The surgeon

by Wilfred Charles Heinz

  "Oh," he said, opening his eyes. "It's you."

  "You're having some pain?"

  Finding the radial artery in the wrist with his middle and index fingers he felt the pulse, rapid.

  "It's starting up again now," Benjamin Davies said slowly. "It's no use."

  "I don't want to hear you talking like that," he said, still taking the pulse. "We're going to lick that pain, and you're going to start feeling much better."

  "It's no use," Benjamin Davies said, his breathing rapid and shallow. "No use."

  "I want you to listen to me," he said. "Are you listening to me?"

  He knew that Benjamin Davies was starting to subside now into that semicomatose state. He knew that, with his chest function reduced by his disease, Benjamin Davies's blood was inadequately oxygenated and so he was beginning to experience cerebral anoxia, like an aviator without an oxygen mask at 18,000 feet. It is compassionate Nature's own anesthesia, and now he wanted to give Benjamin Davies, if he could, just that small gift of hope to take into it with him.

  "Are you listening?" he said again. "Please listen to me."

  "Yes," Benjamin Davies said.

  "I want to tell you something, and I want you to understand me clearly. What you're going through now is the kind of crisis people used to go through in the old days of pneumonia. You've heard of that."

  "Yes," Benjamin Davies said.

  "The crisis occurs and then, suddenly, it's over. Your temperature will fall, your chest congestion will start to clear, you'll start to eat and you'll get your strength back. You can understand that."

  "I'd like to believe you, Doctor," Benjamin Davies said.

  "Of course you believe me. You know I'm a good doctor, and I've had other cases like yours and I know what I'm talking about. You're suffering now, but we're going to fix that pain in a moment and you're going to start feeling better."

  "I hope so," Benjamin Davies said.

  "Remember now. You know you don't get anything for nothing, but you've paid for your recovery through your suffering and now you'll start getting well. In fact, you and I will shoot a couple of rounds of golf next spring."

  "I hope so."

  "That's a date. Right now, though, the nurse is going to give you something for your pain, and I'll be back to see you later. All right?"

  "Thank you," Benjamin Davies said.

  "I'll see you later."

  Thank Nature, he thought, turning from him. Thank sympathetic, pitying, compassionate Nature and that small seed of undying hope that is there to be nourished.

  "Doctor?" the nurse said.

  "Oh, yes," he said, and he motioned and she followed him out into the hall. "Give him a quarter-grain of morphine. He should have it every three hours."

  "Would you mind writing that?"

  "I'll do it right now," he said, walking toward the nurses' station.

  "will you have a chance to talk with his wife and daughter?"

  "I'll do that right now, too."

  "Thank goodness," the nurse said.

  She found Benjamin Davies's chart on the rack and gave it to him. He opened the aluminum cover and wrote out the order on the first sheet, and handed it back to her.

  "Excuse me, Doctor," one of the young nurses said.

  It was the talker, the one who had been telling the other about Jackie Cooper and Hawaii.

  "Yes?"

  "A Dr. Morrison called for you."

  "Who?"

  "A Dr. Morrison. About Benjamin Davies. He left his number."

  "Oh, yes," he said, and then to the private-duty nurse: "After you've taken care of Mr. Davies, would you mind calling this Dr. Morrison? Tell him I'll be tied up all day, but he can reach me if he wants to at my office early this evening. He knows the patient is terminal, so you can tell him, if he asks, that it's my opinion he has about twenty-four hours to go. Tell him we're keeping him doped up now and that I'm talking with the family."

  'Yes, Doctor."

  He walked back down the hall, past Benjamin Davies's room, and turned left into the small lounge. Mrs. Davies and her daughter were alone in the room, sitting in the left corner, the blond wood comer table between them. The daughter was leaning toward her mother and talking.

  "Oh," Mrs. Davies said, seeing him and starting to stand up.

  "Please stay seated," he said, and he pulled another chair over and, facing them, sat down.

  "How is he now?" the daughter said.

  "The nurse is giving him something that will relieve his pain."

  "It's about time," the daughter said. "I don't know why she couldn't have done that sooner."

  "Don't blame her," he said. "She was merely following my orders."

  "Well, someone's to blame."

  Yes, he thought, and it's you and your mother. I should come right out and say it.

  "I don't think it's a matter of blaming anyone," he said. "Your father has been under sedation since he came in here, but both you and your mother have complained, first to the nurses and then to Dr. Robinson and then to me on the phone last night, that he was sleeping all the time."

  "I just wanted to talk with him," Mrs. Davies said, "but—"

  "After all," the daughter said, "I've come almost a thousand miles to see him, and I think I had a right to expect that he would recognize me and know that I was here."

