Coma

Susan entered and allowed herself only a short look at Berman while she returned the smile. She then pushed the door to its original position. She put the tray on the foot of the bed and hung the I.V. bottle from the stand at the head of the bed. She consciously avoided Berman’s eyes while she wondered why in God’s name did Berman have to be so young, healthy, and obviously in charge of all his faculties. Susan certainly would have preferred an unconscious centenarian.

“Not another needle!” said Berman with partially feigned overconcern.

“I’m afraid so,” said Susan opening a package of I.V. tubing, which she inserted into the bottle of D5W on the stand, allowing some of the fluid to run through the tube before securing it with a stopcock. With that accomplished, Susan looked up at Berman, to find that he was staring intently at her.

“Are you a doctor?” asked Berman with a tone of disbelief.

Susan didn’t respond immediately. She continued to look directly into Berman’s deep brown eyes. In her mind she weighed the possibilities of her response. She wasn’t a doctor, that was obvious. What did she want to say? She wanted to say that she was a doctor. But Susan was a realist and she wondered if she would ever be able to say she was a doctor and believe it herself.

“No,” said Susan with finality while returning her gaze to the #21 scalp needle. The reality disappointed her and she thought that it would add to Berman’s anxiety. “I’m just a medical student,” she added.

Berman’s hands stopped their nervous activity. “There’s no need to be defensive about that,” he said with sincerity. “You just don’t look like a doctor or a doctor-to-be.”

Berman’s innocent comment struck a tender chord in Susan’s mind. Her embryonic professionalism made her rather paranoid and she immediately misconstrued Berman’s comment, which was meant as a backhanded compliment.

“What is your name?” continued Berman, totally unaware of the effect of his previous comment. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the overhead fluorescent lights and motioned for Susan to turn slightly to the left so he could see her name tag on her lapel. “Susan Wheeler ... Dr.

Susan Wheeler. It has a natural sound to it.”

Susan quickly realized that Berman was not challenging her as a doctor after all. Still she did not respond. Something about Berman was distantly but comfortably familiar to her but she could not characterize it. Her mind tried but it was too subtly hidden in the immediacy of their encounter. It had something to do with Berman’s charming authoritarian manner.

Partially as a method to concentrate her own thoughts and partially to control the conversation, Susan plunged into the I.V. affair. In a businesslike manner she placed the tourniquet about Berman’s left wrist and pulled it tight. She tore open the packets containing the scalp needle and the alcohol sponge. Berman’s eyes followed these preparations with great interest.

“Gotta admit from the start, I’m not crazy about needles,” said Berman, trying to maintain a degree of aplomb. He looked back and forth from his hand to Susan.

Susan sensed Berman’s mounting concern and she wondered what he’d say if she told him that it was her first attempt at starting an I.V. She was quite certain that he would simply become unhinged. She felt certain because she realized that if the roles were reversed, that would be how she would react.

The tourniquet combined forces with Berman’s ectomorphic body to make the veins on the back of his hand stand out like garden hoses.

Susan took a deep breath and held it. Berman did the same. After a swipe with the alcohol pledget, Susan tried to jam the needle into the back of Berman’s hand. But the skin advanced, resisting penetration.

“Ahhh,” cried Berman gripping the sheet with his free right hand. He was purposely overdoing the theatrics as a self-preservation maneuver.

However, its effect was to unnerve Susan, who desisted in her attempt to break the skin.

“If it’s any consolation, you feel just like a doctor,” said Berman looking at the back of his left hand. The tourniquet was still in place and the hand had an overall bluish discoloration.

“Mr. Berman, you’re going to have to be a little more cooperative,” said Susan, mustering her forces for a renewed attempt and wishing to spread the responsibility for any failure.

“Cooperate, she says,” echoed Berman while rolling his eyes up inside of his head. “I’ve been as quiet as a sacrificial lamb.”

Susan replaced Berman’s left hand flat on the bed. With her own left hand she effected countertraction on Berman’s skin. With the same amount of effort the needle entered the scanty tissue.

“I give up,” pleaded Berman with a tinge of humor.