Doctors (64 page)

When Seth reached the on-call room about fifteen minutes later, the air was thick as London fog. Bluestone must have been smoking two at a time, he thought to himself.

Seth handed Tim a pen and a document. Tim glanced at it mutely.

“Just sign it, Bluestone, will you?” Seth urged.

“You list cause of death as Massive Cerebral Infarct.”

“So? That’s perfectly correct.”

Tim looked at Seth, his facial muscles frozen, and said, “You know damn well
I
was the cause of death.”

“Listen, Bluestone, there isn’t a doctor in the world who hasn’t lost a patient by human error—especially if he’s been without sleep as long as you have. That certificate tells the truth.” Seth paused and then conceded, “It just doesn’t tell the whole truth.”

Tim stared at the senior resident with gratitude. “Thanks, Seth, I’ll never forget this.”

For a few moments neither of them spoke. Then Tim asked haltingly, “Tell me, Seth, have you ever killed a patient—I mean, by mistake?”

Seth weighed his answer carefully, and replied, “I told you. We all do.”

Barney’s career—as well as his mood—was definitely on the rise. He used what seemed to him a princely advance from Bill Chaplin as a down payment on an apartment in Gainsborough House, where from his living room window he could survey his massive front lawn—otherwise known as Central Park.

Moreover, he spent almost every elevator ride in the company of a noted writer, artist, or musician. He still could not believe his career had reached such heights, and the little boy in him was often tempted to ask his ninth-floor neighbor to hum a few bars of whatever it was she was currently singing at the Met.

“Great news!”

“It damn well better be for a call at midnight.”

Barney, who had been working late into the night writing up patients’ notes, had just dozed off when Bill Chaplin’s phone call awakened him.

“Listen,” Bill said excitedly. “I’ve just had dinner tonight with the top enchilada at
Sports Illustrated.
Last week I sent them your Jackie Robinson chapter—and they want to print it in their big April baseball issue—to show how things have changed. Barney, you’ve no idea what this could mean.”

“But Bill, my chapter’s much too long—”

“Of course, they’ll cut it, old boy. And don’t worry. I’ve made sure you’ve got the right to approve the final abridgment.”

“Great, Bill, great,” replied Barney. “But do you mind if I go to bed now? I’ve got my first patient at six-forty-five in the morning.”

“That’s really New York for you, isn’t it, Barney?” Bill enthused. “People go bananas every hour of the day. Well, here’s a thought for you to sleep on: When this book is published, you are going to
happen.
”

Barney was too tired even to care about “happening.” “Good night, Bill, and pleasant dreams.”

“I never dream,” Bill answered parenthetically. “I’ve got these great red pills that make my mind a total blank.”

“Terrific,” Barney said in valediction. And as he hung up thought, Good luck, Chaplin. When your brain turns into Silly Putty you’ll be really glad you hooked yourself on Seconal.

Lance Mortimer was probably the only man in Los Angeles who could keep an entire room convulsed with laughter without having to tell a single joke.

He had found that one of the many advantages of choosing Anesthesiology as a specialty is that it can get you invited to a lot of “A-list” Beverly Hills parties that might otherwise be above your station. Even his father, a highly successful screen-writer, had never been so honored by the upper echelons of Hollywood society. Lance’s special appeal as a guest was that he would show up, not only with two beautiful girls, but with a tank.

That is, a tank of nitrous oxide—colloquially known as laughing gas.

Lance had chosen to become an anesthesiologist only after careful investigation and intense deliberation.

First he eliminated the really “chain-gang” alternatives. Like Obstetrics, for instance. Who wants to get up in the middle of the night? But for that matter, who wants to go to other people’s houses for anything but a party? So that meant Internal Medicine was out, too.

And Surgery was too damn much hard work. And the responsibility too heavy a trip.

At one point Dermatology held his favor. First of all, that specialist does not get called up at ungodly hours. Or lose a patient. Or need to memorize a large pharmacopoeia. As Lance saw it, you either give the patient cortisone or penicillin. Or if you are less imaginative (and less acquisitive), simply tell the patient that the skin disorder is most likely to clear up on its own.

