Robin Cook - Coma

Berman’s hands stopped their nervous activity. “There’s no need to be defensive about that,” he said with sincerity. “You just don’t look like a doctor or a doctor-to-be.”

Berman’s innocent comment struck a tender chord in Susan’s mind. Her embryonic professionalism made her rather paranoid and she immediately misconstrued Berman’s comment, which was meant as a backhanded compliment.

“What is your name?” continued Berman, totally unaware of the effect of his previous comment. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the overhead fluorescent lights and motioned for Susan to turn slightly to the left so he could see her name tag on her lapel. “Susan Wheeler… Dr. Susan Wheeler. It has a natural sound to it.”

Susan quickly realized that Berman was not challenging her as a doctor after all. Still she did not respond. Something about Berman was distantly but comfortably familiar to her but she could not characterize it. Her mind tried but it was too subtly hidden in the immediacy of their encounter. It had something to do with Berman’s charming authoritarian manner.

Partially as a method to concentrate her own thoughts and partially to control the conversation, Susan plunged into the I.V. affair. In a businesslike manner she placed the tourniquet about Berman’s left wrist and pulled it tight. She tore open the packets containing the scalp needle and the alcohol sponge. Berman’s eyes followed these preparations with great interest.

“Gotta admit from the start, I’m not crazy about needles,” said Berman, trying to maintain a degree of aplomb. He looked back and forth from his hand to Susan.

Susan sensed Berman’s mounting concern and she wondered what he’d say if she told him that it was her first attempt at starting an I.V. She was quite certain that he would simply become unhinged. She felt certain because she realized that if the roles were reversed, that would be how she would react.

The tourniquet combined forces with Berman’s ectomorphic body to make the veins on the back of his hand stand out like garden hoses. Susan took a deep breath and held it. Berman did the same. After a swipe with the alcohol pledget, Susan tried to jam the needle into the back of Berman’s hand. But the skin advanced, resisting penetration.

“Ahhh,” cried Berman gripping the sheet with his free right hand. He was purposely overdoing the theatrics as a self-preservation maneuver. However, its effect was to unnerve Susan, who desisted in her attempt to break the skin.

“If it’s any consolation, you feel just like a doctor,” said Berman looking at the back of his left hand. The tourniquet was still in place and the hand had an overall bluish discoloration.

“Mr. Berman, you’re going to have to be a little more cooperative,” said Susan, mustering her forces for a renewed attempt and wishing to spread the responsibility for any failure.

“Cooperate, she says,” echoed Berman while rolling his eyes up inside of his head. “I’ve been as quiet as a sacrificial lamb.”

Susan replaced Berman’s left hand flat on the bed. With her own left hand she effected countertraction on Berman’s skin. With the same amount of effort the needle entered the scanty tissue.

“I give up,” pleaded Berman with a tinge of humor.

Susan concentrated on the submerged needle point. At first it tended to push the vein in front of itself. She tried the countertraction trick: same problem. She tried the countertraction combined with a decisive lunge with the needle. She could feel the pop as the needle burst into the vein. Blood flowed back through the needle, filling the attached plastic tubing. Quickly she hooked up the I.V. line, opened the stopcock, and removed the tourniquet The I.V. flowed smoothly.

Both parties felt definite relief.

Having actually accomplished something, something medical for a patient, Susan felt a tinge of euphoria. It was a small affair, a mere I.V., but nonetheless a definite service. Maybe there was a future for her overall. The euphoria brought a feeling of expansiveness to Susan which included a heightened sense of warmth with a shade of condescension toward Berman in spite of the hospital environment.

“You said before that I don’t look like a doctor,” said Susan, getting the tape out to secure the I.V. line to the back of Berman’s hand. “What does it mean, to look like a doctor?” There was a slight tease to her voice as if she were more interested in hearing Berman speak than in actually listening to what he had to say.

“Maybe it was a silly comment,” said Berman, watching every move Susan made while taping the I.V. line. “But I do know a few girls who went into medicine from my graduating class in college. Several of them were OK; all of them were bright; there was no doubt about that, but they were hardly feminine.”

“They probably weren’t feminine to you because they went into medicine rather than vice versa,” said Susan, slowing the I.V. to a steady drip.

“Possible… possible…,” said Berman thoughtfully. He recognized that Susan’s interpretation represented a new perspective. “But I don’t think so. Two of them I happen to know quite well. In fact I knew them all the way through college. They really didn’t decide on medicine until the last year. They were just as nonfeminine before as after their decision. Whereas you, Dr. Wheeler-to-be, have a distinct aura of femininity that envelops you like a cloud.”

Susan, eager to take exception to Berman’s comment regarding his friends’ femininity, was caught off guard by Berman’s reference to her own femininity. On the one hand she was tempted to respond, “Are you for real, buddy?” while on the other hand she thought that Berman might be serious and actually paying her a compliment. Berman himself decided which way Susan’s mind would turn.

“If I had to pick what your vocation was,” continued Berman, “I’d have to say you were a dancer.”

Having stumbled on to Susan’s own fantasy concerning her alter ego, Berman opened the door on Susan’s personality. To her, appearing like a dancer was definitely a compliment, and therefore she was more than willing to accept Berman’s comment about her femininity as a compliment as well.

“Thank you, Mr. Berman,” said Susan with sincerity.

“Please call me Sean,” said Berman.

“Thank you, Sean,” repeated Susan. She stopped her activity of gathering up the debris from the I.V. paraphernalia and looked out the dirty window. She didn’t notice the dirt, the brick, the dark clouds, nor the lifeless trees. She looked back at Berman. “You know, I wouldn’t be able to tell you how much I appreciate your compliment. It might sound rather strange to you, but to be quite honest I haven’t felt feminine over the last year or so. To hear someone like yourself say so is enormously reassuring. It’s not that I have dwelt on it, but just the same I have begun to think of myself as…” Susan paused, thinking of the right word. “Neutral, or neuter. Yes that’s the right word, neuter. It has happened slowly, in degrees, and I guess I’m really only aware of it by comparison when I get together with some of my former college classmates, especially my former roommate.”

Susan suddenly stopped in the middle of her thought and straightened up. She was slightly embarrassed and surprised at her own unexpected candor. “What am I talking about? Sometimes I can’t believe myself.” She smiled and then laughed at herself. “I can’t even act like a doctor, much less look like one. I’m sure that the last thing you want to hear about is my professional adjustment difficulties!”

Berman looked up at Susan with a broad smile. He was obviously enjoying the interlude.

“The patient is the one who is supposed to do the talking,” continued Susan, “not the doctor. Why don’t you tell me what you do so that I have to shut up?”