Hiss Of Death

Dr. MacCormack’s office, along with many other physicians’, was located along the outer road belt of the new enormous Central Virginia Hospital.

The old hospital, the main brick building constructed in 1930, could no longer meet the demands of a wealthy county. Like the other doctors who had worked at the old hospital, Dr. MacCormack rejoiced in the new one.

Two years ago, Central Virginia Medical Complex, west of Charlottesville, opened to great fanfare. The cost of the hospital, outbuildings, and equipment staggered the imagination and probably exceeded the gross national product of Namibia.

Flanked by Regina and Jerome Neff, as well as the hospital administrator and the county commissioners, Dr. Isadore Wineberg, sixty-one, had cut the ribbon.

The old-timers wondered what those who practiced at the old hospital and who had since passed away would make of the building, with its gleaming wings radiating off the main hub. In particular, Izzy and Regina thought of Larry Johnson, a general practitioner who often took vegetables and even chickens in payment for his services. It was a sure bet the doctors at Central Virginia Hospital would take no chickens. They were a different breed from Larry Johnson, a different breed from Izzy and Regina, too.

The new generation, in thrall to technology, forgot to study the patient as an entire organism. The focus was on scans, blood tests, numbers, numbers, numbers. The flaw in this overreliance on technology was an underreliance on common sense. This misstep was most apparent in the dispensing of drugs, the ordering of batteries of unnecessary tests. The unnecessary tests covered the physician’s ass from lawsuits, mostly. Meanwhile, the bills spiraled ever upward, and if the patient wasn’t horribly sick before treatment, the depletion of funds contributed to malaise afterward.

Rehabilitation also underlined the difference between older and younger doctors. How did the patient live? Was he or she a horseman? Not an idle question in central Virginia, for horsemen are stoics. They might hurt like hell, but they won’t tell you. And if you don’t pay attention to them, they will launch into rehabilitation in ways the young doctor never imagined. Horsemen with kidney transplants would climb up on a horse’s back three weeks after surgery. A person leading a sedentary life in front of a computer would be walking and little more at three weeks.

This blindness to the total person drove Izzy, Regina, and the younger Jerome nuts. The older doctors took those with brilliance and common sense, like Jennifer Potter, a young surgeon, under their wings. Cory Schaeffer they left alone. To his credit, he was usually surrounded by athletes in his off-hours, kept himself in shape, and seemed to recognize another athlete when he saw one, even if it was on the operating table. But his arrogance ensured that the old guard would never invite him to learn the nuances—not just of medicine but of Virginia. They’d sit back and watch him make those mistakes that can be costly—if not in medical terms, then in social.

After the ribbon-cutting ceremony, Izzy and Regina repaired for a drink.

“I’m glad I’ll be retiring soon,” Izzy said as he reached for his second Scotch and soda.

“If only we could just practice medicine,” Regina wistfully said.

“Those days are gone, Regina, gone forever.”

“Well, I’ll do the best I can.”

And she did.

Central Virginia Hospital sat in the middle of a large, round beltway. Spokes were the various departments, the core of the new building being a large six-story square. The architects felt they had created a state-of-the-art medical center, but like so many new things, it was confusing as hell. Did one go to the core building to check in, or did one go to the wing that housed one’s specialist?

One thing they did right was the emergency room, which was easy to find. It was the first spoke off the main building once one turned off the state highway onto the beltway. The overhang where ambulances pulled in had a series of lights. You couldn’t miss it.

Another thing the designers accomplished was exciting landscaping and plantings. One saw lots of green spaces, too. Dr. MacCormack’s office sat on one of the roads off the beltway, away from the hospital. Like the hospital, those buildings were sparkling new. Many doctors could perform minor procedures in their offices, a great convenience to patients. Harry drove along to Willow Lane, turned right, and within less than a minute arrived at the modern glass-and-steel three-story building. An expensive carved and painted sign with Apollo’s caduceus identified this as Willow Lane Medical Associates. Once at the front door, another painted sign, again expensively done with incised letters in black with gilt edges, cited all the doctors within.