And there was dough in Dermatology: one guy he knew of had converted his Beverly Hills office into five separate
miniconsulting rooms, each no bigger than a broom closet. He would dart from booth to booth, casting his eyes—and sometimes a magnifying glass—upon the rash, or wart, or other symptom. He’d then make an instant diagnosis and say something short and charming to the patient. Thereafter a nurse would give out all the forms and the prescriptions—and make another follow-up appointment for the next week.

The only problem, Lance decided, was that Dermatology was boring. Seeing minor variations of the same rash a hundred times a week would be like having to look at a single painting all the time. If you were forced to stare at it hours on end, day after day, even Mona Lisa’s smile would get on your nerves.

Next case: Urology. Recent studies in
Medical Economics
showed that genito-urologists now led the league in the crucial area of bucks per annum. Here again you never had to make a house call. That was good. The ratio of customers per hour was also good. And, like Dermatology, you never lost a patient. (For if you did detect something like cancer, you immediately referred the carcinoma to a surgeon or oncologist.)

But then, Lance told himself, the work was hard. And the responsibility considerable. You’d have to keep up with the literature, master new techniques, and generally take your practice seriously. Moreover, some of your patients really would be sick—might even die (albeit on someone else’s operating table). And the notion of spending the day looking into people’s private parts with a cystoscope was not exactly thrilling.

The task of an anesthesiologist seemed to him far more attractive: to reduce his patient to a cozy state of muscle relaxation, induce a peaceful slumber, and to keep his breathing stable. Meanwhile, at the other end of the table the surgeon—under constant stress—painstakingly cuts and slices, grafts and sews, always risking danger. And if the operation fails, the surgeon nearly always gets the blame.

All the while the friendly “gas-passer” just checks his dials to balance breathing and blood pressure. Then when the operation is successful and the patient wakes, he overflows with gratitude for his new gift of life.

What’s more, Anesthesiology pays very well. Its hours are flexible. The patients are in no condition to complain or contradict or even question you. And if you choose, you can arrange a schedule that gives you maximum free time to live a normal, wealthy life.

And get invited to the A-list parties for your charm—and nitrous oxide.

Barney’s days were now so busy he had half-forgotten that
SI
was going to publish his Jackie Robinson chapter. One Saturday morning in late February, on his return from spending two hours with a patient who had called in mortal panic the night before, he was just changing into his sweats to jog out some of the pain he had absorbed by osmosis, when the phone rang.

“Hello, Dr. Livingston, sorry to bother you on a Saturday, my name’s Emily Greenwood. I’m with
Sports Illustrated.
I guess you know why I’m calling.”

“Oh, sure, your magazine’s amputating—or should I say ‘editing’ the chapter from my book.”

“Let’s put it this way: We have to cut, but we don’t necessarily have to mutilate. Would it be convenient if I brought our proposed text to your apartment today? We’re sort of racing a deadline.”

“How much time do I have?”

“Well,” she hesitated and replied apologetically, “since this is ‘soft’ news it has a long lead time. In other words, we go to press on Monday.”

“What? That’s ridiculous!” (“Soft,” yet!)

“Please, Dr. Livingston, we’re a news magazine and your piece has to go in when it’s slotted. Besides, I think you’ll be pleased with the way it’s been cut.”

“Well, in that case, could you have it messengered over to me?”

“No problem, it’ll be there in half an hour,” she replied.

Barney went to his desk, pulled out his copy of the chapter, and began to reread what he had written months ago.

Twenty-five minutes later the bell rang. He opened the door to a petite young woman with large brown eyes and short reddish-brown hair.

“Hi, I’m Emily Greenwood. Are you the good doctor?”

“That’s me,” Barney replied, trying to hide his disappointment at being regarded as a second-class writer who had to make do with an editorial assistant.

“I’ve got the manuscript,” she said cheerily, holding up a manila envelope.

“Great—uh—would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?”

“Well,” she replied, smiling, “I guess I’ll have to—that is, unless you want to go over my edits in your hallway.”

“
You’re
my editor?” he exclaimed.

“You bet. I wouldn’t have let any of my assistants go near this. I think it’s a great piece.”

Flattery—if it was that—smoothed Barney’s ruffled feathers.

“Come in … come in,” he said, motioning with an exaggerated bow. “Why don’t you get set at what I grandiosely call my dining table while I boil some water?”

