the street to the casualty department when the day started to darken. She thought that there was an eclipse, and was surprised that no one was looking at the sky. Casualty had sent her straight here, and now she could barely see the stripes on the registrar's shirt. When he held up his fingers she could not count them.
'I don't want to go blind/ she said in a small, shocked voice. 'Please don't let me go blind.'
How was it possible that such large clear eyes could lose their sight? When Henry was sent off to find the consultant, who couldn't be raised on his pager, he felt an unprofessional pang of exclusion, a feeling that he could not afford to leave the registrar - a smooth predatory type - alone with such a rare creature. He, Perowne, wanted to do everything himself to save her, even though he had only a rudimentary sense of what her problem might be.
The consultant, Mr Whaley, was in an important meeting. He was a grand, shambling figure in three-piece pinstripe suit with a fob watch and a purple silk handkerchief poking from his top pocket. Perowne had often seen from a distance the distinctive pate gleaming in the sombre corridors. Whaley's booming theatrical voice was much parodied by the juniors. Perowne asked the secretary to go in and interrupt him. While he waited, he mentally rehearsed, keen to impress the great man with a succinct presentation. Whaley came out and listened with a scowl as Perowne started to tell him of a nineteen-year-old female's headache, her sudden onset of acute visual field impairment, and a history of amenorrhea and galactorrhea.
'For God's sake, lad. Irregular menstruation, nipple discharge!' He proclaimed this in his clipped, wartime news announcer's voice, but he was also moving down the corridor at speed with his jacket under his arm.
A chair was brought so that he could sit facing his patient. As he examined her eyes, his breathing appeared to slow.
41 Ian McEwan
Perowne watched the beautiful pale intelligent face tilted up^
at the consultant. He would have given much for her to beJj
listening that way to him. Deprived of visual clues, she had�
to rely on every shifting nuance in Whaley's voice. The diagnosis was swift.
'Well, well, young lady. It seems you have a tumour on your pituitary gland, which is an organ the size of a pea in the centre of your brain. There's a haemorrhage around the*
tumour pressing on your optic nerves.'f
There was a tall window behind the consultant's head, and�
Rosalind must have been able to discern his outline, for her eyes seemed to scan his face. She was silent for several seconds. Then she said wonderingly, The really could go blind.'
'Not if we get to work on you straight away.'
She nodded her assent. Whaley told the registrar to order a confirmatory CT scan for Rosalind on her way to the theatre. Then leaning forward and speaking to her softly, almost tenderly, he explained how the tumour was making prolactin, a hormone associated with pregnancy that caused periods to stop and breasts to make milk. He reassured her that her tumour would be benign and that he expected her to make a complete recovery. Everything depended on speed. After a cursory look at her breasts to confirm the diagnosis Henry's view was obstructed - Mr Whaley stood and assumed a loud, public voice as he issued instructions. Then he strode away to reschedule his afternoon.
Henry escorted her from the radiology department to the operating suite. She lay on the trolley in anguish. He was a Senior House Officer of four months who couldn't even pretend to know much about the procedure that lay ahead. He waited with her in the corridor for the anaesthetist to arrive. Making small talk, he discovered she was a law student and had no immediate family nearby. Her father was in France, and her mother was dead. An adored aunt lived in Scotland, in the Western Isles. Rosalind was tearful, struggling against powerful emotions. She got control of her
42 Saturday
voice and,
'I don't want to go blind/ she said in a small, shocked voice. 'Please don't let me go blind.'
How was it possible that such large clear eyes could lose their sight? When Henry was sent off to find the consultant, who couldn't be raised on his pager, he felt an unprofessional pang of exclusion, a feeling that he could not afford to leave the registrar - a smooth predatory type - alone with such a rare creature. He, Perowne, wanted to do everything himself to save her, even though he had only a rudimentary sense of what her problem might be.
The consultant, Mr Whaley, was in an important meeting. He was a grand, shambling figure in three-piece pinstripe suit with a fob watch and a purple silk handkerchief poking from his top pocket. Perowne had often seen from a distance the distinctive pate gleaming in the sombre corridors. Whaley's booming theatrical voice was much parodied by the juniors. Perowne asked the secretary to go in and interrupt him. While he waited, he mentally rehearsed, keen to impress the great man with a succinct presentation. Whaley came out and listened with a scowl as Perowne started to tell him of a nineteen-year-old female's headache, her sudden onset of acute visual field impairment, and a history of amenorrhea and galactorrhea.
'For God's sake, lad. Irregular menstruation, nipple discharge!' He proclaimed this in his clipped, wartime news announcer's voice, but he was also moving down the corridor at speed with his jacket under his arm.
A chair was brought so that he could sit facing his patient. As he examined her eyes, his breathing appeared to slow.
41 Ian McEwan
Perowne watched the beautiful pale intelligent face tilted up^
at the consultant. He would have given much for her to beJj
listening that way to him. Deprived of visual clues, she had�
to rely on every shifting nuance in Whaley's voice. The diagnosis was swift.
'Well, well, young lady. It seems you have a tumour on your pituitary gland, which is an organ the size of a pea in the centre of your brain. There's a haemorrhage around the*
tumour pressing on your optic nerves.'f
There was a tall window behind the consultant's head, and�
Rosalind must have been able to discern his outline, for her eyes seemed to scan his face. She was silent for several seconds. Then she said wonderingly, The really could go blind.'
'Not if we get to work on you straight away.'
She nodded her assent. Whaley told the registrar to order a confirmatory CT scan for Rosalind on her way to the theatre. Then leaning forward and speaking to her softly, almost tenderly, he explained how the tumour was making prolactin, a hormone associated with pregnancy that caused periods to stop and breasts to make milk. He reassured her that her tumour would be benign and that he expected her to make a complete recovery. Everything depended on speed. After a cursory look at her breasts to confirm the diagnosis Henry's view was obstructed - Mr Whaley stood and assumed a loud, public voice as he issued instructions. Then he strode away to reschedule his afternoon.
Henry escorted her from the radiology department to the operating suite. She lay on the trolley in anguish. He was a Senior House Officer of four months who couldn't even pretend to know much about the procedure that lay ahead. He waited with her in the corridor for the anaesthetist to arrive. Making small talk, he discovered she was a law student and had no immediate family nearby. Her father was in France, and her mother was dead. An adored aunt lived in Scotland, in the Western Isles. Rosalind was tearful, struggling against powerful emotions. She got control of her
42 Saturday
voice and,
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