The Perfect Treatment. Rebecca Lang
you think of euthanasia?’ he asked unexpectedly.
For a few seconds Abby looked at him, sensing something other than curiosity about her opinions in his question, yet she could not have analyzed why she thought that.
‘I know that some doctors advocate euthanasia,’ she said slowly, averting her gaze from his shrewd perception. This was something that she felt very strongly about. ‘I’m not one of them.’
‘Tell me why,’ he said softly.
‘I—I’m not particularly religious,’ she said, stammering a little, ‘but the admonition “thou shalt not kill” figures very large in my personal philosophy, I guess. I haven’t really analyzed it very thoroughly…In my experience, people do not want to have their life taken from them—they want to be relieved of their pain. We all love life, we cling to it.’
‘Hmm,’ he murmured, watching her.
‘To…er…to take a life is extreme arrogance,’ Abby went on. ‘I deplore arrogance of any kind.’
‘I agree with you absolutely. It is not in our mandate to take a life. Not actively.’ There was a bleakness in his voice, as though this were a question that he had been forced to consider many times. Abby knew that must have been the case.
Encouraged, she went on and felt her cheeks tinge with warm colour as she disclosed her thoughts, struggling to find the appropriate words. ‘To me, the trust that a sick person has in his or her doctor is a sacred trust, never in any circumstances to be breached. As you say, it is not our mandate…We are not in a position to have, or to take, that sort of power over the life of another. It’s abhorrent…obscene.’
He nodded, saying nothing. The silence that ensued seemed to be charged with a peculiar understanding between them, as though there had been other questions silently asked and just as silently answered. Yet Abby had no idea, no idea at all, what those questions might be…or what the answers were. She remembered the premonition that she had felt at the medical rounds.
Abby bit her lip indecisively, looking down at the cup that she held in her hand. She wanted to leave, but could not seem to summon up the energy to make the move. Then she felt his fingers touch her own as he grasped the cup.
‘Thank you for talking to me,’ he said quietly. ‘Let me get you more coffee—that must be cold. I’ve been asking you too many questions, haven’t I?’ The touch had the effect of deepening the inertia that had come over her. She could not understand herself. Neither did she know why he was thanking her for talking to him.
He handed her back a full cup. ‘Here, I won’t say another word while you drink that.’
Automatically she added cream and sugar to the hot liquid.
‘You ask a lot of questions, rather personal ones, Dr Contini,’ she said bravely, not looking at him. ‘I wonder if you answer them so freely yourself.’
‘Drink your coffee, Dr Gibson,’ he said. ‘You may not get another chance.’ They looked at each other, as they both drank the welcome coffee, sizing each other up. Abby was the first to look away.
‘I’d be pleased to answer any questions that you might have,’ he offered quietly. ‘Another time.’
There were footsteps of someone approaching the door outside, then a knock. ‘Ah, there you are, Dr Contini.’ A secretary had put her head round the door. ‘There’s an outside call for you from the Gresham General Hospital. They want to talk to you right away.’ She glanced at Abby. ‘Shall I put the call through to you here?’
‘Yes, please,’ he said, after a fraction of hesitation.
When he answered the telephone a moment later, it seemed to Abby that he switched instantly to a totally different mind-set—that he tuned out the present situation, including her, and projected his thoughts totally to whoever was speaking to him. When he looked at her his expression was blank, as though he scarcely saw her, when she made to leave.
‘Thank you for coming, Dr Gibson,’ he said formally. ‘I’ll doubtless be talking to you in a few days about Mr Simmons.’
‘Thank you, Dr Contini,’ she said.
As she walked away from his office, she considered that he might have a cross-appointment at one of the other teaching hospitals in Gresham, the Gresham General, although she was surprised at that. The position at University Hospital was a very demanding one, which, she had assumed, would take up all his time. Maybe he was just being called to a consultation. Gresham General was a hospital that she went to occasionally herself as part of her training program.
Abby felt sober and thoughtful as she left the floor to make her way to Outpatients on the ground level. Going over the case of Mr Simmons in her mind, it was clear that everything possible was going to be done for him to effect a cure. He was in very good hands. There would be unwanted side-effects for him, of course—in order for chemotherapy to be effective, the first dose had to be followed up not long after by a second dose. Such toxic drugs left a person’s body susceptible to opportunistic infections.
Abby had to admit that Dr Contini was very good at his job—very good indeed.
Lunch was almost over in the cafeteria when Abby got there late, in the early afternoon, having seen a few more patients.
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