match. Certainly there was no reason for him to stand in awe of Dr. Joseph Pearson and, while he was prepared to defer a little to the other man’s age and seniority, he had no intention of being treated, himself, like a raw and inexperienced hand.
There was another strength, too: a feeling which overrode all other considerations, whether of character, attempts at tolerance, or anything else. It was a determination to practice medicine uncompromisingly, cleanly, honestly—even exactly, as far as exactness was possible in medical affairs. For any who did less—and even in his own few years he had seen and known them—the compromisers, the politicians, the lazy, the at-any-cost ambitious—David Coleman had only anger and disgust.
If he had been asked from whence this feeling sprang, he would have found it hard to answer. Certainly he was no sentimentalist; nor had he entered medicine because of some overt urge to aid humanity. The influence of his own father might have had some effect but, David Coleman suspected, not too much. His father, he realized now, had been an averagely good physician, within the limits of general practice, but there had always been a striking difference between their two natures. The elder Coleman had been a warm, outgoing personality with many friends; his son was cool, hard to know, often aloof. The father had joked with his patients and casually given them his best. The son—as an intern, before pathology cut him off from patients—had never joked but carefully, exactly, skillfully, had given a little better than the best of many others. And even though, as a pathologist, his relationship with patients had changed, this attitude had not.
Sometimes, in his moments of honest self-examination, David Coleman suspected his approach would have been the same, whether his occupation had been medicine or something else. Basically, he supposed, it was a quality of exactitude combined with intolerance of mistake or failure—the feeling, too, that whoever and whatever you set out to serve was entitled, by right, to the utmost you had to give. In a way, perhaps, the two feelings were contradictory. Or possibly they had been summed up accurately by a medical classmate who had once drunk an ironic toast to “David Coleman—the guy with the antiseptic heart.”
Passing now through the basement corridor, his mind returned to the present and instinct told him that conflict lay very close ahead.
He entered the pathology office to find Pearson hunched over a microscope, a slide folder open in front of him. The older man looked up. “Come and take a look at these. See what you make of them.” He moved away from the microscope, waving Coleman toward it.
“What’s the clinical story?” Coleman slipped the first slide under the retaining clips and adjusted the binocular eyepiece.
“It’s a patient of Lucy Grainger’s. Lucy is one of the surgeons here; you’ll meet her.” Pearson consulted some notes. “The case is a nineteen-year-old girl, Vivian Loburton—one of our own student nurses. Got a lump below her left knee. Persistent pain. X-rays show some bone irregularity. These slides are from the biopsy.”
There were eight slides, and Coleman studied each in turn. He knew at once why Pearson had asked him for an opinion. This was a hairline case, as difficult as any came. At the end he said, “My opinion is ‘benign.’ ”
“I think it’s malignant,” Pearson said quietly. “Osteogenic sarcoma.”
Without speaking Coleman took the first slide again. He went over it once more, patiently and carefully, then repeated the process with the other seven. The first time around he had considered the possibility of osteogenic sarcoma; now he did so again. Studying the red— and blue-stained transparencies which could reveal so much to the trained pathologist, his mind ticked off the pros and cons . . . All the slides showed a good deal of new bone formation—osteoblastic activity with islands of cartilage within them . . . Trauma had to be considered. Had trauma caused a fracture? Was the new bone formation a result of regeneration—the body’s own attempt to heal? If so, the growth was certainly benign. . . . Was there evidence of osteomyelitis? Under a microscope it was easy to mistake it for the more deadly osteogenic sarcoma. But no, there were no polymorphonuclear leukocytes, characteristically found in the marrow spaces between the bone spicules . . . There was no blood-vessel invasion . . . So it came back basically to examination of the osteoblasts—the new bone formation. It was the perennial question which all pathologists had to face: was a lesion proliferating, as a natural process to fill a gap in the body’s defenses? Or was it proliferating because it was a neoplasm and therefore malignant? Malignant or benign? It was so easy to be wrong, but all one could do was to weigh the evidence and judge accordingly.
