Robin Cook - Godplayer

Thomas went from bed to bed. Each patient in the ICU had his own specially trained nurse to whom Thomas spoke, hardly looking at the patient unless the nurse called his attention to some abnormality. He visually checked all the vital signs which could be seen on the read-out equipment. He glanced at the fluid balance logs, held portable chest X rays up to the overhead light, and looked at electrolyte and blood gas values. Cassi knew enough to know how much she didn’t know.

As Thomas had promised, he didn’t take long. His patients were all doing well. With Larry Owen in command, the resident staff would deal with all the minor problems that arose during the night. When Thomas and Cassi reemerged, the patients’ families again set upon him. Thomas said that he regretted he didn’t have more time to talk but that everyone was doing well.

“It must be extraordinarily rewarding to get that kind of feedback from families,” said Cassi as they were walking toward the elevator.

Thomas didn’t respond immediately. Cassi’s statement reminded him of the pleasure he had felt years earlier when the Nazzaros had greeted him. Their gratitude had meant something. Then he thought about Mr. Campbell’s daughter. He glanced back down the corridor, realizing that he hadn’t seen her.

“Oh, it’s nice that the relatives are appreciative,” said Thomas without much feeling. “But it’s not that important. It’s certainly not why I do surgery.”

“Of course not,” said Cassi. “I didn’t mean to imply that.”

“For me recognition by my teachers and superiors was always more important,” said Thomas.

The elevator arrived and they got on.

“The trouble is,” continued Thomas, “now I’m the teacher.”

Cassi glanced up. To her surprise his voice had an unexpected and uncharacteristic wistfulness. As she watched him, she could see that he was staring ahead, daydreaming.

Thomas’s mind flashed back to his thoracic residency, a time of unbelievable excitement and adventure. He remembered that he all but lived in the hospital for three years, going home to his drab two-room apartment only to recharge by sleeping for a few hours. In order to excel he had worked harder than he’d ever thought possible. And in the end he was appointed chief resident. In many respects Thomas felt that event had been the crowning achievement of his life. He’d come out on top of a group of gifted people as committed and competitive as himself. Thomas would never forget the moment that each of his attendings congratulated him. There was no doubt, he thought, that surgery and life in general were more rewarding and more fun then. Thankful relatives were nice, but they were no substitute.

When Cassi and Thomas emerged from the hospital, they were rudely slapped by a wet Boston evening. Gusts of wind lashed the rain in chaotic circles. At six-fifteen it was already dark. The only illumination came from the city lights reflecting off the low, swirling cloud cover. Cassi grasped Thomas about the waist and together they ran for the nearby parking garage.

Once under shelter, they stomped the moisture from their feet and walked more slowly up the concrete ramp. The wet cement had a surprisingly acrid smell. Thomas still wasn’t acting normally, and Cassi tried to guess what was bothering him. She had the uncomfortable feeling that it was something she’d done. But she couldn’t imagine what. They hadn’t seen each other since the ride in to the hospital Thursday morning, and everything had seemed fine at that time.

“Are you tired from working last night?” asked Cassi.

“Yes, I probably am. I haven’t thought too much about it, though.”

“And your cases? They went okay?”

“I told you, they went fine,” said Thomas. “In fact I could have done another bypass if they had allowed me to schedule it. I did three cases in the time it took George Sherman to do two and Ballantine, our fearless chief, to do one.”

“Sounds like you should be pleased,” said Cassi.

They stopped in front of an anthracite metallic 928 Porsche. Thomas hesitated, looking at Cassi over the top of the car. “But I’m not pleased. As usual there was a host of little things to annoy me, making my work more difficult. It seems to be getting worse, not better, around the Memorial. I’m really fed up. Then to top it all off, at the cardiac surgery meeting, I was informed that four of my weekly OR slots were being expropriated so George Sherman could schedule more of his goddamn teaching cases. They don’t even have enough teaching patients to fill the slots they already have without dredging up patients who have no right to precious space in the hospital.”

Thomas unlocked his door, climbed in and reached across to open Cassi’s.

“Besides,” said Thomas, gripping the steering wheel, “I have a feeling something else is going on in the hospital. Something between George Sherman and Norman Ballantine. God! I’ve just had it with all the bullshit!”

Thomas gunned the engine, then rammed the car back, then forward, the tires screeching in protest. Cassi braced herself against the dashboard to keep herself upright. When he stopped to stick his card into the slot for the automatic gate, she reached over her shoulder for her seat belt. As she locked it in place, she said, “Thomas, I think you should fasten yours, too.”

“For Chrissake,” yelled Thomas. “Stop nagging me.”

“I’m sorry,” said Cassi quickly, now certain that she was in some way partially responsible for her husband’s foul mood.

Thomas weaved in and out of traffic, cutting in front of irate commuters. Cassi was afraid to say anything lest she anger him further. It was like a Grand Prix free-for-all.

Once they were north of the city, the traffic thinned out. Despite the fact Thomas was going over seventy, Cassi began to relax.

“I’m sorry I seemed like a pest, especially after an aggravating day,” she said finally.

Thomas didn’t respond, but his face was less tense and his grip on the steering wheel not as tight. Several times Cassi started to ask if she’d been responsible for upsetting him, but she could not find the right words. For a while she just watched the rain-slicked road rushing toward them. “Have I done something that’s bothered you?” she said at last.

“You have,” snapped Thomas.

They rode for a while in silence. Cassi knew it would come sooner or later.

“It seems Larry Owen knows all about our private medical matters,” said Thomas.

“It’s no secret that I have diabetes,” said Cassi.

“It’s no secret because you talk about it so often,” said Thomas. “I think the less said the better. I don’t like us to be the brunt of gossip.”

Cassi could not remember mentioning anything to Larry about her medical problems, but of course that wasn’t the issue. She was well aware she’d talked to a number of people about her diabetes, including Joan Widiker that very day. Thomas, like her mother, felt Cassi’s disease was not a subject to be shared, even with close friends.

Cassi looked over at Thomas. The bands of light and shadow from the oncoming cars moved down his face and obscured his expression.

“I guess I never thought discussing my diabetes affected us,” said Cassi. “I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”

“You know how gossip is in a medical center,” said Thomas. “It’s better not to give them anything to talk about. Larry knew more than just about your diabetes. He knew that you might have to have eye surgery. That’s pretty specific. He said he heard it from your friend Robert Seibert.”

Now it made sense to Cassi. She knew she hadn’t said anything to Larry Owen. “I did talk to Robert,” she conceded. “It seemed only natural. We’ve known each other so long, and he told me about his surgery. He’s having impacted wisdom teeth out. With his history of severe rheumatic fever he has to be admitted and treated with IV antibiotics.”