Bitter Business

me, God never made a rash that couldn’t wait until tomorrow. And it’s not as though seeing patients in the derm clinic is what I’d call tough. Not like being on your feet for twelve hours in the OR. Last time we were together I think he was planning on telling me that he doesn’t want to see me anymore, but I fell asleep before he had a chance to get around to it.”
    “So what’s your alternative?” I asked. “You’ve got another year to go in your residency.”
    Claudia shook her head and drained her beer.
    “Do you know that I’ve lost my beeper, my lab coat, my stethoscope, and two pairs of glasses—all in the last week.”
    “That’s just a sign that you’re focused on what’s really important—your work,” I said. “Believe me, if I didn’t have Cheryl, I’d do the same thing. Actually, I have
    Cheryl keeping track of me and I still lose things and forget what day it is.”
    “It’s worse than that,” complained Claudia. “This afternoon I assisted on a bowel resection; it was my fifth or sixth case of the day, I can’t remember. The attending asked me to go out to the waiting room and talk to the family and let them know how everything went. So I take off my bloody scrubs and go out into the family waiting room and go up to a middle-aged woman and her two grown daughters. I tell them that the procedure went well, the resection was without complication, and their loved one was in post-op and doing just fine.”
    “So what happened?” I asked, dreading the answer. The currency of Claudia’s work—and her stories—was so often life and death.
    “Tonight, after evening rounds, I finally got off my rotation. I put my coat on to go home and I was walking through the lobby when the middle-aged woman I’d spoken to earlier walks up to me. ‘Doctor,’ she says kindly, ‘I just thought you’d like to know that our son was in surgery for a hip replacement operation, not a bowel resection.’ ”
    “You’re kidding!” I exclaimed. “I can’t believe she let you go on about the wrong surgery. Why didn’t she say anything when you were going on about the bowel resection?”
    “I asked her that,” Claudia replied with a weary shrug. “She told me she didn’t say anything because she felt sorry for me—I looked so tired.”
     

10
     
    The phone woke me from the darkness. I blinked, struggling to focus on the glowing numbers on the clock radio. It was a quarter to six.
    “Hello,” I croaked.
    “Have you read this morning’s Wall Street Journal? ” It was Jack Cavanaugh. He did not sound happy.
    “No. I don’t read in my sleep. Besides, I have it delivered to the office.”
    “Well, you’d better go and get yourself a copy,” he barked as a prelude to slamming down the receiver.
    “Shit,” I mumbled, forcing myself out of bed and dragging myself into the kitchen. Claudia was already gone, her episode of introspection ended by the inevitability of patients that would not—could not—wait. I could never be a doctor, I reflected numbly as I stumbled into the kitchen. It wasn’t the crushing hours—I worked almost as many hours as Claudia. It was the early starting times.
    Fumbling with the water and the filter, I managed to put some coffee on to brew. While I waited I leaned up against the kitchen sink and glared through the steel bars of the burglar grille at the lone houseplant perched on the windowsill. It was a housewarming present from our landlord, and incredibly, three years later it still clung to life, fed only on cold coffee and neglect.
    When there was an inch of dark liquid in the bottom of the pot I poured it into my cup while the fresh coffee hissed and sputtered onto the heating element. It took me two full cups before I was sufficiently conscious to get my sweats on and my running shoes laced up. On my way out the door I remembered to take a five-dollar bill out of my purse, fold it up, and slip it into my pocket along with my key.
    The air was clear and cold, the sky still gray as the pale sun struggled to bum its way through the clouds. About an inch of new snow crunched under my feet. I touched my toes, decided that I’d done enough stretching, and set off at a slow trot toward the Museum of Science and Industry. By the time I got to Fifty-seventh Street, I was sufficiently awake to notice that I was freezing, so I picked up the pace. I pushed through the rest of my usual loop along the lake to Fifty-first Street, propelled as much by the cold