Richard Mabry - Code Blue

This time it was Dora Kennedy who replied. "Dear, everyone knew about Betty's mental illness. It's nothing to be ashamed of. And even when your mother got so bad, your daddy saw to it that she was cared for."

Pastor Kennedy pushed aside his plate and leaned toward Cathy. "You know, God didn't 'let' your parents get killed, anymore than He 'lets' murders happen or children die in their cribs. Since Adam and Eve, this has been a fallen world. It's not perfect like God intended it to be. But there's a way for folks to-"

"Please," Cathy tried without success to keep her voice level. "I don't want to talk theology. My experience has been that I can't depend on God. Just like I couldn't depend on Rob-" She let the word die unsaid. "Just like I've learned not to depend on any man."

Pastor Kennedy picked up the thread of conversation."Perhaps not, although I think you're being a bit harsh on the masculine gender." He flashed a smile at his son. "But you can depend on God, you know. You just have to learn to trust Him."

"How can I trust Him?" Cathy said. "I can't even bring myself to pray."

"He already knows your heart. You don't have to say a word. Just listen."

Cathy wished she could let go, take the hand of this kindly man, and tell him everything that was bothering her. But that would involve trust, and right now she couldn't bring herself to trust anyone. Not even God.

Cathy squirmed around in the seat of Will's pickup so she could look at him. "I'm sorry I went offlike that."

Will kept his eyes on the road. "No need to apologize. You're under a lot of stress. I want you to feel free to be open with me, and I know my folks feel the same way."

Cathy tried to say thanks, but the words stuck in her throat. She turned toward the window and watched the familiar scenery roll by.

When Will wheeled the vehicle to the curb outside Cathy's apartment, he killed the engine and turned with his right arm over the back of the seat. "You know, when we went offto college I had a dream that I'd come home for Christmas vacation our senior year and propose to you. We'd move to Dallas. I'd go to law school and work nights to support us. You'd go to medical school there. Then we'd come back to Dainger, settle down, raise a family."

The lump in Cathy's throat grew. She stifled a sob.

"What happened to drive us apart?" Will said. "You stopped coming home on vacations. I wrote you letters, but you didn't write back. I called and it was like talking with a cousin. You know, 'I'm fine, how are you?' but no warmth, no feeling. Did I do something to upset you? I need to know."

She kept her gaze forward, looking at his reflection in the windshield. "No one knows this. I didn't even tell my parents. My sophomore year at college, I met someone. A graduate student named Carter Lyles. He was handsome, rich, selfassured, a few years older than me. I guess you could say he swept me offmy feet. He promised me we'd be married after he finished his master's degree. But then I discovered he'd made the same promise to two other girls on campus."

Cathy focused on Will's reflected image. "I confronted him. He said it was the way men were. Then he walked away. After that, I'd see him around the campus, but it was as though I didn't exist. He'd look right through me-walk by without a word."

Will took in a deep breath and held it a long time. "So you decided men couldn't be trusted?"

Cathy shook her head. "For a while, I hoped that maybe there was a man out there who was trustworthy. But my fiance Robert topped them all. That's when I decided that maybe it was a mistake to trust any man." She wiped at her cheeks with her fingers. Will handed her a clean handkerchief, and she blotted the wet tracks. Between sobbing breaths she told him the story of how she and Robert had broken up. "I don't know who I can trust anymore."

Only Cathy's soft weeping and the whoosh of an occasional passing car broke the silence. Will reached out and turned her head with a gentle finger under her chin. "Cathy, I can see where you might think you can't trust anyone again. But, believe me, you can trust me. You can depend on me. After all these years, my feelings for you have never changed."

Could she believe him? She wanted to. Cathy envisioned a scene where she melted into Will's arms, turning loose her fears and worry, preparing to live one of those "happily ever after" stories she used to love in childhood. But the lessons of the past were too strong. Instead, she simply reached over, patted his hand, and said, "Thank you, Will. I hope you'll be patient with me."

"Dr. Gladstone, Mrs. Gladstone, thank you for coming."

Cathy waved the couple to the chairs in front of her desk. She adjusted her white coat before easing into her own chair. Emma Gladstone's chart lay on her desk, the pathology report inside, but there was no need for Cathy to open the folder. She knew what it said. After she'd received it, she'd spent the better part of that evening poring over her textbooks, then online at sites from M. D. Anderson Cancer Institute and the National Institutes of Health.

Cathy made a conscious effort to avoid the mistake she'd seen several times during her training. Ernest Gladstone was a doctor, but his role here was as a husband. It was Emma's health that was the subject of discussion. Cathy would speak to her, not to Dr. Gladstone, and she'd do it in language that was layman-simple.

"Mrs. Gladstone, the biopsies I took confirmed my initial impression of a cancer of your cervix, the neck of your womb. Remember I told you that my examination suggested the cancer hadn't spread, and the imaging studies we did confirmed this. It's what's called a stage zero tumor."

She looked for the first time at Dr. Gladstone. He sat in silence, holding his wife's hand. His jaw was set, his expression grim. He was a man prepared to do battle. Right now, Ernest Gladstone epitomized the downside of being a doctor. He knew too many of the bad things that could happen, and he was powerless to do anything about them.

Cathy looked back at Emma. "There are several treatment options. I'd like to outline them for you and then I'll answer any questions you might have. I'll be glad to assist you in getting an appointment with whomever you choose to treat you."

"Dr. Sewell," Emma said, "this is the diagnosis Ernest and I expected. We're ready to proceed with treatment." She turned to her husband and some unspoken communication passed between them.

"I've been in contact with a couple of my friends," he said. He mentioned the chairs of the Department of Gynecology at two of the most-respected cancer institutes in the nation."I'd like the pathologist who read the biopsies to send the slides to both of them for confirmation, but I have no reason to doubt your diagnosis. Both of them have recommended a wide total hysterectomy. Emma and I agree with that, but we see no need to go elsewhere, since Art Harshman is well-trained and quite experienced in the procedure."

Cathy bit back the comment that leaped into her mind. She remembered how hard she'd worked not to embarrass this dear lady during her examination. She could only cringe at the thought of how Harshman would treat Emma. But there was nothing she could do.

"Very well. I'll arrange for the slides to be sent out today," Cathy said. "Jane will have you sign a release form on your way out, and we'll send copies of your records to Dr. Harshman. I presume you don't need us to set up the appointment for you."

"No," Emma said. "But I do have one favor to ask. Ernest tells me that the surgeon will require an assistant for this procedure. I want you to be that assistant. I want you to be scrubbed in and participate."

"I don't think Dr. Harshman will-"

Emma was firm. "I know. You flinched when I said it before, and I imagine you were hoping I'd forget about it by now. And before you start making excuses, I'm aware you and Arthur have butted heads. There's not much that happens in the medical community that I don't hear, usually from one of the doctors' wives. But I'm convinced you're not only well-trained, you care about your patients as persons. Arthur is a machine. A good one, but without an ounce of compassion. I want someone to balance that out while I'm on the operating table." She leaned back and took a deep breath. "Would you do that for me?"