The Final Diagnosis

In moments of searching self-examination he had forced himself to consider situations the two of them might meet together. In a flood light of imagination he had seen them entering a crowded room—himself young, virile, unimpaired; but Vivian on his arm, moving slowly, awkwardly, perhaps with a cane, and only as an artificial limb allowed. He had seen himself dive through surf, or lie on a beach near-naked in the sun, but with Vivian dressed decorously, sharing none of it because a prothesis was ugly when exposed and, if removed, she would become a grotesque, immobile freak—an object for pitying or averted eyes.

And more than this.

Overcoming every reluctance and instinctive decency, he had let himself consider sex. He had pictured the scene at night, before bed. Would Vivian unstrap her synthetic leg alone, or would he help her? Could there be intimacies of undressing, knowing what lay beneath? And how would they make love—with the leg on or off? If on, how would it be—the hard, unyielding plastic pressing against his own urgent body? If off, how would the stump feel beneath him? Would there be fulfillment—in intercourse with a body no longer whole?

Mike Seddons sweated. He had plumbed the depths and found his own reflection.

Vivian said, “You needn’t explain, Mike.” This time her voice was choked.

“But I want to! I’ve got to! There are so many things we both have to think of.” Now the words came quickly, tumbling out in an eager effort to make Vivian understand, to know the agony of mind he had suffered before coming here. Even at this moment he needed her understanding.

He started to say, “Look, Vivian. I’ve thought about it and you’ll be better off . . .”

He found her eyes regarding him. He had never noticed before how steady and direct they were. “Please don’t lie, Mike,” she said. “I think you’d better go.”

He knew it was no good. All that he wanted now was to get away from here, not to have to meet Vivian’s eyes. But still he hesitated. He asked, “What will you do?”

“I really don’t know. To tell you the truth, I haven’t thought much about it.” Vivian’s voice was steady, but it betrayed the effort she was making. “Perhaps I’ll go on in nursing, if they’ll have me. Of course, I really don’t know if I’m cured, and if I’m not, how long I’ve got. That’s so, isn’t it, Mike?”

He had the grace to lower his eyes.

At the doorway he looked back for the last time. “Good-by, Vivian,” he said.

She tried to answer, but her self-control had been taxed too long.

From the second floor Mike Seddons used the stairway to reach Pathology. He entered the autopsy room and in the a

When he had done so, Mike Seddons went into the corridor and vomited against the wall.

“Oh, Dr. Coleman! Do come in.”

Kent O’Do

“Sit down, won’t you?” O’Do

“Thank you.” Coleman took a cigarette and accepted the light O’Do

O’Do

“Yes, I’d heard.” Coleman answered quietly, then to his own surprise he heard himself saying, “You know, of course, these past few days he hasn’t spared himself. He’s been here day and night.”

“Yes, I know.” O’Do

Coleman knew that the chief of surgery was right. “No,” he said, “I don’t suppose it does.”

“Joe has expressed a wish to leave at once,” O’Do

For a second David Coleman hesitated. This was the thing he had coveted—a department of his own; freedom to reorganize, to mobilize the new aids of science, to practice good medicine, and to make pathology count as he knew it truly could. This was the cup he had sought. Kent O’Do

Then fear struck him. Suddenly he was appalled at the awesome responsibility he would have to hold. It occurred to him there would be no one senior to relieve him of decisions; the ultimate choice—the final diagnosis—would be his alone. Could he face it? Was he yet ready? He was still young; if he chose, he could continue as a second-in-command for several years more. After that there would be other openings—plenty of time to move ahead. Then he knew that there was no escaping, that this moment had been moving toward him since his own first arrival at Three Counties Hospital.

“Yes,” he said. “If it’s offered to me, I shall accept.”

“I can tell you that it will be offered.” O’Do

“If I can.”

The chief of surgery paused. In his mind he was choosing the right phrases for the question he wanted to put. He sensed that what was to be said next would be important to them both. Finally he asked, “Will you tell me what your attitude is—to medicine and to this hospital?”

“It’s hard to put into words,” Coleman said.

“Will you try?”

David Coleman considered. It was true there were things he believed, but even to himself he had seldom expressed them. Now, perhaps, was a time for definition.

“I suppose the real thing,” he said slowly, “is that all of us—physicians, the hospital, medical technology—exist only for one thing: for patients, for healing of the sick. I believe we forget this sometimes. I think we become absorbed in medicine, science, better hospitals; and we forget that all these things have only one reason for existence—people. People who need us, who come to medicine for help.” He stopped. “I’ve put it clumsily.”

“No,” O’Do

A thought occurred to him. He asked, “One more thing. How do you feel about Joe Pearson and the way he’s leaving?”

“I’m not sure,” David Coleman said. “I’ve been wishing I knew.”

“It’s not such a bad thing to be unsure sometimes. It takes us away from rigid thinking.” O’Do