at Leslie for a moment. He had heard about her. His colleagues raved about how bright she was. And pleasant. And compulsive. But he had never worked with her. He had noticed her, of course. It was hard not to notice the slender, drawn face framed in chestnut curls, the bright blue eyes and the trim but voluptuous figure unsuccessfully concealed by her white coat. And the smile, sometimes tired, sometimes wan, was always there. Always retrievable.
They all noticed her, the entire faculty, and they talked about her, kindly wondering, Who is she? What does she do when she leaves the hospital? Does she have anyone waiting for her? Is she happy?
They hoped so. They liked her.
Now, talking with her, mesmerized by her fresh, natural beauty and her large, attentive, concerned eyes, Jack Samuels knew, felt, what they had been talking about.
Then Leslie suggested that the tumor might be secreting a substance. That was what he thought. It would be extremely unusual. Reportable. Most interns, or even residents, would never have considered it.
“That’s what I’ve been wondering, too,” he said.
“Does that mean we will be giving her more chemotherapy?” she asked.
“Maybe. I haven’t decided. It’s awfully hard to give chemotherapy that destroys the marrow to someone whose marrow you are trying to stimulate. Not to mention the trouble with supporting her with blood products.”
“But if it is all due to tumor and we don’t treat it,” Leslie began quietly.
“I know. This is a tough one. Let’s discuss it after you see her and review her records. Let me know what you think,” he said, scarcely believing what he heard himself say. Jack Samuels had never, ever, asked for an intern’s opinion on such an important decision. Of course, as a faculty member, he went through the usual rituals of involving the interns, engaging them in Socratic dialogue. He even listened to what they said.
But he had never before solicited an opinion.
Leslie simply nodded and said, “OK.”
“I guess she’s not on the floor yet. I was going to introduce you.”
“I’ll see her as soon as she arrives. Then shall I call you?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Thank you, Dr. Samuels.”
“Call me Jack, Leslie,” he said, amazing himself again, but chuckling inwardly at how his wife, herself a physician, would diagnose what had happened. An acute, self-limited attack of middle age, she would say, laughing.
From Jack Samuels’s description, Leslie formed a clear picture of what Mrs. Watson would look like: frail, exhausted, dying.
“Mrs. Watson?” Leslie asked with surprise when she saw the woman sitting in the bed assigned to Jean Watson.
Jean Watson sat cross-legged on the hospital bed. She wore a modest, fluffy, bright yellow robe. Her hair was dark red, her face freckled, her eyes merry and twinkly and her smile broad. Her fifty-eight year old face, wrinkled and full of character, instantly sent the message that those fifty-eight years had been full, interesting, happy ones.
“Yes?” she chirped.
“Mrs. Watson, I’m Leslie Adams. I’m the intern who will be taking care of you.”
Leslie usually introduced herself as Leslie Adams, intern, rather than Dr. Adams. It caused less distance.
Sometimes Leslie had to be firm about who she was and the authority she had. Then she was Dr. Adams. The doctor. Those times usually occurred in the San Francisco General Hospital emergency room with alcoholics, drug addicts and psychotic patients who were too drugged, confused or belligerent to pay attention to anything but her size, her fragile prettiness and her sex. Leslie had to tell them, clearly, directly, that she was their doctor. And that she was in charge.
But it wasn’t necessary with Mrs. Watson.
“You’re a doctor!”
“Well, yes,” Leslie said patiently. “Interns are doctors.”
“Dear, I know that. I was reacting to your age, not your rank. You look so young! I’ve been in hospitals enough in the past year that
They all noticed her, the entire faculty, and they talked about her, kindly wondering, Who is she? What does she do when she leaves the hospital? Does she have anyone waiting for her? Is she happy?
They hoped so. They liked her.
Now, talking with her, mesmerized by her fresh, natural beauty and her large, attentive, concerned eyes, Jack Samuels knew, felt, what they had been talking about.
Then Leslie suggested that the tumor might be secreting a substance. That was what he thought. It would be extremely unusual. Reportable. Most interns, or even residents, would never have considered it.
“That’s what I’ve been wondering, too,” he said.
“Does that mean we will be giving her more chemotherapy?” she asked.
“Maybe. I haven’t decided. It’s awfully hard to give chemotherapy that destroys the marrow to someone whose marrow you are trying to stimulate. Not to mention the trouble with supporting her with blood products.”
“But if it is all due to tumor and we don’t treat it,” Leslie began quietly.
“I know. This is a tough one. Let’s discuss it after you see her and review her records. Let me know what you think,” he said, scarcely believing what he heard himself say. Jack Samuels had never, ever, asked for an intern’s opinion on such an important decision. Of course, as a faculty member, he went through the usual rituals of involving the interns, engaging them in Socratic dialogue. He even listened to what they said.
But he had never before solicited an opinion.
Leslie simply nodded and said, “OK.”
“I guess she’s not on the floor yet. I was going to introduce you.”
“I’ll see her as soon as she arrives. Then shall I call you?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Thank you, Dr. Samuels.”
“Call me Jack, Leslie,” he said, amazing himself again, but chuckling inwardly at how his wife, herself a physician, would diagnose what had happened. An acute, self-limited attack of middle age, she would say, laughing.
From Jack Samuels’s description, Leslie formed a clear picture of what Mrs. Watson would look like: frail, exhausted, dying.
“Mrs. Watson?” Leslie asked with surprise when she saw the woman sitting in the bed assigned to Jean Watson.
Jean Watson sat cross-legged on the hospital bed. She wore a modest, fluffy, bright yellow robe. Her hair was dark red, her face freckled, her eyes merry and twinkly and her smile broad. Her fifty-eight year old face, wrinkled and full of character, instantly sent the message that those fifty-eight years had been full, interesting, happy ones.
“Yes?” she chirped.
“Mrs. Watson, I’m Leslie Adams. I’m the intern who will be taking care of you.”
Leslie usually introduced herself as Leslie Adams, intern, rather than Dr. Adams. It caused less distance.
Sometimes Leslie had to be firm about who she was and the authority she had. Then she was Dr. Adams. The doctor. Those times usually occurred in the San Francisco General Hospital emergency room with alcoholics, drug addicts and psychotic patients who were too drugged, confused or belligerent to pay attention to anything but her size, her fragile prettiness and her sex. Leslie had to tell them, clearly, directly, that she was their doctor. And that she was in charge.
But it wasn’t necessary with Mrs. Watson.
“You’re a doctor!”
“Well, yes,” Leslie said patiently. “Interns are doctors.”
“Dear, I know that. I was reacting to your age, not your rank. You look so young! I’ve been in hospitals enough in the past year that
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