Coma

When she rounded the edge of the building, the wind increased. An empty beer can tumbled past her into the street. The familiar rush hour sea of red taillights and wisps of exhaust fumes stretched as far as Susan could see. The windows on the cars were frosted, and they reflected the images about them with a silver sheen, giving the impression of the often white, unseeing pupils of the blind.

Susan began to run at a slow jog with an exaggerated to and fro roll of her body since her arms were pressed against herself. The main entrance to the hospital yawned in front of her, and with relief she pushed through the revolving door.

Susan stuffed her hat into the right sleeve of her coat and left it in the coatroom behind the main information desk. Then she used the hospital telephone directory and rang up the computer center.

“Hello, this is the accounting department,” said Susan slightly out of breath and struggling to make her voice sound normal. “Has Mr. Schwartz picked up his material yet?”

The answer was affirmative; he had collected it about five minutes earlier. The timing seemed perfect as far as Susan was concerned, and she left for the Hardy building elevator and the third floor accounting offices.

The evening accounting crew was a mere skeleton compared to the day shift. When Susan entered the room only three people were visible at the far end. Two men and one woman looked up in unison as Susan entered.

“Excuse me,” called Susan, approaching the group. “Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Schwartz?”

“Schwartz? Sure. He’s in the office in the corner,” said one of the men, pointing down the opposite side of the room.

Susan’s eyes followed his finger. “Thanks,” she said, reversing her direction.

Henry Schwartz was in the middle of the computer printout he had requested. The office was small but extraordinarily neat. The books in the bookcase were arranged so that their heights descended in an orderly fashion. The depth of the book backs in the shelves was one inch, no more, no less.

“Mr. Schwartz?” asked Susan smiling and walking up to his desk.

“Yes?” said Schwartz without removing his index finger from his place in the printout.

“It seems that my printout got mixed up with yours, or at least that was the combined opinion upstairs. I was wondering if you had noticed any material you had not requested?”

“No, but I haven’t looked through it all yet. What was it you’re missing?”

“It’s some information on coma we need for a section presentation. Do you mind if I see if it’s included with your material?”

“Not at all,” said Schwartz, lifting sections of the printout to find the break points.

“If it’s there, it would be the last section,” offered Susan. “They said it was run right after yours.”

Schwartz lifted the bulk of the material from the desk. Remaining was the information Susan needed. Attached to the top was her request form.

“That’s it,” said Susan.

“But the form indicates I requested it,” questioned Schwartz glancing at the request form.

“No wonder they got it mixed up with your material,” said Susan, reaching for the material. “But I assure you, you wouldn’t be interested in this stuff. And it’s certainly not your fault, by any means.”

“I’d better say something to George ...,” said Schwartz replacing his own printout in front of him.

“No need,” said Susan, exiting. “We already discussed it at length.”

Thanks a million.”

“You’re welcome,” said Schwartz, but Susan had already left.

“Susan, you are too much, really too much,” said Bellows between spoonfuls of custard he had taken from the tray of a patient who was too nauseated to eat. “You skip the lecture, afternoon rounds, and avoid your patients, and now you’re hanging around here until eight P.M. The only consistency about your performance so far is constant variation.”

Bellows laughed as he scraped the bottom of the custard cup.

Susan and Bellows were sitting in the lounge on Beard 5 where the hospital day had begun for Susan. She was sitting in the same seat she had occupied that morning. Spilling over onto the floor was the IBM

printout sheet she had obtained. She was running down the list of names and marking appropriate ones with a yellow felt-tip pen.

Bellows took a drink from his coffee.

“Well, that proves it,” said Susan, putting the cap on the pen.

“Proves what?” asked Bellows.

“Proves that there haven’t been six cases of unexplained coma, excluding Berman, here at the Memorial this last year.”

“Hurray,” cheered Bellows, toasting with his coffee mug. “Now I can stop worrying about anesthesia and have my hemorrhoids fixed.”

“I would recommend that you stick to your suppositories,” said Susan, counting the names she’d marked. “There haven’t been six because there’ve been eleven. And if Berman continues on his present course, then there will have been twelve.”

“Are you sure?” Bellows’s tone changed abruptly and he showed interest in the IBM printout sheet for the first time.