“I’m afraid I disagree with you,” he told Pearson politely. “I’d still say this tissue was benign.”
The older pathologist stood silent and thoughtful, plainly assessing his own opinion against that of the younger man. After a moment he said, “You’d agree there’s room for doubt, I suppose. Both ways.”
“Yes, there is.” Coleman knew there was often room for doubt in situations like this. Pathology was no exact science; there were no mathematical formulas by which you could prove your answer right or wrong. All you could give sometimes was a considered estimate; some might call it just an educated guess. He could understand Pearson’s hesitation; the old man had the responsibility of making a final decision. But decisions like this were part of a pathologist’s job—something you had to face up to and accept. Now Coleman added, “Of course, if you’re right and it is osteogenic sarcoma, it means amputation.”
“I know that!” It was said vehemently but without antagonism. Coleman sensed that however slipshod other things might be in the department, Pearson was too experienced a pathologist to object to an honest difference of opinion. Besides, both of them knew how delicate were the premises in any diagnosis. Now Pearson had crossed the room. Turning, he said fiercely, “Blast these borderline cases! I hate them every time they come up! You have to make a decision, and yet you know you may be wrong.”
Coleman said quietly, “Isn’t that true of a lot of pathology?”
“But who else knows it? That’s the point!” The response was forceful, almost passionate, as if the younger man had touched a sensitive nerve. “The public doesn’t know—nothing’s surer than that! They see a pathologist in the movies, on television! He’s the man of science in the white coat. He steps up to a microscope, looks once, and then says ‘benign’ or ‘malignant’—just like that. People think when you look in there”—he gestured to the microscope they had both been using—“there’s some sort of pattern that falls into place like building bricks. What they don’t know is that some of the time we’re not even close to being sure.”
David Coleman had often thought much the same thing himself, though without expressing it as strongly. The thought occurred to him that perhaps this outburst was something the old man had bottled up for a long time. After all, it was a point of view that only another pathologist could really understand. He interjected mildly, “Wouldn’t you say that most of the time we’re right?”
“All right, so we are.” Pearson had been moving around the room as he talked; now they were close together. “But what about the times we’re not right? What about this case, eh? If I say it’s malignant, Lucy Grainger will amputate; she won’t have any choice. And if I’m wrong, a nineteen-year-old girl has lost a leg for nothing. And yet if it is malignant, and there’s no amputation, she’ll probably die within two years.” He paused, then added bitterly, “Maybe she’ll die anyway. Amputation doesn’t always save them.”
This was a facet of Pearson’s make-up that Coleman had not suspected—the deep mental involvement in a particular case. There was nothing wrong in it, of course. In Pathology it was a good thing to remind yourself that a lot of the time you were dealing not merely with bits of tissue but with people’s lives which your own decisions could change for good or ill. Remembering that fact kept you on your toes and conscientious; that is—provided you were careful not to allow feelings to affect scientific judgment. Coleman, though so much younger, had already experienced some of the doubts which Pearson was expressing. His own habit was to keep them to himself, but that was not to say they troubled him less. Trying to help the older man’s thinking, he said, “If it is malignant, there isn’t any time to spare.”
“I know.” Again Pearson was thinking deeply.
“May I suggest we check some past cases,” Coleman said, “cases with the same symptoms?”
The old man shook his head. “No good. It would take too long.”
Trying to be discreet, Coleman persisted, “But surely if we checked the cross file . . .” He paused.
“We haven’t got one.” It was said softly, and at first Coleman wondered if he had heard aright. Then, almost as if to anticipate the other’s incredulity, Pearson went on, “It’s something I’ve been meaning to set up for a long time. Just never got around to it.”
Hardly believing what he had heard, “You mean . . . we can’t study any previous cases?”
“It would take a week to find them.” This time there was no mistaking Pearson’s embarrassment. “There aren’t too many just like this. And we haven’t that much time.”
Nothing that Pearson might have said could have shocked David Coleman quite so much as this. To him, and to all pathologists whom he had trained and worked with until now, the cross file was an essential professional tool. It
