those patientswho could not do what he was doing. Then there was the sound. Or, rather, the absence of sound. The freeway ran near the hospital, and the reassuring
thwok!
of the tennis balls was completely obliterated by the steady, monotonous rush of passing cars.
It was getting dark now, and he was having trouble with his vision; the ball seemed to pop unexpectedly into his court. Kelso was much less hampered. Morris often joked that Kelso ate too many carrots, but whatever the explanation, it was humiliating to play late with Kelso. Darkness helped him. And Morris hated to lose.
He had long ago become comfortable with the fact of his own competitiveness. Morris never stopped competing. He competed in games, he competed in work, he competed with women. More than once Ross had pointed that out to him, and then dropped the subject in the sly way that psychiatrists raise a point, then drop it. Morris didn’t mind. It was a fact of his life, and whatever the connotations—deep insecurity, a need to prove himself, a feeling of inferiority—he didn’t worry about it. He drew pleasure from competition and satisfaction from winning. And so far in his life he had managed to win more often than not.
In part, he had joined the NPS because the challenges were very great and because the potential rewards were enormous. Privately, Morris expected to be a professor of surgery before he was forty. His past career had been outstanding—that was why Ellis had accepted him—and he was equally confident about his future. It wouldn’t hurt to be associated with a landmark case in surgical history.
All in all, he was in a good mood, and he playedhard for half an hour, until he was tired and it was too dark to see. He signaled to Kelso—no point in calling above the freeway sounds—to end the game. They met at the net and shook hands. Morris was reassured to see that Kelso was sweating heavily.
“Good game,” Kelso said. “Tomorrow, same time?”
“I’m not sure,” Morris said.
Kelso paused. “Oh,” he said. “That’s right. You have a big day tomorrow.”
“Big day,” Morris nodded. Christ, had the news even reached the pediatric residents? For a moment he felt what Ellis must be feeling—the intense pressure, abstract, vague, that came from knowing that the entire University Hospital staff was watching this procedure.
“Well, good luck with it,” Kelso said.
As the two men walked back to the hospital, Morris saw Ellis, a distant solitary figure, limping slightly as he crossed the parking lot and climbed into his car, and drove home.
WEDNESDAY,
MARCH 10, 1971:
Implantation
1
A T 6 A.M . J ANET R OSS WAS ON THE THIRD SURGICAL floor, dressed in greens, having coffee and a doughnut. The surgeons’ lounge was busy at this hour. Although operations were scheduled to begin at six, most didn’t get going for fifteen or twenty minutes after that. The surgeons sat around, reading the newspaper, discussing the stock market and their golf games. From time to time one of them would leave, go to the overhead viewing galleries, and look down on their ORs to see how preparations were coming.
Ross was the only woman in the room, and her presence changed the masculine atmosphere subtly. It annoyed her that she should be the only woman, and it annoyed her that the men should become quieter, more polite, less jovial and raucous. She didn’t give a damn if they were raucous, and she resented being made to feel like an intruder. It seemed to her that she had been an intruder all her life, even when she was very young. Her father had been a surgeon who never bothered to conceal his disappointment that he had a daughter instead of a son. A son would have fitted into his scheme of life; he could have brought him to the hospital on Saturday mornings, taken him into the operating rooms—those were all things youcould do with a
son.
But a daughter was something else, a perplexing entity not suited for a surgical life. And therefore
thwok!
of the tennis balls was completely obliterated by the steady, monotonous rush of passing cars.
It was getting dark now, and he was having trouble with his vision; the ball seemed to pop unexpectedly into his court. Kelso was much less hampered. Morris often joked that Kelso ate too many carrots, but whatever the explanation, it was humiliating to play late with Kelso. Darkness helped him. And Morris hated to lose.
He had long ago become comfortable with the fact of his own competitiveness. Morris never stopped competing. He competed in games, he competed in work, he competed with women. More than once Ross had pointed that out to him, and then dropped the subject in the sly way that psychiatrists raise a point, then drop it. Morris didn’t mind. It was a fact of his life, and whatever the connotations—deep insecurity, a need to prove himself, a feeling of inferiority—he didn’t worry about it. He drew pleasure from competition and satisfaction from winning. And so far in his life he had managed to win more often than not.
In part, he had joined the NPS because the challenges were very great and because the potential rewards were enormous. Privately, Morris expected to be a professor of surgery before he was forty. His past career had been outstanding—that was why Ellis had accepted him—and he was equally confident about his future. It wouldn’t hurt to be associated with a landmark case in surgical history.
All in all, he was in a good mood, and he playedhard for half an hour, until he was tired and it was too dark to see. He signaled to Kelso—no point in calling above the freeway sounds—to end the game. They met at the net and shook hands. Morris was reassured to see that Kelso was sweating heavily.
“Good game,” Kelso said. “Tomorrow, same time?”
“I’m not sure,” Morris said.
Kelso paused. “Oh,” he said. “That’s right. You have a big day tomorrow.”
“Big day,” Morris nodded. Christ, had the news even reached the pediatric residents? For a moment he felt what Ellis must be feeling—the intense pressure, abstract, vague, that came from knowing that the entire University Hospital staff was watching this procedure.
“Well, good luck with it,” Kelso said.
As the two men walked back to the hospital, Morris saw Ellis, a distant solitary figure, limping slightly as he crossed the parking lot and climbed into his car, and drove home.
WEDNESDAY,
MARCH 10, 1971:
Implantation
1
A T 6 A.M . J ANET R OSS WAS ON THE THIRD SURGICAL floor, dressed in greens, having coffee and a doughnut. The surgeons’ lounge was busy at this hour. Although operations were scheduled to begin at six, most didn’t get going for fifteen or twenty minutes after that. The surgeons sat around, reading the newspaper, discussing the stock market and their golf games. From time to time one of them would leave, go to the overhead viewing galleries, and look down on their ORs to see how preparations were coming.
Ross was the only woman in the room, and her presence changed the masculine atmosphere subtly. It annoyed her that she should be the only woman, and it annoyed her that the men should become quieter, more polite, less jovial and raucous. She didn’t give a damn if they were raucous, and she resented being made to feel like an intruder. It seemed to her that she had been an intruder all her life, even when she was very young. Her father had been a surgeon who never bothered to conceal his disappointment that he had a daughter instead of a son. A son would have fitted into his scheme of life; he could have brought him to the hospital on Saturday mornings, taken him into the operating rooms—those were all things youcould do with a
son.
But a daughter was something else, a perplexing entity not suited for a surgical life. And therefore
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