Harry passed through Regina’s office door at ten and passed back out at ten-thirty. She felt a weight on her shoulders she’d never felt before.

As she walked through the parking lot to her truck, she said hello to Cory Schaeffer, M.D.

“How are you, Harry?” he asked.

“Fine,” she lied. “And you?”

“Good, thank you.” He locked the door of a small car painted a pretty light metallic misty green.

“Is that an electric car?”

“It is. The Lampo. Just bought it last week. You put the key in, there’s no motor noise. That’s taken me a bit to get used to, but the mileage is unbelievable. Even better, screw the Arabs. I don’t need their gas.”

Given Cory’s aggressive views on that and other subjects, Harry demurred. “There’s wisdom in that. Correct me if I’m wrong. Doesn’t the battery for this thing cost twelve thousand dollars?”

“Uh, I’m not sure of the exact price, but there’s no danger of me having to buy a battery. I have a cruising range of four hundred miles. Now, that’s really incredible. The car will switch to a four-cylinder engine should the voltage drop too low. I’ve not yet heard those four cylinders. I expect I will sometime or other.”

“So, if you drove, say, to the Greenbrier,” Harry said, mentioning a gorgeous retreat in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, “you wouldn’t need gas?”

“Not a drop.”

“Where do you plug in the car? I mean, you’d have to put it in the parking lot. How would you recharge the battery?”

“Right now gas stations and retreats like Hot Springs or the Greenbrier don’t have a facility for a recharge. But given the push for autonomy from foreign powers when it comes to transportation and energy, I’m confident that within a year or two we will pull into a gas station or a parking lot even at a motel and there will be a recharge station so more than one car can fill up, so to speak. I envision it as a low bank with big square outlets.”

“I hope you’re right, or you won’t be going too far.” Harry couldn’t resist the little jab.

“Trust technology, Harry. It’s gotten us this far.”

She wanted to say “And yes, it’s polluted our rivers, our skies; ruined our eyes in many cases as people stare into screens all day; it’s helped create far too much obesity as people sit hours upon hours; but worse, it’s broken the bonds between people.”

She knew he wouldn’t see it that way, but then again, maybe a physician couldn’t. So much of what happened in their world involved nanotechnology, lasers, imaging, new ways to heal without cutting, and more tests than even a genius could remember. It overwhelmed her, and she mistrusted it. It was her nature to distrust the new.

“I’ll try,” she fibbed.

Cory rested his hand on the short hood of the Lampo. “You found her, didn’t you?”

“Yep.”

“Well, I’m sorry for that, Harry. What a good nurse she was. If you’re in the operating room, you want Paula.”

“Didn’t mean to criticize you about trusting technology.”

He reached over and touched Harry’s shoulder. “We can’t know everything, but we can try, and so often technology can show us the problem much faster than our own senses.”

“It’s good to see you, Cory. Thanks for talking to me about your car.”

“Oh, I know you’re a gearhead.” He smiled. “One of the first conversations I had with you when I moved here from Minneapolis was why a live axle is a rougher ride but better for a truck. I thought, well, I haven’t met too many women who know stuff like that, and then I met BoomBoom Craycroft. Must be something in the water in these parts.”

“Hope so. Saves us money when we go for auto repair.” Cory blinked.

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Men usually don’t.”

A puzzled look crossed his face. “What’s being a man got to do with it? I figure if you know motors, you can tell the mechanic where to look first. Save some money.”

“True enough. However, Cory, there are those dishonest mechanics out there who figure a woman is as dumb as a sack of hammers about motors. So they give you a laundry list of repairs, all of which are unnecessary. The woman foots the bill. That’s never happened to BoomBoom or me.”

He smiled slyly. “No, but I bet a lot else has.”

Harry laughed and waved him off as he walked away. She then hopped up into the high seat of her F-150 with the live axle—so good for hauling. She cranked the engine and luxuriated in the rumble of that big old gas-guzzling V-8.

“Damned if I’d buy an electric car.” She rolled down the road, then pulled over.

She opened the glove compartment, fished out her cellphone, which was taped together after many little accidents, and dialed Susan Tucker.

