“Not obsequious, Janet. Respectful is the word. In respect for her professional knowledge and standing, you follow her orders meticulously, listen carefully to all she says, refraining from comment or retort if you don’t agree. You accept her criticism gracefully, knowing it’s for your own benefit eventually.”
“Maybe I just can’t do that,” Janet said miserably. “When she says something contemptuous or unjust, I feel like fighting back.”
“Why? What’s more important? Asserting yourself against your supervisor when you disagree, or perfecting yourself in your chosen career? What Miss Andrews thinks about you or says to you is really of little consequence compared with your whole future, isn’t it? Janet, before you make a decision that you might regret, I want you to go through that door into the little private office and write out two lists for me. Here—”
She handed her a pencil and two sheets of paper.
“On this page list all the reasons you’ve ever considered for wanting to be a nurse. On the other sheet list all your reasons for wanting to quit. Then bring your lists to me.”
The little office was hardly more than a cubbyhole, a desk and chair at one side, the walls lined with books and files. Janet sat down at the desk and labeled the top sheet, “Why I want to become a nurse.” Then she laid the pencil down and sat back to think.
She had admired the nurses who took care of baby Linda after that bout with rheumatic fever, and she’d thought how wonderful it would be to serve like that. She had joined the Candy Stripe volunteers because it gave her an opportunity to feel she was easing the suffering of the sick, offering a valued and needed service. Was that when she’d decided to make it her life work?
No—the urge had still been nebulous and transitory then. She hadn’t really considered it seriously until the summer after graduation from high school when she’d had to make a decision of some sort.
Her mother was urging her to go to an exclusive finishing school to prepare for life as the wife of some man in their social group, preferably Allan Hargrove, who was courting her, and with whom she felt herself mildly in love. He was a young investment broker in her father’s office, member of a good family, approved as a suitor by both her parents.
I want to do something important, she thought; not just to keep occupied, but to make my life count for something. I want to be a nurse and take care of sick people. Help them get well. Ease their suffering. Assist the doctors in performing their medical miracles. Be a part of the exciting, mysterious, consequential world of the hospital where the human body, the most important thing in the world, really, is given the attention it needs to be kept in good running order, mentally, physically, and—yes, spiritually.
Her parents had been both amazed and amused at her decision.
“Janet, you don’t want to be a nurse!” her mother had urged. “It won’t be like pampering a few patients as a Candy Striper! You’ll have to do awful things!” She shuddered. “And the drudgery will be more than you can take. Why, you’ve never made a bed or washed a dish at home—we’ve had servants to clean up after you. As a nurse you’d have to make hundreds of beds, and bathe all sorts of dirty people, empty bedpans and emesis basins, and listen to people whine about their aches and pains!”
“I know all that,” Janet had insisted. “Drudgery doesn’t scare me—and it’s only a small part of a nurse’s job. I’ve been in hospitals enough to know it’s the only life I really want.”
Considering it a whim, her parents consented to the preparatory years of college, then tried to dissuade her again before she actually entered training. They wouldn’t be surprised—in fact, they might be highly pleased to see her come limping, home—a failure.
By the time she got that far in her thinking, Janet found she had scribbled on both sides of one sheet, and spilled over onto the second. She turned that page over and wrote on the top, “Why I want to quit nurses’ training.” Under that she made a single entry: Miss Andrews.
She was serene again as she laid both sheets on Mrs. Burns’ desk. “You might as well throw these in the wastebasket,” she said. “They’ve served their purpose. I won’t let Miss Andrews buffalo me out of finishing my course. No matter what she says, I’ll keep my mouth shut and resolve that someday I’m going to be a better nurse and a better supervisor than she is!”
Mrs. Burns stood up and laid a friendly arm across the girl’s shoulder. “I’m so glad, Janet. I was sure that if you thought it over seriously you had too much spunk to be tripped up by the first obstacle you had to hurdle. I want you to go put on your uniform now and apologize to Miss Andrews for leaving her short-handed. Tell her you’re ready to make up for the lost time—no matter how many punitive hours she requires.”
