Thomas knew that the root of the problem was an antagonism between the doctors on the teaching staff like himself, who had private practices and earned their incomes by billing their patients, and the doctors like George Sherman, who were full-time employees of the medical school and received salaries instead of fees for service. The private doctors had substantially higher incomes and more freedom. They did not have to submit to a higher authority. The full-time doctors had more impressive titles and easier schedules, but there was always someone over them to tell them what to do.
The hospital was caught in the middle. It liked the high census and money brought in by the private doctors, and, at the same time, it enjoyed the credibility and status of being part of the university medical school.
“Campbell’s chest is closed,” said Larry, interrupting Thomas’s thoughts. “The residents are closing the skin. All signs are stable and normal.”
Tossing the newspaper aside, Thomas got up from the chair and followed Larry toward the dressing room. As he passed behind George, Thomas could hear him talking about forming some kind of new teaching committee. It never stopped! Nor did the pressure that George, as head of the teaching service, and Ballantine, as head of the department, applied to Thomas, trying to convince him to give up his practice and join the full-time staff. They tried to entice him by offering him a full professorship, and although there’d been a time when that might have interested Thomas, now it held no appeal whatsoever. He’d keep his practice, his autonomy, his income, and his sanity. Thomas knew if he went fulltime it would only be a matter of time before he was told who he could and who he could not operate on. Before long he’d be assigned ridiculous cases like the poor mentally retarded kid in the cath room.
Tense and angry, Thomas went into the dressing area and opened his locker. As he pulled off his scrub clothes and tossed them into the hamper, he recalled Laura Campbell’s pliant body pressed against his own. It was a welcome and pleasant image and had the effect of mollifying his frazzled nerves. Ever since he’d left the OR, his pleasure in operating had dissipated, leaving him increasingly tense.
“As usual, you did a superb job today,” said Larry, noting Thomas’s grim face and hoping to please him.
Thomas didn’t respond. In the past he would have loved such a compliment, but now it didn’t seem to make any difference.
“It’s too bad that people can’t appreciate the details,” said Larry, buttoning his shirt. “They’d have a totally different idea of surgery if they did. They’d also be more careful who they let operate on them.”
Thomas still did not say anything, although he nodded at the truth of the comment. As he pulled on his own shirt, he thought of Norman Ballantine, that white-haired, friendly old doc whom everyone loved and applauded. The fact of the matter was that Ballantine probably shouldn’t still be operating, although no one had the nerve to tell him. It was common knowledge in the department that one of the chief thoracic resident’s jobs was to assign himself to all of Ballantine’s cases so that he could help the chief when he blundered. So much for academic medicine, thought Thomas. Ballantine, thanks to the residents, got reasonable results, and his patients and their families worshipped him despite what went on when the patient was anesthetized.
Thomas had to agree with Larry’s comment. He also thought that it would be infinitely more appropriate if he, Dr. Thomas Kingsley, was chief. After all, he did most of the surgery, for God’s sake. It was he, more than any other single person, who had made Boston Memorial the place to have any cardiac surgery. Even Time magazine had said as much.
Yet Thomas did not know if he wanted to be chief any longer. At one time it was all he could think about. It had been one of his driving forces, pushing him on to greater efforts and more personal sacrifice. It had seemed part of a natural progression, and colleagues had started talking about it while he was still a fellow. But that was quite a few years ago, before all the administrative bullshit had reared its ugly head and showed just how much it could interfere in his practice.
Thomas stopped dressing and stared ahead into the distance. He felt an emptiness inside of him. Comprehending that one of his long sought-after goals was potentially no longer attractive was depressing, especially when the goal was finally within his grasp. Maybe there was no place to go… maybe he’d reached his apogee. God, what an awful thought!
“I’m awfully sorry to hear about your wife,” said Larry as he sat down to put on his shoes. “It really is a shame.”
“What do you mean?” asked Thomas, pronouncing each word with deliberate precision. He took immediate offense that a subordinate like Larry would presume to be so familiar.
Larry, oblivious to Thomas’s response, bent to tie his shoes. “I mean about her diabetes and her eye problem. I heard she’s got to have a vitrectomy. That’s terrible.”
“The surgery is not definite,” snapped Thomas.
Hearing the anger in Thomas’s voice, Larry looked up. “I didn’t mean it was necessarily definite,” he managed. “I’m sorry I brought it up. It must be difficult for you. I just hoped that she was okay.”
“My wife is perfectly fine,” said Thomas angrily. “Furthermore, I don’t think that her health is any of your business.”
“I’m sorry.”
There was an uncomfortable silence as Larry quickly finished with his shoes. Thomas tied his tie and splashed on Yves St. Laurent cologne with rapid, irritated motions.
“Where did you hear this rumor?” asked Thomas.
“From a pathology resident,” said Larry. “Robert Seibert.”
Larry closed his locker and told Thomas he’d be in the recovery room if he was needed.
Thomas ran a comb through his hair, trying to calm down. It just wasn’t his day. Everyone seemed intent on upsetting him. The idea that his wife’s ill health was a topic of idle conversation among the resident staff seemed inexplicably galling. It was also humiliating.
Placing the comb back in his locker, Thomas noticed a small plastic container. Feeling a rising inner tension and the stirrings of a headache, he flipped open the lid of the bottle. Snapping one of the scored yellow tablets in two, he popped the half into his mouth. Hesitant, he then popped in the other half as well. After all, he deserved it.
The tablets tasted bitter, and he needed a drink from the fountain to wash them down. But almost immediately he felt relief from his growing anxiety.
The Friday afternoon cardiac surgery conference was held in the Turner surgical teaching room diagonally across the hall from the surgical intensive care unit. It had been donated by the wife of a Mr. J. P. Turner, who’d died in the late nineteen-thirties, and the decor had an Art Deco flavor. The room provided seating for sixty, half the medical school class size in 1939. In the front there was a raised podium, a dusty blackboard, an overhead rack of ancient anatomy charts, and a standing skeleton.
It had been at Dr. Norman Ballantine’s insistence that the Friday meeting be held in the Turner teaching room because it was close to the ward, and, as Dr. Ballantine put it, “It is the patients that it’s all about.” But the small group of a dozen or so looked lost among the sea of empty seats and distinctly uncomfortable behind the spartanly designed desks.
“I think we should get the meeting under way,” called Dr. Ballantine over the hum of conversation. The people took their seats. Present at the meeting were six of the eight cardiac surgeons on staff, including Ballantine, Sherman, and Kingsley, as well as various other doctors and administrators, and a relatively new addition, Rodney Stoddard, philosopher.