Point of Balance by J.G. Jurado Page A

no more than a screwup by the machine, or that it was being reabsorbed, or there was some experimental treatment in Switzerland that would kiss it and make it better.
    But there were no screwups, no reabsorption and no miracle cures. It was thank you and good night.
    â€œWell, whoever this R. Wade may be, he is lucky, if you can call it that. The growth doesn’t appear to be especially quick. Unfortunately the good news ends there. He’ll likely lose his speech faculty within a couple of months. And he’ll be dead inside a year.”
    The little man calmly wiped his glasses on a silk handkerchief that matched his bow tie. In all likelihood, he had already heard this many times before. He folded the handkerchief very carefully and tucked it into his lapel pocket. He blinked shortsightedly a couple of times, put on his glasses and looked me in the eye.
    â€œWould you operate on him?”
    And that is where I blew it.
    â€œOf course. Although it will be high-risk and the results far from spectacular. I couldn’t buy him much time.”
    â€œWhat about the speech faculty?”
    â€œI believe, and this is no more than a conditional estimate, that the part of the tumor located between the Wernicke’s and Broca’s areas can be removed.”
    â€œConditional upon?”
    â€œUpon seeing the patient, studying his symptoms and following proper procedure. I understand you want to do a friend a favor, but this is no way to go about it.”
    He calmly nodded in agreement. It was what he’d expected to hear.
    â€œThank you very much, Dr. Evans. You have been most kind.”
    The morning after, my boss called me into her office. My consulting room is usually spick-and-span, a habit my adoptive father inculcated in me by example and many a night without dinner. Stephanie’s desk was a jungle of papers, medical magazines and job reports. She sat barricaded behind that mound of paper and rattled her teeth with a pen.
    â€œWe’re off to see Meyer,” she said, standing up as soon as she saw me.
    â€œThe prince of darkness? What in heaven’s nameis going on here, Stephanie?”
    â€œYou tell me.”
    I had to trot to keep pace with her on the way to the elevator. Although she has short legs, my boss moved them at great speed when she was angry, and just then she was seething. She had no clue what was up, and if there’s one thing my boss hated, it was being out of the loop.
    We went up to the floor, the one with carpets, rubber plants, patchouli air freshener and Kenny G’s sax as mood music. I seldom went there but always asked myself the same question: how could anybody stand working for more than a couple of hours under thatcombination without going mental? The plain answer is: they can’t. All hospital execs are deranged and devote every living minute to making our work more efficient and prices more competitive. By “efficient” I mean cheap, and by “competitive,” obscenely exorbitant.
    Meyer’s secretary ushered us in, and he was waiting for us behind a mahogany desk big enough to play tennis on. Robert Meyer was the classic product of an Ivy League MBA program, full of himself and of bright ideas that went down great in the annual report but bombed in the operating theater. You want to know when health care went to hell in a handbasket in this country? When they took doctors out of management and put bean counters such as Meyer in charge. Ask yourselves why an MRI scan costs one quarter in France of what it does in the home of the brave.
    â€œDr. Wong, Dr. Evans. Please come in. David, I believe you’ve already met . . .”
    Beside him was the little man in the bow tie, who shook my hand shyly. After the introductions, the visitor explained which patient he represented.
    â€œHe wants you to operate on him, David.”
    They all gawked at me: Stephanie in perplexity and with envy verging on hatred, Meyer with