The Final Diagnosis

She appeared to consider. “Well, my pulse has been normal; temperature around ninety-eight point eight. Haven’t checked blood pressure recently.”

“Why not let me do it?” O’Do

“Do you think it’s wise? You might drop the sphygmomanometer in the soup.”

“Let’s settle for di

“I’d love to, Kent,” Lucy said. “But I’ll have to look at my book first.”

“Do that and I’ll phone you. Let’s try to make it next week.” O’Do

Watching him ease his way through other groups toward the center table, Lucy thought, not for the first time, how much she admired Kent O’Do

Lucy herself had a feeling that, if she allowed it, her admiration for Kent O’Do

“Shall we get started, gentlemen?” O’Do

By now he had become fairly set in his own mode of life. Living alone and being independent grew on you after a while, and he doubted sometimes if he could adjust to anything else. He suspected, too, that something of the same thing might apply to Lucy, and there might be problems as well about their parallel careers. Nonetheless, he still felt more comfortable in her presence than that of any other woman he had known in a long time. She had a warmth of spirit—he had once described it to himself as a strong kindness—that was at once soothing and restoring. And he knew there were others, particularly Lucy’s patients, on whom she had the same effect.

It was not as if Lucy were unattractive; she had a mature beauty that was very real. As he watched her now—she had stopped to speak with one of the interns—he saw her raise a hand and push back her hair from the side of her face. She wore it short, in soft waves which framed her face, and it was almost golden. He noticed, though, a few graying strands. Well, that was something medicine seemed to do for everyone. But it reminded him that the years were moving on. Was he wrong in not pursuing this more actively? Had he waited long enough? Well, he would see how their di

The hubbub had not died and, this time more loudly, he repeated his injunction that they start.

Bill Rufus called out, “I don’t think Joe Pearson is here yet.” The gaudy necktie which O’Do

“Isn’t Joe here?” O’Do

“Has anyone seen Joe Pearson?” he asked. Some of the others shook their heads.

Momentarily O’Do

“We were just going to look for you, Joe.” O’Do

“Had an autopsy. Took longer than I figured. Then I stopped for a sandwich.” Pearson’s words came out muffled, principally because he was chewing between sentences. Presumably the sandwich, Lucy thought; then she saw he had the rest of it folded in a napkin among the pile of papers and files he was carrying. She smiled; only Joe Pearson could get away with eating lunch at a mortality conference.

O’Do

“That’s right, sir,” Hilton answered pleasantly. A well-brought-up young man, Lucy thought; he shows deference to his elders.

“So we have another recruit for the mechanics,” Pearson said. As he spoke, loudly and sharply, there was a sudden silence in the room. Ordinarily the remark would have passed as banter, but somehow from Pearson it seemed to have an edge, a touch of contempt.

Hilton was laughing. “I guess you could call it that.” But Lucy could see he had been surprised by Pearson’s tone.

“Take no notice of Joe,” O’Do

They moved to the long table, some of the senior staff members going automatically to the front rectangle of chairs, the others dropping into the row behind. Lucy herself was in front. O’Do

Lower down the table she noticed Charlie Dornberger, one of Three Counties’ obstetricians. He was going through the careful process of filling his pipe. Whenever Lucy saw Dr. Dornberger he seemed to be either filling, cleaning, or lighting a pipe; he seldom seemed to smoke it. Next to Dornberger was Gil Bartlett and, opposite, Ding Dong Bell from Radiology and John McEwan. McEwan must be interested in a case today; the ear, nose, and throat specialist did not normally attend surgical-mortality meetings.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” As O’Do

Gil Bartlett, impeccably dressed as ever, opened a ring notebook. Instinctively Lucy watched the trim beard, waiting for it to move. Almost at once it began bobbing up and down. Bartlett began quietly, “The patient was referred to me on May 12.”

“A little louder, Gil.” The request came from down the table.

Bartlett raised his voice. “I’ll try. But maybe you’d better see McEwan afterward.” A laugh ran round the group in which the e.n.t. man joined.

Lucy envied those who could be at ease in this meeting. She never was, particularly when a case of her own was being discussed. It was an ordeal for anyone to describe their diagnosis and treatment of a patient who had died, then have others give their opinion, and finally the pathologist report his findings from the autopsy. And Joe Pearson never spared anyone.

There were honest mistakes that anybody in medicine could make—even, sometimes, mistakes which cost patients their lives. Few physicians could escape errors like this in the course of their careers. The important thing was to learn from them and not to make the same mistake again. That was why mortality conferences were held—so that everyone who attended could learn at the same time.