Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese [220]
The auditorium was a small version of the Cinema Adowa in Addis, only with better seats, upholstered in a nubby beige fabric that felt smooth to the touch. A steep incline made the view from the back excellent, and this is where we prospective interns sat. A bank of motorized X-ray viewing panels was built into one side of the wall behind the podium. A resident stood loading films, stepping on a pedal to advance panels.
Constance sat next to me. A gaggle of medical students in short white coats filed in and joined us in the back. I'd forgotten about the existence of medical students. How nice it would be at Our Lady of Perpetual Succour to have someone below me on the food chain. The residents wore longer coats, and their expressions were not as carefree as the students’. The attending physicians wore the longest coats and were the last to come in. We interviewees in our dark suits stood out like penguins at a polar bear convention. In all my time at Our Lady, we never had this kind of an assembly. Deepak got us together regularly for coaching sessions, but one sensed a tradition in this room, a way of doing things that had not changed for decades.
“So what school are you from?” Constance asked. Id overheard her say she trained in Boston, but it wasn't at this institution.
“I went to school in Ethiopia,” I said. If she could have moved one seat over, she probably would have.
Thomas Stone didn't look at the crowd when he walked in; he assumed their presence. He was taller than I'd realized from seeing him in the theater, almost as tall as Shiva or me. The room turned quiet. His hands were in the pockets of his white coat. The way he slid into his seat, the ease and fluidity of that motion, reminded me of Shiva. He was alone in the front row. I was well behind him but off to one side, so I could see his profile. This was my first good look at my father. I felt my body grow warm; it wasn't possible to study him dispassionately, clinically. My mind was racing, my heart pounding—I worried that I was giving away my presence. I looked away to try and calm down. When I looked back, Stone was studying a paper in his hand—it was hard to tell he was missing a finger. His hair was quite gray at the temples, but still dark brown on top. His masseter muscles stood out, outlining his jaw, as if he habitually clenched his teeth. The one eye socket that I could see was a recessed dark hollow on his face. I noticed that he kept his head exceptionally still.
I CAN'T TELL YOU MUCH about the case being discussed or exactly what transpired. While I looked at Thomas Stone and sat next to the supercilious Constance, a slow fuse burned inside me and it was about to ignite. I was ready to hurl furniture, activate the ceiling sprinklers, scream obscenities, and disrupt this orderly meeting. I felt an impending loss of control. At one point I had to grab the arms of my chair as my rage peaked, and then gradually subsided.
“It was my fault,” Thomas Stone said, turning to face me. For a moment, I thought he was clairvoyant. He had heard me. Earlier, Matthew, our escort and the presenter of the case, came under harsh criticism from different quarters of the room. Matthew was only the messenger, but since his attending physician and the Chief Resident didn't come to his defense, he took the brunt of the attack. The snapping jaws were silenced when Thomas Stone stood up.
“Yes, it was my fault. Without a doubt we can do better surgically. I am installing a video camera in the two trauma bays. I want us to review the video after every major trauma that comes in. Were we standing in the right place? Did we take three steps to reach for an endotracheal tube when it should have been at hand? Did someone have to ask for something that should have been there? Did we distract each other with what we said? Who didn't need to be there? Is there a better way? That is always the challenge.” He pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it.
“I take