  It's what the psychiatrists call morbid guilt, he was thinking, the culpability of the young who stray too far from the nest, and now she wants to take it out on all of us.

  "I agree that you had that right," he said, "and no harm has been done. We didn't take him off the sedation until early this morning, so when you saw him the pain was just beginning. Now we've taken care of that, and he's quite comfortable."

  "But Doctor," Mrs. Davies said, "I don't understand any of this. I don't understand what's the matter with him."

  "Well," he said, trying to find the right way, "as you can see, he's a very sick man. There isn't much we can do for him except to keep him comfortable."

  That isn't any good, he was thinking. Tell them and get this over with.

  "He has cancer," the daughter said. "Doesn't he?"

  Thank you, he thought. Thank you very much.

  "I'm afraid he has," he said.

  "Oh, no!" Mrs. Davies said, looking at him and blinking and the tears coming into her eyes. "Oh, no, Doctor!"

  "I told you," her daughter was saying to her, "I knew it right away, and I told you."

  Mrs. Davies was crying now, her handkerchief to her face. Her daughter got up and sat down on the sofa beside her and put her right arm around her mother's shoulders.

  "Please, Mrs. Davies," he said. "I'd like you to listen to me."

  "But why weren't we told?" the daughter said, looking at him. "We should have been told this."

  "Your father forbade me to tell you. He didn't want to worry your mother or you."

  "Then he knows?"

  "He's known for more than two years, since I operated on him."

  "Oh, no!" Mrs. Davies was saying, crying. "It was just some injury he got in football. That's what he said."

  "I know that's what he told you," he said.

  "But what are you doing for him?" the daughter said.

  "I'm afraid there isn't much we can do, except to see that he doesn't suffer."

  "But someone should be able to help him," the daughter said. "Can't someone else help him?"

  "I'm afraid not. You may, of course, call in anyone you want, but I'm afraid there's nothing anyone can do when the disease progresses to this point."

  "This is terrible," the daughter said.

  "I know it is," he said, and he reached over and took Mrs. Davies's hand. "I'm very sorry, and I'm concerned about you."

  "But what's going to happen now?" the daughter said. "I mean, how long do you think it will be?"

  "No physician is God," he said, "and I don't know. We don't believe it will be long, but we do know he's not suffering."

  "Now please, Moth
er," the daughter was saying.

  "Mrs. Davies," he said, "I'm going to send in a nurse to help you. Then I think you should go home and rest. You may come back later in the day, if you feel up to it."

  "Please, Mother," the daughter was saying.

  "I'm sorry," he said, releasing Mrs. Davies's hand and standing up. "I'm very sorry. I'll send the nurse."

  "You've got to stop this, Mother," the daughter was saying.

  He walked back to Benjamin Davies's room and opened the door.

  The nurse saw him and he motioned to her and she came out into the hall.

  "How is he?"

  "He's all right now. He's sleeping."

  "I'd like you to take a few minutes with his wife," he said. "She's pretty distraught, but I think she'll be all right. See if you can get her to go home."

  "Certainly, Doctor," the nurse said.

  "And don't forget to call that Dr. Morrison."

  "I have his number right here."

  "Good."

  At the nurses' station the Jackie Cooper fan was talking on the telephone. When she saw him she said something final into the phone and hung up.

  "I'd like you to call downstairs," he said, "and see if a Mrs. Louise Brower has checked in. B-r-o-w-e-r. I'll stop by again in a few minutes."

  "Yes, Doctor."

  "Thanks."

  He reached into his pocket and took out the page of memo paper and looked at the list.

  Mrs. Elizabeth Kirk, he thought, in 412. If her husband is here I might as well get that one over with, too.

  "Before you make that call," he said, "can you just reach over there and hand me the chart of Mrs. Elizabeth Kirk?"

  "Surely."

  "Thank you."

  The temperature is all right at 99.4, he thought. After all, it's less than twenty hours since I opened her. The pulse is fast at 96, but she has a good heart and I took nothing but the rib out, so her oxygenating power is not responsible. Probably the morphine was wearing off. Her respiration is a little rapid at 24 because it hurts her to breathe deeply right now so she breathes shallow, but at 120 over 80 her blood pressure is normal.

  "Patient unable to keep fluids down because of nausea," he read, scanning the nurse's notes. "On complaint of pain Pantopon gr. ⅓ given." . . . "Patient sleeping quietly." . . . "Color good." . . . "Pulse strong." . . . "Patient's position changed from back to right side." . . . "Patient awake. Deep breathing and coughing encouraged."

  "They're not answering at Admissions, Doctor," the nurse was saying."I don't know what's wrong with them. Honestly, I sometimes wonder—"

  "Try them in a few minutes," he said. "I'll be back."

