Coma

“I’m an architect,” said Berman. “One of the million or so that haunt the Cambridge scene. But that is another story. I’d much prefer to get back to you. You cannot guess how reassuring it is to me to hear you talk like a human being in this place.” Berman’s eyes swept around the room. “I don’t mind having a little operation, but this waiting around is driving me up the wall. And everybody is so Goddamn matter-of-fact.” He looked back at Susan. “Tell me what you were going to say about your former roommate; I’d like to hear.”

“Are you putting me on?” asked Susan with narrowed eyes.

“Honest.”

“Well it’s not all that important. It’s just that she was smart. She went to law school and has maintained herself as a woman yet has satisfied her urge and capacity to compete and contribute intellectually.”

“I have no idea how you have been doing intellectually but there is no doubt about you being a woman. You couldn’t be any less than the absolute antithesis of neuter.”

At first Susan was tempted to get into an argument with Berman over the fact that he equated being a woman with outward appearance. She felt that was only a part, a small part. But she caught herself and refrained. After all, Berman was on his way to surgery and didn’t need a debate.

“I can’t help the way I feel,” said Susan, “and ‘neuter’ is the best description. Initially I thought that medicine would be good for a number of reasons, including the fact that it would provide the social insurance I needed; I didn’t want to think or worry about any social pressure to get married. Well,” sighed Susan, “it provided social insurance all right, and a good deal more. Actually, I have begun to feel excommunicated from normal society.”

“In that vein I would love to be of assistance,” said Berman, pleased with his pun. “Provided, of course, you consider architects normal society. There are some who don’t, I can assure you. Anyway ...” Berman scratched the back of his head while he put his words in order. “I hardly feel capable of carrying on a reasonable conversation in this humiliating nightgown, in this depersonalized milieu, and I would like very much to continue this conversation. I’m sure you get accosted continuously and I hate to add to your burden, but perhaps we could get together for some coffee or a drink or something after I get this Goddamn knee taken care of.” Berman held up his right knee. “Screwed the thing up years ago playing football. It’s been my Achilles heel ever since, so to speak.”

“Is that what you’re scheduled for today?” asked Susan while she thought about how to respond to Berman’s offer. She knew that it was hardly professional by any stretch of the imagination. At the same time she was attracted to Berman.

“That’s right, a minuscule-ectomy, or something like that,” said Berman.

A knock at the door, followed by the rapid entry of Sarah Sterns before Susan could even respond, made Susan jump, and nervously she began to fuss with the stopcock on the I.V. Almost at the same time Susan realized how childish this action was, and it made her angry that the system could affect her to such a degree.

“Not another needle!” voiced Berman, dejected.

“Another needle. It’s your pre-op. Roll over, my friend,” said Miss Sterns. She crowded Susan in order to put her tray on the night table.

Berman glanced at Susan in a self-conscious way before rolling over on his right side. Miss Sterns bared Berman’s left buttock and grabbed a handful of flesh. The needle flashed into the muscle. It was over almost before it began.

“Don’t worry about the I.V. rate,” said Miss Sterns on her way to the door. “I’ll adjust it shortly.” She was gone.

“Well, I must be going,” said Susan quickly.

“Is it a date?” asked Berman, trying not to lean on his left buttock.

“Sean, I don’t know. I’m not sure how I feel about it; I mean professionally and all that.”

“Professionally?” Berman was genuinely surprised. “You must be being brainwashed.”

“Maybe I am,” said Susan. She looked at her watch, the door, and back at Berman. “All right,” said Susan finally, “we’ll get together. Meanwhile you have to get back to normal. I’ll live with being unprofessional but I don’t want to be accused of taking advantage of a cripple. I’ll stop in here before you go home. Do you have any idea how long you are going to be in the hospital?”

“My doctor said three days.”

“I’ll stop back before you go,” said Susan already on her way to the door.

At the door she had to give way to an orderly arriving with a gurney to transport Berman to the OR, to room No. 8, for his meniscectomy. Susan glanced back at Berman before turning down the corridor. She gave him the thumbs-up sign, which he returned with a smile. As she moved down toward the nurses’ station, Susan pondered over her mixed emotions.