It wasn’t easy, and Miss Andrews did nothing to make it easier. When Janet had recited the brief little apology she had composed and memorized, Miss Andrews snorted and said, “You don’t sound very penitent to me. Let’s hear you go through that again—as if you really mean it.”
Rebellion was suffocating pressure against her ribs, pushing up to her throat, but she swallowed it and said, in as humble a tone as she could muster, “I behaved badly, Miss Andrews. I did something I knew was against the rules, because I was in a hurry and I felt sorry for the boy—but that’s no excuse. I’ll never do such a thing again, or anything else I know is strictly taboo. I won’t leave the floor again without permission, either. I know that was inexcusable, no matter how upset I was at the moment. I’ll try harder to do my work competently, and not take offense at criticism. Right now I want to go back to work and make up for the time I’ve cost you.”
“All right, Miss Raleigh, I’ll have to accept that.” She looked as if she hated to, Janet thought. She looked angry, and somehow chagrinned, as if she’d hoped she had seen the last of an unsatisfactory student.
“I had to call for an extra nurse to replace you,” Miss Andrews went on. “You must have known it would be necessary. I’ve put Miss Carruthers on treatments for today, and turned her patients over to the extra. Since the bed baths and medications are taken care of for the day, I’ll give you a job that has needed attention for some time. Take all the bedpans and urinals from the patients’ stands, scrub, and sterilize them in the lavatory. Take them one by one, and have the patients use them first whenever possible.”
Scrubbing bedpans isn’t a nurse’s job, Janet reflected furiously as she got to work. She’s just trying to rub my nose in it so I’ll quit!
But I’ll do it! she vowed. She can’t make me quit again!
Chapter 8
Elwood Browne had asked for a conference on Arnold Crane after the lab and X-ray reports were completed. He and Dr. Matthews were studying the films which Dr. Meadows, the radiologist, was flashing, one after another, on the lighted viewer.
“Good morning, doctors,” the radiologist said as David and Dr. Ross entered. “We’ve been comparing yesterday’s films with those made before the laparotomy. We’ll go through them again now. You’ll notice that they’re quite similar,” There were greetings all around, then the doctors turned their attention to the series of films, Dr. Meadows explaining each one.
“What do you think, Stan?” Dr. Browne asked when the radiologist had finished. “There’s still only a suggestion of some infiltration at the right base. There was that much in the films before the laparotomy—and we found no abscess.”
“I think you’re overlooking something,” David said. “May we see that film of the diaphragm again, Dr. Meadows?”
When it had been lighted on the viewer, David pointed to the juncture of the portal vein with the fiver. “It’s my contention you’ll find the trouble right there,” he said firmly. “Remember, the pain was in the upper right quadrant. He’s not my patient, but if he were, I’d make a small incision about three inches above the old one, and look for an abscess in the portal vein or the right lobe, or part of both. I’ve se
en it happen like this before.”
Dr. Matthews was studying the film intently. “He may be right, Elwood,” he said, rubbing his chin. “There’s a slight shadow—it could mean…”
“How can there be an abscess?” Browne expostulated.
“They used to be fairly common after ruptured appendix, I grant you, or after any other infected organ dumped pus into the peritoneum. But with all the antibiotics we’ve given-penicillin, aureomycin, terramycin—I told you peritonitis was controlled quickly.”
David faced the antagonism in Browne’s eyes with stubborn calm, still sure in his own mind that he was right. “I suppose you’ve taken into consideration the tendency of bacteria to develop an immunity to the various antibiotics?”
“Of course we have,” Browne snapped contemptuously, his round face flushed. “That’s why we’ve switched to a different antibiotic each time the symptoms recurred.”
“But meanwhile sufficient bacteria could have escaped to wall themselves off in an abscess and propagate wildly, immune now to almost any antibiotic you could use. The only way to clear it up is to incise and drain.”
