Robin Cook: Godplayer

The simple question hurled Cassi back in time. Back to when she was eight and her life began to change. Up to that point, Cassi had always liked school. She was an eager, enthusiastic child who seemed to look forward to new experiences. But in the middle of the third grade it all changed. In the past she’d always been ready for school early; now she had to be pushed and cajoled by her mother. Her concentration dwindled and notes to that effect began to arrive from her teacher. One of the central issues, something that no one recognized, not even Cassi herself, was that Cassi had to use the girls’ room more and more frequently. After a time the teacher, Miss Rossi, began on occasion to refuse Cassi’s requests, suspecting that she was using trips to the toilet to avoid her work. When this happened, Cassi experienced the awful fear that she would lose control of her bladder. In her mind’s eye she could picture what it would look like if she had “an accident,” and her urine dripped down from her seat and puddled under her desk. The fear brought on anger and the anger, ostracism. The kids began to make fun of Cassi.

At home an episode of bedwetting surprised and shocked both Cassandra and her mother. Mrs. Cassidy demanded an explanation, but Cassandra had none and was, in fact, equally appalled. When Mr. Cassidy suggested they consult the family doctor, Mrs. Cassidy was too mortified to do so, convinced as she was that the whole affair was a behavioral disorder.

Various punishments had no effect. If anything they exacerbated the problem. Cassi began to throw temper tantrums, lost her few remaining friends, and spent most of her time in her room. Mrs. Cassidy reluctantly began to think about the need for a child psychologist.

Things came to a head in the early spring. Cassi could remember the day vividly. Only a half hour after a recess, she began to experience a combination of mounting bladder pressure and thirst. Anticipating Miss Rossi’s response so close to recess, Cassi tried vainly to wait for class to end. She squirmed in her seat and clutched her hands into tight fists. Her mouth became so dry she could barely swallow, and despite all her efforts, she felt the release of a small amount of urine.

In terror she walked pigeon-toed up to Miss Rossi and asked to be excused. Miss Rossi, without a glance, told her to take her seat. Cassi turned and walked deliberately to the door. Miss Rossi heard it open and looked up.

Cassi fled to the he girls’ room with Miss Rossi at her heels. She had her panties down and her dress bunched in her arms before Miss Rossi caught up to her. With relief, the little girl sank onto the toilet. Miss Rossi stood her ground, putting her hands on her hips, and waited with an expression that said: “You’d better produce or else…”

Cassi produced. She began to urinate and continued for what seemed like an incredible duration of time. Miss Rossi’s angry expression mellowed. “Why didn’t you go during recess?” she demanded. “I did,” said Cassi plaintively.

“I don’t believe you,” said Miss Rossi. “I just don’t believe you, and this afternoon after school, we are going to march down to Mr. Jankowski’s office.”

Back in the classroom, Miss Rossi made Cassi sit by herself. She could still remember the dizziness that came over her. First she couldn’t see the blackboard. Then she felt strange all over and thought she was going to vomit. But she didn’t. Instead she passed out. The next thing Cassi knew was that she was in the hospital. Her mother was bending over her. She told Cassi she had diabetes.

Cassi turned to Joan, bringing her mind back to the present.

“I was hospitalized when I was nine,” said Cassi hurriedly, hoping Joan hadn’t noticed the fact that she had been daydreaming. “The diagnosis was made then.”

“That must have been a difficult time for you,” said Joan.

“It wasn’t so bad,” said Cassi. “In some respects it was a relief to know that the symptoms I had been having had a physical basis. And once the doctors stabilized my insulin requirements, I felt much better. By the time I reached my teens I even got used to giving myself the injections twice a day. Ah, here we are.” Cassi motioned them off the elevator.

“I’m impressed,” said Joan with sincerity. “I doubt if I’d have been able to handle my medical training if I had had diabetes.”

“I’m certain you would have,” said Cassi casually. “We’re all more adaptable than we give ourselves credit for.”

Joan wasn’t sure she agreed, but she let it go. “What about your husband? Having known a few surgeons in my life, I hope he’s understanding and supportive.”

“Oh, he is,” said Cassi, but she answered too quickly for Joan’s analytical mind.

Pathology was its own world, completely separate from the rest of the hospital. As a psychiatric resident, Joan hadn’t visited the floor in the two years she’d been at Boston Memorial. She had prepared herself for the dark, nineteenth-century appearance of the department of pathology in her medical school, complete with dingy glass-fronted cabinets filled with round specimen jars containing bits of horror in yellowing Formalin. Instead, she found herself in a white, futuristic world composed of tile, Formica, stainless steel, and glass. There were no specimens and no clutter and no strangely repulsive smells. At the entrance there were a number of secretaries with earphones typing onto word-processing screens. To the left were offices, and down the center was a long white Formica table supporting double-headed microscopes.

Cassi led Joan into the first office where an impeccably dressed young man leaped up from his desk and greeted Cassi with a big, unprofessional hug. Then the man thrust Cassi away so he could look at her.

“God, you look good,” he said. “But wait. You haven’t colored your hair, have you?”

“I knew you’d notice,” laughed Cassi. “No one else has.”

“Of course I’d notice. And this is a new blouse. Lord and Taylor?”

“No, Saks.”

“It’s wonderful.” He fingered the material. “It’s all cotton. Very nice.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” said Cassi, remembering Joan and introducing her. “Joan Widiker, Robert Seibert, second-year pathology resident.”

Joan took Robert’s outstretched hand. She liked his engaging, forthright smile. His eyes twinkled, and Joan had the feeling she’d been instantly inspected.

“Robert and I went to the same medical school,” explained Cassi as Robert put his arm around her again. “And then by chance we both ended up here at the Boston Memorial for first-year pathology.”

“You two look like you could be brother and sister,” said Joan.

“People have said that,” said Robert, obviously pleased. “We had an immediate affinity for each other for a lot of reasons including the fact that we both had serious childhood diseases. Cassi had diabetes, and I had rheumatic fever.”

“And we’re both terrified of surgery,” said Cassi, causing herself and Robert to burst out laughing.

Joan assumed it was some kind of private joke.

“Actually, it’s not so funny,” said Cassi. “Instead of mutually supporting each other, we’ve ended up making each other more scared. Robert is supposed to have his wisdom teeth removed, and I’m supposed to have the hemorrhage in my left eye cleared.”

“I’m going to have mine taken care of soon,” said Robert defiantly. “Now that I’ve got you out of my hair.”

“I’ll believe that when it happens,” laughed Cassi.

“You’ll see,” said Robert. “But meanwhile let’s get down to business. I’ve saved the autopsy until you got here. But first I promised to call the medical resident who tried to resuscitate the patient.”