Coma

Susan nodded her head in agreement as Dr. Chapman spoke. She was still dressed in the same clothes which she had been wearing during the MBTA mishap. There were obvious abrasions on both of her knees. The parcel containing the nurse’s uniform was on her lap. It looked worse than she did.

“Dr. Chapman, the whole affair began innocently enough. The first days of the clinics are difficult enough without the series of coincidences I encountered. They sent me fleeing to the library. As much to get my head together as to learn something, I started to look into anesthetic complications. I thought I could get back to the usual routine in a day or so. But then I got involved so quickly. I turned up some information that astounded me and I thought ... maybe ... you’re going to laugh when I tell you. It almost embarrasses me to think about it.”

“Try me.”

“I thought maybe I was on the track of a new disease or syndrome or drug reaction at the least.”

Dr. Chapman’s face lit up with a genuine smile. “A new disease! Now that would have been a coup for someone’s first days as a clinical clerk. Well, one way or the other, it’s water under the bridge. I trust you feel differently now?”

“You’d better believe it. I do have a self-preservation reflex. Besides I’m starting to get delusional about the whole thing. I think I had some sort of paranoid reaction this afternoon. I was convinced a man was following me to the point that I actually panicked. Look at my knees and my clothes, as if you haven’t already noticed. To make a long story short, I tried to cross from the inbound to the outbound platform at Kendall Station of the MBTA. Idiotic!” Susan tapped her head lightly with her index finger for emphasis.

“After that I realized that it behooved me to get back to normal, quickly. Like right away. But I’m still worried that there is something peculiar about these coma incidents at the Memorial, and I would like to continue studying the problem in some capacity. Apparently there are more cases involved than I originally suspected, and maybe that is why Dr. Harris and Dr. McLeary were irritated at my naive interference. One way or another, I’m sorry I’ve caused trouble for you at the Memorial. It goes without saying that it was not my intent.”

“Susan, the Memorial is a big place. It’s probably blown over already.

The only tangible legacy is that I’m going to have to switch your surgery to the V.A. hospital. I’ve already made the arrangements, and you are to report tomorrow morning to Dr. Robert Piles’s office.” Dr. Chapman paused, looking at Susan intently. “Susan, you have a long road ahead of you. There will be plenty of time to discover new diseases or syndromes, if that is what you want. But now, today, this year, your primary goal should be basic medical education. Let Harris and McLeary work on the coma incidents. I want you to get back to work because I expect nothing but good reports about you. You’ve done very well so far.”

Susan emerged from the medical school Administration Building with a mild sense of euphoria. It was as if Dr. Chapman had powers of absolution. The ponderous problem of being ejected from medical school in disgrace had vanished. Obviously the surgery rotation at the V.A. was not as good as that at the Memorial, but in comparison to what could have happened, the transfer was a mild inconvenience indeed.

Although it was only a little after five, the winter night had begun in earnest. The rain had stopped as another cold front pushed the weakening warm front out over the Atlantic. The temperature had plummeted to about eighteen. The sky was speckled with bright stars, at least directly overhead. Toward the horizon the stars disappeared, their light unable to penetrate the noxious urban atmosphere. Susan crossed Longwood Avenue by running between the cars of impatient commuters in the clogging traffic.

In the lobby of the dorm she passed a few acquaintances, who were quick to notice Susan’s skinned knees and the greasy stain of the rail across her coat. There were some clever jibes about how tough surgery rotation must be at the Memorial, to judge by Susan, who looked as if she had been in a barroom brawl. Despite the fact that she thought the comments were rather funny, Susan almost stopped to snap back at the wisecracks. Instead she passed through the lobby and crossed the quad.

The tennis court in the center had a sad, neglected winter look.

The well-trodden wooden staircase curved gracefully up, and Susan mounted the steps slowly and deliberately, looking forward to the isolation and security her room promised. She intended to take a long bath, sort out the day mentally, and, above all, relax.