Browne turned to Dr. Matthews, his small mouth pouting. “I’m not ready to take the responsibility of opening that abdomen again. His relatives are on my neck already because his recovery has been so slow in spite of two trips to surgery. If you think another laparotomy is advisable, I wish you would do it yourself.”
“All right,” Dr. Matthews agreed, smoothing his sparse gray hair back with a lean hand. “I’d like for you and Dr. Sterling both to assist. And we should do it right away. If Dr. Sterling’s diagnosis is correct, we’ve delayed too long already. So, if you have nothing urgent on tap for the next couple of hours…?”
They nodded, and he went to the desk phone. “I’ll tell Miss Preston to prepare for emergency surgery. And I’m going to order whole blood transfusions before and after. That boy’s anemic.”
“In fact,” Dr. Browne said bitterly through his pinched little mouth, “he’s not in condition for surgery at all.”
* * * *
David felt as if he were on trial for his life as he stood at the sink scrubbing his hands and arms up to his elbows with antiseptic soap and a hard brush. The nurse helped him don the sterile gown and rubber gloves.
His heart jolted as he saw Cyril Claibourne come in wearing a green surgery suit and start scrubbing.
“You—are you going to assist, too?” David exclaimed.
“Oh, no.” Dr. Claibourne’s white mustache lifted as he grinned broadly. “I think everybody on staff is interested in the outcome of this case. I asked Stan if I could scrub in as observer. With you and Elwood assisting, he won’t need my help.”
So I really am on trial, David thought soberly. There was no doubt in his mind as to why Dr. Claibourne was scrubbing in. He’d heard about the disagreement between David and the surgeon earmarked to replace Matthews, and wanted a first hand view of the outcome.
If my diagnosis is wrong, I’m sunk, he thought. And if this third operation is too much for the patient—if there’s no abscess to justify it, and he doesn’t survive, I’m as washed up here as I ever was back home after that abominable damage suit.
But I’m not wrong this time, he told himself stoutly. There’s got to be an abscess! The patient was already on the table, anesthetized. The anesthetist was listening through a stethoscope, the assisting nurses bustled around the brilliant circle of light in the center of the room. David took his place across the operating table from Browne and Matthews. The operational area had been painted with crimson antiseptic. Dr. Matthews called for the scalpel.
He made a neat incision through the skin, his gloved hand firm and steady. David ceased conscious thinking, becoming an automaton who manipulated hemostats to clamp off each vein as the surgeon severed it. There was very little fatty tissue in the boy’s torso, and for a split second David wondered at the bulge of yellow that pressed upward through the wound, before the thin layer of the peritoneum was dissected.
Then he knew. It was pus. Walled off as yet, but under such pressure that an injudicious puncture now could send it spurting. He glanced at Matthews and met the same knowledge in the keen blue eyes above the mask.
“Suction ready?” Matthews asked, and as Ann Preston nodded he went on, “We’ll need more hot wet towels—and the patient had better have oxygen, Mac. Dr. Sterling, I’ll handle the suction if you’ll make the smallest incision feasible, and Dr. Browne, please be ready to incise deeper after we’ve relieved the pressure. Now.”
David took the small blade scalpel from the instrument nurse and waited as Matthews adjusted the tip of the small glass tube of the suction machine. He heard the click of the valve as the anesthetist gave oxygen, noted the slurping sound of the suction machine, and laid the thin blade gently against the pulsing yellow bulge within the ring of hemo-stats.
For long moments the room was tense with activity as the bulk of suppuration was drawn out, then the infected area cleaned, the small slit in the portal vein repaired with tiny guy sutures. After that came the long tedious, anti-climactic job of finishing up.
“I’m going to leave that to you two,” Matthews told David and Dr. Browne. “And I want to comment you both for the excellent teamwork. We were lucky that no more of the liver tissue was involved, with its load of blood vessels so susceptible to hemorrhage.” He turned to the anesthetist. “How’s the patient, Mac?”
“Excellent. Almost better than when you started, I’d say. I discontinued oxygen some time ago.”
