Henry Schwartz was in the middle of the computer printout he had requested. The office was small but extraordinarily neat. The books in the bookcase were arranged so that their heights descended in an orderly fashion. The depth of the book backs in the shelves was one inch, no more, no less.
“Mr. Schwartz?” asked Susan smiling and walking up to his desk.
“Yes?” said Schwartz without removing his index finger from his place in the printout.
“It seems that my printout got mixed up with yours, or at least that was the combined opinion upstairs. I was wondering if you had noticed any material you had not requested?”
“No, but I haven’t looked through it all yet. What was it you’re missing?”
“It’s some information on coma we need for a section presentation. Do you mind if I see if it’s included with your material?”
“Not at all,” said Schwartz, lifting sections of the printout to find the break points.
“If it’s there, it would be the last section,” offered Susan. “They said it was run right after yours.”
Schwartz lifted the bulk of the material from the desk. Remaining was the information Susan needed. Attached to the top was her request form.
“That’s it,” said Susan.
“But the form indicates I requested it,” questioned Schwartz glancing at the request form.
“No wonder they got it mixed up with your material,” said Susan, reaching for the material. “But I assure you, you wouldn’t be interested in this stuff. And it’s certainly not your fault, by any means.”
“I’d better say something to George ...,” said Schwartz replacing his own printout in front of him.
“No need,” said Susan, exiting. “We already discussed it at length.”
Thanks a million.”
“You’re welcome,” said Schwartz, but Susan had already left.
“Susan, you are too much, really too much,” said Bellows between spoonfuls of custard he had taken from the tray of a patient who was too nauseated to eat. “You skip the lecture, afternoon rounds, and avoid your patients, and now you’re hanging around here until eight P.M. The only consistency about your performance so far is constant variation.”
Bellows laughed as he scraped the bottom of the custard cup.
Susan and Bellows were sitting in the lounge on Beard 5 where the hospital day had begun for Susan. She was sitting in the same seat she had occupied that morning. Spilling over onto the floor was the IBM
printout sheet she had obtained. She was running down the list of names and marking appropriate ones with a yellow felt-tip pen.
Bellows took a drink from his coffee.
“Well, that proves it,” said Susan, putting the cap on the pen.
“Proves what?” asked Bellows.
“Proves that there haven’t been six cases of unexplained coma, excluding Berman, here at the Memorial this last year.”
“Hurray,” cheered Bellows, toasting with his coffee mug. “Now I can stop worrying about anesthesia and have my hemorrhoids fixed.”
“I would recommend that you stick to your suppositories,” said Susan, counting the names she’d marked. “There haven’t been six because there’ve been eleven. And if Berman continues on his present course, then there will have been twelve.”
“Are you sure?” Bellows’s tone changed abruptly and he showed interest in the IBM printout sheet for the first time.
“That’s all that came out on this printout,” said Susan. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a few more if I had been able to call up the information straight away.”
“You really think so? God, eleven cases!” Bellows leaned over toward Susan, his tongue working at the empty spoon. “How’d you manage to get this IBM printout?”
“Henry Schwartz was nice enough to help me,” said Susan nonchalantly.
“Who the hell is Henry Schwartz?” asked Bellows.
“Damned if I know.”
“Spare me,” said Bellows covering his eyes with his hand, “I’m too tired for mental games.”
“Is that a chronic ailment or an acute affliction?”
“Cut the crap. How’d you get this data? Something like this has to be cleared through the department.”
“I went upstairs this afternoon, filled out one of those M804 forms, gave it to the nice man at the desk, and then went back tonight and picked it up.”
“I’m sorry I asked,” said Bellows getting up and waving his spoon to suggest he would let the issue ride. “But eleven cases. Did they all happen during surgery?”
“No,” said Susan, going back to the printout. “Harris was on the level when he said six. The other five were from inpatients on the medical service. Their diagnosis was idiosyncratic reaction. Doesn’t that strike you as pretty odd?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on,” said Susan impatiently. “The word idiosyncratic sounds great but it really means that they had no idea what the diagnosis was.”
“That might be true, but Susan, dear, this happens to be a major hospital, not a country club. It serves as a referral base for the whole New England area. Do you know how many deaths we have here on an average in a single day?”
“Deaths have causes ... these cases of coma do not ... at least not as yet.”
“Well, deaths don’t always have apparent causes. That’s the purpose of autopsy.”
“There, you hit the nail on the head,” said Susan. “When someone dies, then you do an autopsy and you find out what was the cause of death so that you can possibly add to your fund of knowledge. Well, in the coma cases you can’t do an autopsy because the patients are somewhere hovering between life and death. That makes it even more important that you do another kind of ‘opsy,’ a live-opsy, if you will. You study all the clues you have available, short of dismembering the victim. The diagnosis is just as important, maybe even more important than the autopsy diagnosis. If we could find out what was wrong with these people, maybe we could bring them out of their comas. Or better still, avoid the coma in the first place.”
“Even the autopsy,” said Bellows, “doesn’t always provide the answers.
There are plenty of deaths where the exact cause is never determined whether they do an autopsy or not. I happen to know that two patients threw in the towel today, and I doubt very much if a diagnosis will be made.”
“Why do you think that the diagnosis won’t be made?” asked Susan.
“Because both patients expired from respiratory arrest. They apparently just stopped breathing, very calmly with no warning. They were just discovered dead. And in respiratory arrest you don’t always find anything to hang the blame on.”
Bellows had captured Susan’s interest. She was staring at him without moving, without blinking.
“Are you OK?” asked Bellows, waving his hand in front of her face. Still Susan did not move until she looked down at the IBM printout.
“What the hell do you have, psychomotor epilepsy or something?” asked Bellows.
Susan looked up at him. “Epilepsy? No, of course not You said these cases today died of respiratory arrest?”
“Apparently. I mean they stopped breathing. They just gave up.”
“What were they in the hospital for?”
“I’m not positive. I think one of them was in for some problem with his leg. Maybe he had phlebitis and they might find a pulmonary embolus or something. The other one was in for Bell’s palsy.”
“Were they both on I.V.s?”
