“Autopsies are apparently too much for me,” admitted Susan.
“You get used to it, like everything else,” said the resident, stuffing more doughnut into his mouth.
“Possibly. Where would I look for the charts of the patients they are posting?”
The resident washed down the doughnut with coffee, swallowing with some effort.
“In that shelf marked ‘Post.’ When you finish with them, put them over there in the shelf marked ‘Medical Records’ because we’re finished with them.”
Turning to the rear wall, Susan faced a series of cubic shelves. One of the shelves was marked “Post.” On it she found Ferrer’s and Crawford’s charts. Clearing one of the desks of debris, Susan sat down and took out her notebook. At the top of an empty page she wrote, “Crawford,” on the top of another page she wrote, “Ferrer.” Methodically she began to extract the charts as she had done with Nancy Greenly’s.
Tuesday, February 24, 8:05 A.M.
Susan had found it unbelievably difficult to emerge from the warmth and comfort of her bed when the radio alarm went off the following morning.
The fact that it was a Linda Ronstadt selection was a big help in that it caused some degree of pleasant association in Susan’s mind and instead of turning the radio off, she lay there and let the sounds and rhythm course through her. By the time the song was over Susan was fully awake, her mind beginning to race over the events of the previous day.
The night before, at least until three A.M., had been passed in deep concentration with the large pile of journal articles, the books on anesthesiology, her own internal medicine book, and her clinical neurology text. She had amassed an enormous amount of notes, and her bibliography had increased to some one hundred articles that she planned to drag from the library stacks. The project had become more complex, more demanding, yet at the same time more fascinating, more absorbing. As a consequence Susan had become even more determined, and she realized that she was going to have to accomplish a great deal that day.
Shower, dressing, and breakfast were dispatched with commendable speed. During breakfast, she reread some of her notes, realizing that she would have to reread the last few articles she had read the night before.
The walk to the MBTA stop on Huntington Avenue proved to Susan that the weather had not changed and she cursed the fact that Boston had to be situated so far north. With luck she found a seat on the aging street car and was able to unfold a portion of her IBM printout. She wanted to check once more the number of cases which it suggested.
“Good to see you, Susan. Don’t tell me you’re going to go to lecture today?”
Susan looked up into the grinning face of George Niles, who was holding on to the bar above her head.
“I’d never miss lecture, George; you know that.”
“Looks like you missed rounds. It’s after nine.”
“I could say the same to you.” Susan’s tone hovered between being friendly and combative.
“I was told in no uncertain terms that I had to be seen in Student Health to rule out a comminuted compound skull fracture from yesterday’s gala event in the OR.”
“You are OK, aren’t you?” asked Susan with genuine sincerity and concern.
“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just hard to patch up my injured ego. That was the only thing that broke. But the clinic doc said that the ego had to heal itself.”
Susan allowed herself to laugh. Niles joined. The car stopped at Northeastern University.
“Missing half of your first day at Surgery at the Memorial, then skipping rounds the next day, that’s commendable, Miss Wheeler.”
George assumed a serious expression. “In no time at all you’ll be able to run for medical student Phantom of the Year. If you keep it up you’ll be able to challenge the record set by Phil Greer during second-year Pathology.”
Susan didn’t answer. She went back to her IBM sheets.
“What are you working on, anyway?” asked Niles, twisting himself in an attempt to view the printout right side up.
Susan looked up at Niles. “I’m working on my Nobel Prize acceptance speech. I’d tell you about it but you might miss lecture.”
The car plunged down into the tunnel, beginning its transit under the city. Conversation became impossible. Susan resumed her check of the IBM printout sheet. She wanted to be damn sure of the numbers.
With its private offices Beard 8 resembled Beard 10. Susan walked down the corridor, stopping at room 810. The door had crisp black lettering across its aged but polished mahogany surface: “Department of Medicine, Professor J. P. Nelson, M.D., Ph.D.”
Nelson was Chief of Medicine, Stark’s counterpart, but associated with internal medicine and its subspecialties. Nelson was also a powerful figure in the medical center but not quite as influential as Stark, nor was he as dynamic, and as a fund raiser, he couldn’t even compare.
Nevertheless, it took a bit of fortitude on Susan’s part to get up the nerve to approach this Olympian figure. With some hesitation she pushed open the mahogany door and faced a secretary with wire-rimmed glasses and a comfortable smile.
“My name is Susan Wheeler and I called a few minutes ago to see Dr.
Nelson.”
“Yes of course. You’re one of our medical students?”
“That’s right,” said Susan, unsure of what “our” meant in that context.
“You’re lucky, Miss Wheeler, to catch Dr. Nelson in. Plus I believe he remembers you from a class or something. Anyway, he’ll be with you shortly.”
Susan thanked her and retreated to one of the stiff black waiting-room chairs. She pulled out her notebook to scan more of her notes, but instead found herself viewing the room, the secretary, and the lifestyle it meant for Dr. Nelson. As far as the value system in medical school was concerned, such a position represented the final triumph of years of effort and even luck. It was just the kind of luck Susan felt could be behind her present quest. All someone needed was one lucky break and the doors would open.
The reverie was cut short by the door to the inner office being opened.
Two doctors in long white coats came from within, continuing their conversation at the door. Susan could get bits and pieces and it seemed to be about an enormous amount of drugs that had been located in a locker in the surgical lounge. The younger of the two men was quite agitated and spoke in a whisper whose sound level was approximately equal to normal speech. The other gentleman had the portly bearing of a mature physician, replete with soft, knowing eyes, luxuriant graying hair, and a consoling smile. Susan knew it had to be Dr. Nelson. He seemed to be trying to console the other with reassuring words and a lingering pat on the shoulder. Once the other doctor had left, Dr. Nelson turned to Susan and beckoned for her to follow him.
Nelson’s office was a tumble of reprinted journal articles, scattered books, and stacks of letters. It appeared as if a tornado had swept through the room several years previously with no subsequent effort at reconstruction. The furniture consisted of a large desk and an old cracked leather chair that squeaked as Dr. Nelson lowered his weight into it. There were two other smaller leather chairs facing the desk.
Susan was motioned to take one of them as Dr. Nelson took one of his briars and opened a tobacco canister on the desk. Before filling the pipe he hit it on the palm of his left hand a few times. The few ashes that appeared were carelessly scattered on the floor.
“Ah yes, Miss Wheeler,” began Dr. Nelson, scanning a note card on his desk. “I remember you well from physical diagnosis class. You were from Wellesley.”
“Radcliffe.”
“Radcliffe, of course.” Dr. Nelson corrected his note card. “What can we do for you?”
“I’m not sure how to start. But I’ve become very interested in the problem of prolonged coma, and I have begun to look into it.”
Dr. Nelson leaned back, the chair squeaking in agony. He placed the tips of his fingers together.
“That’s fine, but coma is a big subject, and, more important, it is a symptom rather than a disease in itself. It
