Internal Medicine: A Doctor's Stories Read Online Free PDF Page B

Jenkins, I do know this. There are a lot of people in this hospital who can help you. The next thing that will happen is we’ll present your case”—no, I thought, too legal—“we’ll present you”—too formal—“we’ll bring in a lot of specialists”—that was it: “specialists” had a reassuring ring—“and we’ll help you fight this thing.” Unless, of course, fighting wasn’t what he wanted. What if he didn’t want to fight it? I was just about to babble, I realized. “Would you like to see the chaplain, Mr. Jenkins?”
    Mr. Jenkins lay back on his pillow with his left arm beside his head, fingers curled delicately as if waiting for something to fall into his palm. He closed his eyes.
    “Maybe tomorrow,” I said.
    I don’t know if Mr. Jenkins slept that night. I didn’t, of course, being a green intern on call, prone to jump bolt upright at the sound of my pager, and feeling the need to go see every patient I heard about, whether the situation warranted it or not. But if I had been allowed to lie down for more than fifteen minutes at a stretch, I doubt I would have fallen asleep without Mr. Jenkins’s expression hovering in the dark above me. I had nothing constructive to think about, nothing really to do about him. The machinery of oncology would be unleashed on Mr. Jenkins tomorrow, there would be a routine series of studies to go through, and his pneumonia would undoubtedly respond to the IV antibiotics he was getting every six hours. There was nothing in particular to think about at all. So it was only his smile that might have haunted me, if I had been available for haunting.
    The next morning I was up and moving around, having gotten perhaps forty-five minutes of jumbled sleep and short-term memory disturbance somewhere between five and the sounding of my alarm at six in the morning. Rounds began at seven-thirty, and I had nine patients to see before then, giving me about ten minutes per patient, which even in my first week of internship was more than I needed to check the vitals, wake the patient, and do a quick exam. But I had set my alarm early with a thought to Mr. Jenkins, feeling that I would probably need more than ten minutes to see him this day.
    I left him for last, of course, walking into his room with fully thirty minutes to go before rounds. The sun had risen by then, the world below his window blazing with color, each red leaf on the far hills distinct in the clear air. Mr. Jenkins was asleep, his pillow blotched with pink, green, and brown, his mouth slack, the same regular rising and falling of his chest.
    “Mr. Jenkins,” I said gently.
    He roused more easily this morning, his eyes opening sleepily but without the terror of the night before. They opened, then opened wider, scanning the room quickly with an odd, stock-taking motion, as if he were in the habit of cataloging, every morning, the contents of his room.
    He finished his survey with me, eyeing me with what I can only describe as a mild surmise. As he looked at me, uncertain, perhaps a little curious, I realized how deeply miserable I was to be standing before him. Not that I could think of any particular thing I’d done wrong. Just that it was miserable to be there, having to enter into it again.
    “How are you?” I said gently.
    “I’m not bad,” he said. “Been coughing up a bit, not so bad.”
    “Good,” I said. I moved to the bedside, sank down in the chair, and took a breath.
    Mr. Jenkins regarded me, and his gaze as I looked back at him took another one of those curious sweeps around the room, returning to me. His expression was open, friendly, almost perky.
    “So tell me,” I began. “Have you been thinking?”
    Jenkins looked puzzled. “Thinking,” he said noncommittally.
    I waited, but he had nothing more to add.
    “Yes,” I said. “About . . .”
    He elevated his eyebrows helpfully. “About?”
    “You know.”
    “Oh,” he said. The eyebrows settled, pressed down by a pair of deep