The Final Diagnosis

“Thank you.” Lucy found herself intensely gratified by O’Do

The chief of surgery smiled. “Don’t thank me; it’s an honest appraisal.” He paused. “What about the girl, Lucy? What’s the story so far?”

In a few words she summed up the case history, her tentative diagnosis, and the biopsy.

O’Do

Lucy told him of the delay and the reasons for it. He thought briefly, then said, “Well, I guess that’s reasonable. I don’t believe we can complain about that. But keep after Joe; I don’t think you should let it go beyond today.”

“I won’t.” Lucy glanced at her watch. “I plan to see Joe again after lunch. He expected to know something definite by then.”

O’Do

“Nineteen.” Lucy was watching Kent O’Do

O’Do

Her heartbeat faster, her emotions surging, she had risen and gone to the door. As he opened it O’Do

O’Do

Collecting her thoughts, she told him, “I’m sure she’d like it, and so would I.” Then, as the door closed behind her, Lucy shut her eyes for a moment to control her racing mind.

The ordeal of waiting for the diagnosis concerning Vivian had had a profound effect on Mike Seddons. By nature a genial and outgoing personality, in normal times he was noted for being one of the livelier spirits on Three Counties’ house staff, and it was not unusual to find him the focus of a noisy, boisterous group in the residents’ quarters. For the past several days, however, most of the time he had avoided the company of others, his spirits dampened by the knowledge of what an adverse verdict from Pathology could mean to Vivian and himself.

His feelings about Vivian had not wavered; if anything, they had become more intense. He hoped he had conveyed this in the time he had spent last evening with Vivian’s parents after their initial meeting at the hospital. At first, as was to be expected, all of them—Mr. and Mrs. Loburton, Vivian, and himself—had been constrained, their talk awkward and at times formal. Even afterward it had seemed that the Loburtons’ meeting with a prospective son-in-law, which in other circumstances might have been an important occasion, had taken second place to their concern with the immediate problem of Vivian’s health. In a sense Mike Seddons felt he had become accepted because there was no time for anything else.

Back at the Loburtons’ hotel, though, they had talked briefly about himself and Vivian. Henry Loburton, his big frame spilling from an overstuffed chair in the sitting room of their hotel suite, had asked Mike Seddons about his future, more, Seddons suspected, from courtesy than from any real concern. He had responded by telling them briefly of his own intention to practice surgery in Philadelphia when his residency at Three Counties ended. The Loburtons had nodded politely and had left the matter there.

Certainly, it seemed, there would be no opposition to a marriage. “Vivian has always seemed to know what she wanted,” Henry Loburton had observed at one point. “It was the same way when she wanted to be a nurse. We were doubtful about it, but she had already made up her mind. There wasn’t much else to say after that.”

Mike Seddons had expressed the hope that they would not consider Vivian too young to marry. It was then that Angela Loburton had smiled. “I imagine it would be rather difficult to object on that account,” she had said. “You see, I was married at seventeen. I ran away from home to do it.” She smiled at her husband. “We didn’t have any money, but we managed to get by.”

Seddons had said with a grin, “Well, that much we’ll have in common—anyway, until my practice gets going.”

That had been last night. This morning, after the visit with Vivian, he had felt for some reason a sense of lightness and relief. Perhaps he had been depressed u

Pausing in the middle of the latest, he asked McNeil, “Have you any cigarettes?”

The pathology resident motioned with his head. He was sectioning the heart he had just removed from the body.

Seddons crossed the room, found the cigarettes in McNeil’s suit coat, and lighted one. Returning, he continued, “So she said to the undertaker, ‘Thank you for doing that, even though it must have been a lot of trouble.’ And the undertaker said, ‘Oh, it wasn’t any trouble really. All I did was change their heads.’ ”

Grim as the jest was in these surroundings, McNeil laughed aloud. He was still laughing as the autopsy-room door opened and David Coleman stepped inside.

“Dr. Seddons, will you put out that cigarette, please?” Coleman’s voice cut quietly across the room.

Mike Seddons looked around. He said amiably, “Oh, good morning, Dr. Coleman. Didn’t see you there for a minute.”

“The cigarette, Dr. Seddons!” There was ice in Coleman’s tone, his eyes steely.

Not quite understanding, Seddons said, “Oh . . . oh yes.” none, moved his hand toward the autopsy table with the body upon it.

“Not there!” Coleman rapped out the words, stopping the surgical resident short. After a moment Seddons moved across the room, found an ash tray, and deposited the cigarette.

“Dr. McNeil.”

“Yes, Dr. Coleman,” Roger McNeil answered quietly.

“Will you . . . drape the face, please?”

Uncomfortably, knowing what was going through Coleman’s mind, McNeil reached out for a towel. It was one they had used earlier; it had several big bloodstains. Still with the same soft intensity, Coleman said, “A clean towel, please. And do the same for the genitals.”

McNeil nodded to Seddons, who brought over two clean towels. McNeil placed one carefully across the face of the dead woman; the other he used to cover the external genitalia.

Now the two residents stood facing Coleman. Both showed traces of embarrassment. Both sensed what was coming next.

“Gentlemen, I think there is something I should remind you of.” David Coleman still spoke quietly—at no time since entering the room had he raised his voice—but there was no mistaking the underlying purpose and authority. Now he said deliberately, “When we perform an autopsy we do so with permission from the family of the one who has died. Without that permission there would be no autopsy. That is quite clear to you, I presume?”