“Good—but he’d better have a post-op transfusion, just for insurance. I’ll see you doctors later.” He peeled off his mask and gloves as he left the room.
David felt the tension draining out of him as he put on his street clothes in the doctors’ room. Elwood Browne had tendered grudging congratulations with a forced heartiness that fooled nobody as he lauded a diagnosis he called nothing less than brilliant. Dr. Matthews had commended him warmly, the quiet respect in his eyes more gratifying even than his words. Now only Claibourne was left in the room with him.
“I suppose you know how I feel about this, David,” he said. “I’ve been telling Stan for a long time that Browne wasn’t his man, and I hope this will help to prove it. Of course, Stan Matthews doesn’t have the final say as to who’ll replace him when he retires, but his recommendation will go along the Board.”
“I’m not out of the woods yet,” David said modestly. “This is only one instance. I may give the mistaken diagnosis next time. I’m not infallible.”
“Who is? Doctors are human, too. But I wasn’t thinking only about your diagnosis—and the stubborn way you clung to it against disagreement. You were magnificent during surgery. When Matthews commended the teamwork, his eyes were on you.”
“Oh, Browne did his share, too!”
“Of course. But we already knew what Browne could do. Since you’re here on my recommendation—and Graham’s, of course—I’m happy that you came through with flying colors today. Incidentally, are you still staying with Graham and Coralee?”
“Up to now, yes. But I understand my car is ready for delivery this afternoon, so I’m moving my stuff to my own place right away.”
“I see. Well, don’t forget to change your address on the clinic and hospital records.” He paused and regarded David thoughtfully, chewing at his white mustache.
“I’ve been wondering, David—what do you think of Coralee?”
David pulled on his jacket and adjusted his tie, wondering how he was supposed to answer that. “I think she’s beautiful,” he said cautiously, “and would be more so if her voice matched. As a person, however, I wouldn’t stack her up against Mildred at all.”
“You knew Mildred quite well?”
David shrugged and smiled. “As well as a teenage boy would know the wife of a good friend several years older. I admired them
both and thought they were an ideal couple.”
“So did everyone, until Coralee came along. I feel responsible in a way. The poor kid was down and out when she called on me for treatment. She’d married some rotter, thinking he could help her get into the movies after everything else had failed. When she got sick he abandoned her in a motel here, no money, no food, and weeks of back rent due along with stacks of other bills. Then it turned out he’d married her without bothering to get a divorce from a former wife.
“For a while the girl didn’t seem to care whether she lived or died. I think what she hated most was facing the necessity of crawling back home a failure, broke and in debt. So, when I found she could type, and one of our girls quit, I gave her a job in the clinic. It never occurred to me she’d break up the home of one of my best friends. Though actually, I guess their infatuation was as much Graham’s fault as hers. Maybe more. You could hardly blame the girl for accepting all he offered, after what she’d been through. It was a measure of success—and I think she’s really fond of him too, in spite of the disparity in age. And of course, he worships her.”
“Why are you telling me this?” David asked wonderingly.
Dr. Claibourne sighed and started again for the door. “You’d learn most of the details eventually. I thought the sooner you comprehend the whole situation, the better. She was asking me some questions about you the other day, with just a little too much interest, I thought. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to your budding career here.”
He smiled and went on out.
Chapter 9
So I’m being warned off, David thought, lighting a cigarette and drawing on it thoughtfully. Had he betrayed any emotion over Coralee himself, or was it simply Coralee’s interest that had alerted Dr. Claibourne?
David tried to think back to the few times Claibourne had seen him in Coralee’s presence. There’s been the time when she had come to the clinic to meet Graham, and they’d all inspected the progress on David’s new offices. And there’d been dinner one night when Dr. Claibourne and his wife, Julia, had joined them in the Burns’ spacious dining room. On both occasions, as well as at any time that Coralee was with Graham, she had played the devoted wife so convincingly that not even Graham could have felt the least uneasiness.
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