Doctors (44 page)

She felt more at home talking to pre-op patients, trying to calm their dread and watching them surrender to the anesthetic with the help of her tranquilizing words.

The post-op room was harrowing. Now and then she had the joy of seeing a patient to whom she had spoken revive smiling, happy, and on the way to health. But usually, even if the procedure had been successful, they were in considerable pain and nothing in her vocabulary could relieve their distress.

And then, of course, there were those who did not wake up at all.…

She would return from the hospital each evening well after dinner, and barely have the strength to go down to the sandwich machines.

Almost every day there was a letter waiting from Palmer. Or “Second Lieutenant Talbot” as he now sometimes referred to himself.

God, she thought, why did I push that guy away? Here he is going to exotic places in the Pacific, probably meeting dozens of pliant, nubile maidens. Though his letters vowed fidelity and implied celibacy, she was sure he was really having a hot time.

For her part, she maintained her sexual independence and had a couple of desultory affairs with interns that did not amount to much. And, after incessant pressure, she even gave in to the importunate Gary Arnold, the narcissistic neurosurgeon back in Boston for an interview.

But their second encounter was equally short-lived. Gary had an irritating tendency to pontificate.

Late one Sunday evening, as they were lying in bed, he stared up at the ceiling and murmured, “You don’t like sex, do you, Laura?”

“What?” She had been half asleep.

“I simply observed that you don’t seem to enjoy making love.”

“Are you implying that I’ve got a problem, Gary?”

“Well, to be perfectly honest, I think you should perhaps talk to someone about it some day.”

“You know,” Laura replied, gradually growing more and more awake, “you may have a point there. The more I think of it, the more I realize that sex isn’t all that much fun—”

“Ah,” said the doctor, in the same tone that Archimedes had long ago said
Eureka.

“No, Gary, what I mean is
I
don’t enjoy sex with
you.
”

As the suddenly autistic neurologist groped for an appropriate response, Laura dressed, put on her coat, and headed for the door, leaving a farewell present for the good doctor.

“You know
your
problem, Gary? You confuse your mind with your penis—which is perfectly understandable, since they’re both pretty pathetic.”

At which she smiled demurely and tiptoed out of his life.

A dutiful son, Seth Lazarus called home every weekend. His mother would always ask, “What’s new?” And he would run their tired—almost vaudevillian—gambit of, “Nothing much. I just cured cancer, heart attacks, toothaches, and mosquito bites.” To which she would then offer her usual comment, “And what
else
is new?”

After this his father would get on to monologize away about the various Chicago teams and their prospects.

The dull, disheartening formula never varied. Seth wondered why he bothered to spend the money.

But one weekend he got no answer. Neither at home nor downstairs in the store. They could not have gone off on a vacation because they never did. Indeed, they must have made a kind of tacit vow not to after Howie went into the hospital. They probably thought themselves unworthy of any further joy in life. But where
were
they?

He phoned Judy, an activity he usually saved for weekday nights from one minute past eleven ad infinitum. She knew immediately why he’d called.

“I’m sorry, Seth, but your parents made me promise not to say anything. It’s Howie.…”

She paused and Seth succumbed to the secret wish that this would be the long-awaited news that his brother was … out of pain.

“What’s happened?” he asked quickly.

“He’s had some sort of brain hemorrhage. He practically died.”

Seth completely lost control. “You mean he’s
still
alive?”

“He’s still breathing. They’ve got him on a respirator. Your parents have been sitting by his bedside all week.”

Seth exploded. “Why in God’s name do they do it? He hasn’t really been alive for twenty years. What the hell kind of hospital is that?”

Judy sighed. “I don’t know, Seth,” she said softly. “But I do know your mother is in that room all the time to be sure that Howie’s being Supported.’ ”

“I’ll get someone to cover for me and take the first plane tomorrow,” Seth announced decisively. “I think it’s American at seven-thirty.”

“I’ll meet you,” Judy replied affectionately. “It’s a hell of a thing for you to come back for, but I’ll be very glad to see you.”

“Me, too,” Seth answered.

