight-strand sutures."

"The posterior wall is continuously everted; fixation is only performed, not tightening."

"Interrupted anterior wall, needle spacing redistributed according to vessel circumference."

She quickly sketched a tiny cross-section of the anastomosis on the paper.

"Do not tie the last two stitches. First, perform low-pressure perfusion to check for leaks, and then adjust the tension according to the bleeding situation."

Cohen's voice was tense: "This will significantly prolong the time of blood vessel blockage."

"Therefore, preoperative simulation is necessary." Ye Zhen spoke at a rapid pace. "The length of the artificial blood vessel, the anastomosis angle, and the placement of each needle must all be calculated beforehand. Once the surgeon is on the operating table, no modifications are allowed."

"What if there's an error in the angiography? What if the actual blood vessel is 10% different from the angiographic image?"

"Stop suturing, replace the blood vessel on the spot." Ye Zhen's tone was firm, leaving no room for negotiation. "It's better to delay for ten more minutes than to leave an anastomosis with stenosis."

Old Cohen held the paper, remaining silent.

He had prepared a dozen tricky questions, but now he couldn't utter a single word.

This is not a vague, empirical judgment; it is a hard-line operational guide that can be directly written into the contingency plan.

The young attending physician from Cleveland leaned closer and whispered, "Professor, can a human really achieve this level of precision?"

Old Cohen ignored him.

He stared at the matching diagram on the paper for a long time, then reached into his suit pocket and pulled out his hard-cover notebook.

He handed the notebook to Ye Zhen.

"Draw me the angle for needle insertion at the back wall."

Several Harvard experts in the front row looked somewhat dazed. The old Cohen, who had so vehemently criticized Chinese healthcare on television, was now handing over his notebook like a humble intern seeking guidance.

Ye Zhen took the pen and drew the long axis of the blood vessels on the notebook.

"The angle is not fixed and is adjusted according to the patient's actual blood vessel wall thickness."

"The needle insertion point must be positioned precisely at the edge, and the needle must exit outwards to prevent the endometrium from rolling back."

Old Cohen took back the notebook and looked at it for a few seconds.

He didn't say thank you, nor did he ask any more questions. He simply took his notebook, stepped aside, and started rapidly calculating on it with a pen.

In the middle of the audience, Emily sat motionless in her seat.

Her interview notebook had long since fallen to the ground. The tape recorder reached the end of its tape and the button popped open with a "click".

The four-chamber view of the heart on the screen was still lit. That small area of ​​the left ventricle was so brightly lit it made one's heart race.

Three weeks ago, she accompanied her daughter to a follow-up appointment at Boston Children's Hospital. The doctor pointed to the same spot and told her: ventricular septal defect, and the left ventricular ventricle is underdeveloped.

Wait for things to worsen, or wait to die.

Emily bent down, her hands trembling slightly, and it took her two tries to retrieve the interview notebook.

She turned to the page of questions she had prepared yesterday.

She pulled out her pen and marked the questions with sharp crosses until the paper tore.

She wrote a line heavily in the blank space: Can a three-year-old patient apply for a Huaxia Standard Assessment?

Stephen returned to the podium in the front row.

Staff members quickly ran over to help him straighten the microphone. The previously noisy lecture hall gradually quieted down after he went on stage.

"Dr. Ye."

Stephen spoke. His previous haughty arrogance had completely vanished.

"Does your argument mean that patient number 9087 still has a chance for surgery?"

"have."

"Not just a paper simulation?"

"I can only determine the final treatment plan after I have seen the child."

Stephen slammed his hand down on the stack of "verdicts" from top American experts on the table.

The image of that incubator with its red light on from last night keeps replaying in my mind. The bluish-purple baby, the pitifully low blood oxygen levels.

He remembered what he had said—if she could be saved, I would be the first to sign the papers.

Stephen turned around, took all the original medical records from his assistant's arms, and deliberately pulled out the latest medication records and blood gas reports and placed them on the top shelf.

He handed the heavy stack of papers to Ye Zhen.

"Building 9. Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, 9087 beds."

"His parents are both alive."

Ye Zhen reached out and took the other end of the document.

Stephen did not let go.

The two of them subtly pulled at each other across the medical record.

"Mayo provides all the data." Stephen stared at her. "Operating room, extracorporeal circulation team, monitoring team—you can choose."

"The plan needs to undergo an urgent ethical review."

"Can."

"Family members need to sign a new high-risk informed consent form."

"no problem."

Stephen released his grip.

"One last thing," he said, taking a half-step back, "I want to join your pre-operative discussion group."

Harrison immediately walked over from the side: "Count me in."

Old Cohen slammed his notebook shut.

"The Cleveland team has applied to join."

Stephen glanced at him sideways: "You're not Mayo's doctor."

"Get an appointment with a specialist from another hospital." Old Cohen ripped off his visitor pass from around his neck and slammed it on the podium. "Get the paperwork done right away."

A few scattered claps broke out from the back row, but they were fleeting. Nobody was in the mood to applaud right now.

Ye Zhen had already turned and walked towards the side door.

Gu Zheng casually picked up the cardboard box containing her film, while Xu Wenqiang picked up the remaining documents on the table.

Mayo staff quickly swiped their access cards to open the employee entrance. The group then proceeded directly into the enclosed corridor connecting to Building 9.

The corridor was quiet and led directly to the elevator lobby.

The numbers stopped on the third floor.

"bite--"

The elevator doors had just slid open halfway when a figure in a green scrub suit crashed out.

The nurse stumbled and fell as she ran, her name tag flying off her back.

"Professor Stephen! Patient 9087's blood oxygen level has dropped below 70! He's dying!"