The Final Diagnosis

Of course, O’Do

O’Do

All of this the chief of surgery would have had brought out, in the ordinary way, quietly and objectively, at the mortality conference. Indeed, he would probably have led Gil Bartlett to make some of the points himself; Bartlett was honest and not afraid of self-examination. The point of the discussion would have been evident to everyone. There would have been no need for emphasis or recriminations. Bartlett would not have enjoyed the experience, of course, but at the same time he would not have been humiliated. More important still, O’Do

Now none of this could happen. If, at this stage, O’Do

Now the uproar had quieted. O’Do

“Gentlemen.” O’Do

There were four more cases down for discussion, but none of these was out of the ordinary and the talk went ahead quietly. It was just as well, Lucy reflected; controversy Eke that was no help to staff morale. There were times when it required courage to make an emergency diagnosis; even so, if you were unfortunate and guilty of error, you expected to be called to account. But personal abuse was another matter; no surgeon, unless grossly careless and incompetent, should have to take that.

Lucy wondered, not for the first time, how much of Joe Pearson’s censure at times like this was founded on personal feelings. Today, with Gil Bartlett, Pearson had been rougher than she remembered his ever being at any mortality meeting. And yet this was not a flagrant case, nor was Bartlett prone to mistakes. He had done some fine work at Three Counties, notably on types of cancer which not long before were considered inoperable.

Pearson knew this, too, of course, so why his antagonism? Was it because Gil Bartlett represented something in medicine which Pearson envied and had never attained? She glanced down the table at Bartlett. His face was set; he was still smarting. But normally he was relaxed, amiable, friendly—all the things a successful man in his early forties could afford to be. Along with his wife, Gil Bartlett was a prominent figure in Burlington society. Lucy had seen him at ease at cocktail parties and in wealthy patients’ homes. His practice was successful. Lucy guessed his a

Was this what griped Joe Pearson?—Joe Pearson who could never compete with the glamor of surgery, whose work was essential but undramatic, who had chosen a branch of medicine seldom in the public eye. Lucy herself had heard people ask: What does a pathologist do? No one ever said: What does a surgeon do? She knew there were some who thought of pathologists as a breed of hospital technician, failing to realize that a pathologist had to be first a physician with a medical degree, then spend years of extra training to become a highly qualified specialist.

Money sometimes was a sore point too. On Three Counties’ staff Gil Bartlett ranked as an attending physician, receiving no payment from the hospital, only from his patients. Lucy herself, and all the other attending physicians, were on staff on the same basis. But, in contrast, Joe Pearson was an employee of the hospital, receiving a salary of twenty-five thousand dollars a year, roughly half of what a successful surgeon—many years his junior—could earn. Lucy had once read a cynical summation of the difference between surgeons and pathologists: “A surgeon gets $500 for taking out a tumor. A pathologist gets five dollars for examining it, making a diagnosis, recommending further treatment, and predicting the patient’s future.”

Lucy herself had fared well in her relationship with Joe Pearson. For some reason she was not sure of, he had seemed to like her, and there were moments she found herself responding and liking him also. Sometimes this could prove a help when she needed to talk with him about a diagnosis.

Now the discussion was ending, O’Do

“Let’s go in here a minute, Joe.” O’Do

O’Do

“Why?” Pearson was direct.

All right, O’Do

“I pointed out a wrong diagnosis—that’s all.” Pearson was aggressive himself now. “Do you suggest we keep quiet about such things?”

“You know better than to ask that.” O’Do

Grumblingly he conceded, “I didn’t mean that; not that way.”

Despite himself Kent O’Do