“Fine,” Emily replied, entering Barney’s living room. Piles of clothing were scattered everywhere, each suggesting the end of a specific activity—running pants and jogging shoes, assorted socks and a squash racket, etc.

“I hope you don’t mind instant,” he called out from the kitchen alcove.

“You’re the doctor,” she replied agreeably.

In no time he was back with two mugs of coffee, and as he set them down on the table, remarked, “I guess I owe you an apology.”

“Don’t worry, it happens all the time. Everybody takes me for my own secretary—it must be my childish enthusiasm for sports. But why shouldn’t a woman be the next Grantland Rice? I believe in what Virginia Woolf said about the ‘androgynous mind.’ ”

Apt allusion, Barney thought—and responded by indicating that he knew the source.

“ ‘A Room of One’s Own’ was really a landmark essay for women writers. And there’s plenty of clinical data that each of us needs some of the qualities of the opposite sex to be able to function creatively.”

“Well,” said Emily, “I’m not exactly Virginia Woolf.”

“That’s okay,” he replied, “I’m not exactly Sigmund Freud.”

“Fine.” She smiled. “Now that we’ve exchanged mutual expressions of humility, let’s put on the gloves and start fighting over the cuts.”

And fight they did. To Barney every excision felt like an incision.

“Emily, no, no, that’s ‘the most unkindest cut of all.’ ”

“C’mon, Barney,” she countered, “we’ve got to make the focal point Robinson’s gut feelings on that very first day in the major leagues. Don’t you agree?” She gazed at him with those wide brown eyes.

“Frankly, Emily,” Barney confessed, “you keep looking at me like that and I’ll end up letting you cut the whole damn thing in exchange for your phone number.”

“C’mon,” she chided like a miniature football coach, “let’s get this over with.”

“Listen, Em—you don’t mind if I call you Em?”

“Not at all—it’s the first letter in mother, so I’m sure it must have some psychological significance for you. But don’t tell me until we finish the job. Now I suggest we start when Robinson first walks into Branch Rickey’s office. I think that’s the most astonishing part.”

“How so?”

“I mean, I don’t know about you, but everybody’s recollection of Jackie in that first incredible year—when they were throwing insults at him from the bleachers and baseballs at his head from the mound—was that he was above it all. He seemed so noble that he never felt rage or the urge to retaliate.”

“That’s what I thought, too. And it really knocked me out when he told me that Rickey actually made him swear an oath to lock up his emotions for three whole seasons. Only a saint could have kept his cool for all that time.”

It took them less than an hour to extract what Barney had to admit was better than his own original chapter. Jesus, she was bright.

And not bad-looking, either.

No, no, stop lying to yourself, she’s pretty, Barney admitted to himself. In fact, she’s very pretty. Goddamn, a girl like that must have a boyfriend for sure. Better not risk asking her to dinner or we could ruin our editorial relationship.

“Now,” said Emily, as she closed her notebooks with a dramatic slap, “I hope you’ll give me the pleasure of your company for a late lunch at the restaurant of your choice.”

“
You’re
inviting
me
?” he asked.

“Well, let’s say I’m inviting—and the magazine is paying. So give your appetite free rein.”

“Okay then, how about The 21 Club?”

“Then ’21’ it is. I know the Kriendler boys, so if it’s okay, I’ll just use your phone to tell them we’re on our way.”

It was indeed late, even for a Saturday afternoon, and the upstairs room was filled mostly with waiters clearing tables.

Seated in a corner table, oblivious to all else, was a pair of sports freaks trying to top one another with recondite reminiscences of the Brooklyn Dodgers. Emily accepted Barney’s challenge, and he began testing her knowledge by demanding she identify the players by their uniform numbers.

“One—”

“Pee Wee Reese, shortstop—good glove, so-so bat, lifetime average .261.”

“Four.”

“Edwin ‘Duke’ Snider—center fielder, long ball hitter, best season 136 RBIs.”

“Six.”

“Carl ‘The Reading Rifle’ Furillo—right field, greatest throwing arm in baseball—lifetime batting average .299, led the league in ’53 with a .344.”

Their game ended in a tie, each having scored all hits and no errors. Then, just as they were moving from numerals to topics requiring verbs, a thought occurred to Barney.