Coma

The coffee room could have been anywhere in the hospital. The coffee machine was an ancient device, the paint on one side burned and the wire frayed to the point of being a real hazard. The countertop desk along both side walls was spread with charts, paper, books, coffee cups, and a welter of ballpoint pens.

“That was quick,” said the resident who had been staining the slides. He was sitting at one of the desks, with a half-filled cup of coffee and a half-eaten doughnut. He was busy signing a large stack of typed pathology reports.

“Autopsies are apparently too much for me,” admitted Susan.

“You get used to it, like everything else,” said the resident, stuffing more doughnut into his mouth.

“Possibly. Where would I look for the charts of the patients they are posting?”

The resident washed down the doughnut with coffee, swallowing with some effort.

“In that shelf marked ‘Post.’ When you finish with them, put them over there in the shelf marked ‘Medical Records’ because we’re finished with them.”

Turning to the rear wall, Susan faced a series of cubic shelves. One of the shelves was marked “Post.” On it she found Ferrer’s and Crawford’s charts. Clearing one of the desks of debris, Susan sat down and took out her notebook. At the top of an empty page she wrote, “Crawford,” on the top of another page she wrote, “Ferrer.” Methodically she began to extract the charts as she had done with Nancy Greenly’s.

Tuesday, February 24, 8:05 A.M.

Susan had found it unbelievably difficult to emerge from the warmth and comfort of her bed when the radio alarm went off the following morning.

The fact that it was a Linda Ronstadt selection was a big help in that it caused some degree of pleasant association in Susan’s mind and instead of turning the radio off, she lay there and let the sounds and rhythm course through her. By the time the song was over Susan was fully awake, her mind beginning to race over the events of the previous day.

The night before, at least until three A.M., had been passed in deep concentration with the large pile of journal articles, the books on anesthesiology, her own internal medicine book, and her clinical neurology text. She had amassed an enormous amount of notes, and her bibliography had increased to some one hundred articles that she planned to drag from the library stacks. The project had become more complex, more demanding, yet at the same time more fascinating, more absorbing. As a consequence Susan had become even more determined, and she realized that she was going to have to accomplish a great deal that day.

Shower, dressing, and breakfast were dispatched with commendable speed. During breakfast, she reread some of her notes, realizing that she would have to reread the last few articles she had read the night before.

The walk to the MBTA stop on Huntington Avenue proved to Susan that the weather had not changed and she cursed the fact that Boston had to be situated so far north. With luck she found a seat on the aging street car and was able to unfold a portion of her IBM printout. She wanted to check once more the number of cases which it suggested.

“Good to see you, Susan. Don’t tell me you’re going to go to lecture today?”

Susan looked up into the grinning face of George Niles, who was holding on to the bar above her head.

“I’d never miss lecture, George; you know that.”

“Looks like you missed rounds. It’s after nine.”

“I could say the same to you.” Susan’s tone hovered between being friendly and combative.

“I was told in no uncertain terms that I had to be seen in Student Health to rule out a comminuted compound skull fracture from yesterday’s gala event in the OR.”

“You are OK, aren’t you?” asked Susan with genuine sincerity and concern.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just hard to patch up my injured ego. That was the only thing that broke. But the clinic doc said that the ego had to heal itself.”

Susan allowed herself to laugh. Niles joined. The car stopped at Northeastern University.

“Missing half of your first day at Surgery at the Memorial, then skipping rounds the next day, that’s commendable, Miss Wheeler.”

George assumed a serious expression. “In no time at all you’ll be able to run for medical student Phantom of the Year. If you keep it up you’ll be able to challenge the record set by Phil Greer during second-year Pathology.”

Susan didn’t answer. She went back to her IBM sheets.

“What are you working on, anyway?” asked Niles, twisting himself in an attempt to view the printout right side up.

Susan looked up at Niles. “I’m working on my Nobel Prize acceptance speech. I’d tell you about it but you might miss lecture.”

The car plunged down into the tunnel, beginning its transit under the city. Conversation became impossible. Susan resumed her check of the IBM printout sheet. She wanted to be damn sure of the numbers.