“Hey.”

“Hey back at you. Where you at?” Susan used the grammatically incorrect sentence.

“Dr. MacCormack’s. Can I see you? Now.”

After so many years of friendship, Susan knew Harry was in trouble.

“I’m on the golf course. Want to meet me at the Nineteenth Hole or home?”

“Home.”

“Be there in about a half hour.”

“Good enough.”

• • •

When Susan pulled into her driveway, Harry felt a flood of relief and love. She needed Susan, and Susan never failed her. Harry prayed that she had never failed her friend, either.

Within minutes, the two sat at Susan’s kitchen table, tea in front of them, as well as Harry’s problem.

“You’re going to have the procedure, aren’t you?”

“I am, but I’m not looking forward to it. I have to lie on a table, drop my boob through it, and they go in with a tiny, tiny scalpel with a little fishhook, sort of, pull out some tissue, then test it.”

“They’ll put some numbing cream on. That will help.”

“There isn’t going to be any numbing cream at the back of my boob. It’s going to hurt like hell.”

Susan put both hands around her beautiful bone china cup. One’s chinaware, silver, and crystal still counted in these parts. Susan had inherited delicate china from her paternal line going back to 1720.

“Harry, I’m sorry. You have to do it.”

“Will you go with me?”

“Of course I will. Tell me when.”

“I’ll know tomorrow. Dr. MacCormack is making the appointment. She says she just won’t know anything until we have tissue. A mammogram can miss a lot or sometimes just get it wrong. Obviously, she’s worried, or I wouldn’t have to do this.”

Susan took a deep breath, stared straight into Harry’s light brown eyes. “Okay. What if it is cancer? You aren’t going to ignore it, which I know you can do. For one thing, I won’t let you, and neither will your husband.”

Tears misted over Harry’s eyes. “What if it is? I mean, what if I lost my breast? How will I look to Fair?”

Susan reached over and placed her manicured hand over Harry’s hand. “He loves you. Do you think he loves one of your breasts more than you?”

Harry sighed deeply. “No, but still.”

“Okay. Let me ask you this. If he had to have one of his testicles removed, would you love him any less?”

“Oh, Susan, that’s not a fair question. I don’t go around looking at his parts and getting a buzz. But you know as well as I do, take off your blouse, take off your bra, and they go crazy.”

Susan paused. “Well, you got a point there. I can’t say as I find Ned’s lower regions beautiful. I’m delighted everything functions properly, and I tell him how wonderful it is, but—”

“It’s the difference between women and men.” Harry smiled. “I should amend that. It’s the difference between most women and most men. I don’t want to look ugly to him.”

“Harry, for God’s sake. Fair will be with you every step of the way. He isn’t going to stop loving you, and he isn’t going to stop being sexually attracted to you. Give the man some credit.”

This lifted Harry’s spirits. “Well, what if the worst happens and they lop off my right boob. Does that mean I’ll list to port?”

Susan laughed because it was funny but mostly because Harry was picking up again. “If you do, I’ll hold your left arm and prop you up.”

“Ha!”

“Look, don’t jump to conclusions. One, it may not be cancerous. Two, if it is, they will probably remove the tumor but not your whole breast. Three, if the worst does happen and they remove your breast, you’ll have reconstructive surgery. But I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Harry, silent for a time, finally said, “You know, I’m being shortsighted. The worst would be if it is cancer and it has spread.”

“Don’t even say that!”

“Wouldn’t you think that if it were you?”

A silence followed from Susan, who then broke it. “Yes.”

Harry fingered the lilies in the violet-glass vase on the table. “Sucks. But I won’t know until I get hooked, so what good does it do to worry?” She looked up at Susan, her eyes misting again. “Do you think I’ll smell funny to Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker? Do you think they’ll stay away from me? Hospitals have such strange odors.” She then added, “I need them with me.”

Owen, sitting at her feet, piped up. “My sister loves you, and those awful cats love you. Doesn’t matter how you smell.”

The two humans looked down into the dog’s expressive brown eyes.

Susan, not really knowing what Owen said, replied, “He’s telling you all will be well.”