  9:22 A.M.

  VI

  Maybe I'll recognize this Roger Kirk when I see him, he thought, walking back down the hall, but I doubt it. Marion sees them all and she says he's the best in his business. She says the rest of these newscasters are just voice boxes; that their facial expressions never change whether they're telling you about fifty people being killed in a plane crash or about the Easter-egg-rolling on the White House lawn. Marion says that at least this Roger Kirk seems to be aware of what he's saying.

  "Good morning," he said.

  "Oh, hello," Roger Kirk said. He was sitting beside the bed, and he stood up.

  "I'm Dr. Carter."

  I recognize him now, he thought. Now I remember seeing him.

  "I'm glad to meet you, Doctor," Roger Kirk said, smiling and shaking hands.

  "It's nice to meet you. How's our patient?"

  "She seems to be doing pretty well, Doctor."

  "Good," he said, turning to Mrs. Kirk. "So you're enjoying your vacation?"

  She was a rather petite blonde, with a square face and blue eyes. She was resting on her right side.

  "Not exactly," she said, smiling back at him.

  "I didn't hurt you too much, did I?" he said, taking her pulse and feeling it strong.

  "I don't know. I don't feel much like moving around to see."

  "You'll be up and moving around again in a couple of days. What we want you to do now is to breathe as deeply as you can and cough when you have to. That's the way you'll cleanse your lungs."

  "I'll try."

  "We also want to get you to drink something."

  "I've tried that, but it didn't stay down."

  "It will now, and we've got an excellent list of wines and spirits. There aren't any sparkling Burgundies or scotches or bourbons, but you can have orange juice or ginger ale or liquid Jellos in any flavor. You can even have a malted milk."

  "It all sounds terrible."

  "What you probably want to do is just take a nap."

  "That's all I want to do. I feel dopey."

  "You go right ahead and take your nap. The nurse will give you a little liquid later. You'll be able to keep it down, and it might even taste good to you,"

  "The nurse will be right back," Roger Kirk said. "She just went out for a couple of minutes."

  "I'm back now, Doctor," the nurse said.

  "Fine," he said, and then to Mrs. Kirk: "We're going to let you sleep now, and Dr. Robinson will be in to see you this afternoon."

  "Thank you, Doctor," Mrs. Kirk said.

  "Thank you for being such a good patient," he said.

  "Do you have a moment?" Roger Kirk said.

  "Certainly," he said, and then to the nurse: "I think she'll be ready for some liquids when she wakes up. Let's keep encouraging her on that deep breathing, too."

  "Yes, Doctor."

  Roger Kirk followed him to the door. He was in his mid-thirties, of slightly less than medium height but with a good, square, mannish jaw and live eyes and a facile expression. He was beautifully tailored in a conservative dark gray suit and wearing a tab-collared white shirt and a plain dark blue tie carefully knotted with the cleft just below the knot.

  "My wife is an admirer of yours," he said to Roger Kirk, walking him down the hall toward the window at the end. They were passing the lounge and he glanced in and saw the nurse sitting where he had been sitting and Mrs. Benjamin Davies drinking a glass of water and her daughter still sitting next to her and watching her.

  I'm having a great morning, he thought. I got up actually looking forward to that Mr. Scheller because I know I can do that vena cava and cure him, and I never will learn how to do this business well. It's impossible to do it well.

  "That's always nice to hear," Roger Kirk was saying.

  "Being a doctor's wife," he said, "she has a lot of time alone to read the books and watch the television that I can never find time for."

  "I think you doctors lead the most demanding lives of our time."

  "We're too busy, but I guess it's always been that way," he said stopping at the window and looking down at the street but registering nothing he saw outside.

  I am always bringing them to this window, he had often thought, bringing them to the lounge sometimes but so often to this window or the ones above or below it. I have told so many at the window.

  "I was sorry not to be here last evening," Roger Kirk was saying, "but I have to do those two news shows now."

  "I know," he said. "Your wife would have been sleeping anyway."

  "I would have been here, though," Roger Kirk said, and then: "What I'm anxious to know now is what you found. Did everything go as you hoped it would?"

  "No," he said. "I'm sorry to say it didn't."

  "Why? What happened?"

  "Well, you'll probably remember that Dr. Robinson told you on the phone what we were hoping to do."

  "That's right," Roger Kirk said, looking right at him.

  "The X-rays showed several small shadows in the right lung. As Dr. Robinson said, we were hoping to remove the lung, but when we made our incision and explored the adjacent areas we found the disease had spread too far. It had spread all over the pleura—that's the covering over the lung—and down onto the diaphragm, which is the partition that separates the chest from the abdomen."

  "Then it's canc
er?" Roger Kirk said, still looking at him.