The instant he hung up, Seth threw on his blue wind-breaker, hurried downstairs, out of Vanderbilt, across Longwood Avenue to the Med School Quad, and then darted into Building D.

Half an hour later, he was back in his room, filling an overnight case with what he would need for tomorrow’s journey: shirt, tie, Jockey shorts, socks, toothbrush, toilet bag.

And, finally, a hypodermic needle.

“G
osh, you look exhausted, Seth.”

“I couldn’t sleep all night. This is a pretty terrible thing I’ve gotta do.”

“
We
, darling,” Judy corrected him as they walked arm in arm down one of the long corridors at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport early the next morning. “We’re in this together.”

Crowds of harried businessmen sprinted past them, rushing for their flights. They reached level three of the garage where Judy’s car was parked, and their voices echoed in the stark concrete maze. Seth was silent as Judy backed out and started down the ramp.

“You’re having second thoughts, aren’t you?”

“I’m not sure I’d call it that. To tell the truth, I’m scared out of my wits.”

They were on the highway when she tried to reassure him.

“Seth it
is
the right thing.”

“Some people would say it’s playing God.”

“I don’t believe God wants a human being to suffer needlessly—especially when the sick person isn’t even aware that he is technically ‘alive.’ I mean, you’ve said practically the same thing to me dozens of times.”

“I know,” he acknowledged. “But what if I’m caught?”

She had no answer for that. Indeed, the prospect had haunted her ever since they discovered that they both believed it was right to end an unviable, pain-wracked life.

And he had gone even further by confiding that if he ever had such cases he would—if they wanted—“help them die.”

“Another thing,” Seth warned out loud, “I can’t just walk in there with my valise. It’d be too obvious.”

“I thought of that,” she replied. “There should be enough room in my handbag.”

He nodded, and said, “I wish I could just pull the plug out of the damn respirator. I mean, if they had any humanity the
doctors
there
would do it. When horses are in pain, they ‘put them down’ to stop their suffering. Why don’t they do that for a human being?”

“I guess most people believe that God loves humans more than horses.”

“No,” Seth corrected her. “He obviously loves horses more—because He lets us end their pain.”

They drove into the St. Joseph’s parking lot and pulled up in a distant corner. Seth opened his small suitcase and withdrew the syringe. It suddenly looked huge. And then from his pocket he produced two vials of liquid.

“What is it?” Judy asked.

“Potassium chloride,” he answered. “It’s a very common mineral we all have in our bodies. It’s needed by the electrolytes in the brain. If you infuse too much of it intravenously, it causes cardiac arrest. It can never cause suspicion because no one would question its presence.”

He pierced the cap of the tube and began to draw in the liquid. “At least this is the last time I’ll see Howie suffer.”

Howie.
He had pronounced the name for the first time that day. All through the sleepless night and on the plane he had been trying to depersonalize “the patient.” This is not your older brother, he had told himself, this is just a suffering mass of useless organs with no real identity.

He emptied the contents of the second ampoule into the syringe and handed it to Judy. She gingerly wrapped it in her handkerchief and tried to cushion it in her purse.

“We’re bound to lose some of this just in the jostling.”

“Don’t worry,” Seth answered blankly. “It’s … more than enough.”

She closed her handbag carefully. They left the car and walked side by side, their footsteps crunching on the gravel courtyard.

Just as they were entering the main door, an exhausted and unshaven Nat Lazarus emerged from the elevator.

“Seth,” he exclaimed in a husky voice, “what a surprise—your mother will be glad to see you.” Then he turned to Judy and, without rancor, added, “I thought you promised not to—”

“It’s my responsibility, Dad,” Seth interrupted. “When I couldn’t get you on the phone, I called Judy and made her tell me what was going on. Uh, how is he?”

His father shrugged. “How is he? With a boy like Howie that’s not a question you can really answer. Under other circumstances
I might say he was a little worse—but he was already as bad as you could possibly get.”

“How’s Mom?”

Nat sighed. “Another question you could answer yourself. How do you think she is? She stays there all day and all night talking and talking to him about current events, about the latest diet fads in Hollywood—whatever’s in the magazines. I don’t see how she has any voice left.”

“Does she get any sleep?” Seth inquired.

“She made them fix up a bed for her right next to him. ‘In case he needs me,’ she said. Me, I can’t breathe in that room, so I’m going to our motel and lie down.”

“You’re right, Dad. It’ll do you good. See you around lunchtime.”

“Yeah, sure.” And then Nat wearily added, “Nice to see you, Judy.”

Seth held Judy’s hand as they approached the room.

The nearer they came, the more distinguishable was the whining pneumatic sound.

The door was slightly ajar, and the gray head of Rosie Lazarus was visible above the green cloth-padded armchair. She was facing the pillow end of the bed, where presumably she could see her elder son’s face. For all that was visible from Seth and Judy’s vantage point was an enormous metal respirator.

“Hello, Ma,” Seth said softly. There was no response.

“It’s me, Ma,” he said louder, thinking, That goddamn contraption is so noisy she can’t even hear the voice of her living son.

He walked into the room, Judy a step behind. His mother jumped with a start when he touched her on the shoulder.

“Oh, Seth,” she wailed, as he embraced her, “Howie’s so sick. The doctors here can’t make him better. Maybe you know a specialist from your hospital we could call.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know anyone, Ma.”

“Then we’ll just have to sit and wait,” his mother answered. And then she noticed the second visitor. “Hello, Judy, dear. How nice of you to come.”

Now for the first time Seth looked at his brother’s face. It was dwarfed by the apparatus. His eyes were closed, his brow perspiring. He must be in pain, Seth told himself. And I know that if Howie wants anything it’s for it all to
end.

He turned again to his mother. “How about you, Ma? Are you taking care of yourself? Are you eating?”

“It doesn’t matter about me. I’ll be all right.”

“Have you had breakfast, Mrs. Lazarus?” Judy asked solicitously.

“Is it time for breakfast? I thought it was still yesterday.”

“I noticed a Howard Johnson’s just down the road,” Judy offered. “I’d be glad to drive you—”

“No, no, no,” Rosie quickly protested “I can’t leave Howie that long. Be a darling and bring me a little something, will you?”

“What can I get you, then?” Judy asked.

“Nothing. Anything. I’m really not hungry. Frankly, all I need is a strong cup of coffee.”

“Well, in that case, I think there’s a machine in the lobby,” Judy replied. “Why don’t you come with me just to stretch your legs?”

Rosie sighed. “Actually, I could probably use a tiny walk.” She pushed against the arms of the chair to help herself stand up.

“Come, dear,” she said to Judy. Then she enjoined her other son, “Seth, you stay with Howie, and if anything happens you ring right away for the nurse.”

“Fine, Ma,” he replied, his words still halfway in his throat. Then he reached in his pocket and withdrew a handful of loose change. He placed the coins in Judy’s hand, adding, “If you happen to find another vending machine, get me a sandwich or something.”

“That’s right,” Rosie said approvingly, “you should eat something, too, Seth. You’re as thin as a stick.”

The moment the two women were out of the room Seth hurriedly closed the door and rushed over to where Judy had left her purse.

And then he began what he had rehearsed so many times before in dreams and fantasies. Especially all the previous night.

He went to the far end of the bed, where his hands would be hidden by the respirator should one of the nurses or doctors chance to come by.

He snapped open Judy’s handbag, reached inside, and hesitated for a moment, not even daring to breathe, as he listened for footsteps in the hall outside.

There was nothing but the sound of the respirator.

In the I.V. drip leading into Howie’s arm there was a burette, a hollow glass tube to indicate the amount of medication being administered.

Seth quickly unscrewed the narrow tubing and placed the
needle of his syringe into the burette, and emptied the massive dose it held. Then with trembling hands he hurriedly restored the I.V. to its normal function, returned the syringe to Judy’s handbag, and sat down again at his brother’s side.

He knew his brother’s heart would soon stop beating. But the mechanical ventilator would continue to pump air into his lungs. And since Howie had already been unconscious, the nurses might not find him D.I.B. for at least five minutes. Or perhaps as long as an hour.

Seth did not know if he wanted his mother to be present to say a last irrational goodbye—or to miss the moment when Howie’s agony would finally be ended.