Hunting for Hippocrates. Warren J. Stucki
describing the heartache of his first marriage and how frustrating the dating scene was now. In short, they became very close friends and confidants, but Diane yearned for more.
Then came that humiliating day when Diane could not contain her feelings any longer, and with tears in her eyes, had told Moe she loved him. His reaction was totally unexpected and slammed her like a body blow. Instead of telling her he had the same feelings, Moe firmly reminded her she was a married woman and if their relationship were to progress any further, it would be disastrous.
At first she thought she could handle it. After all, she told herself, Moe was right and he was just being sensible. Adulterous, office relationships were almost always destructive. But in spite of the logic, after that day things were never the same. The bacterium of resentment grew, colonized then started spreading. Slowly at first, then steadily building, bubbling and fermenting like unsealed, under-cooked, home canned corn. Insidiously, resentment changed to rancor and rancor turned to botulism and once again, Moe became Dr. Mathis.
“Diane!” Sally hollered down the hall. “You coming to lunch?”
Diane flinched, startled by Sally’s voice. “No, I still haven’t cleaned the procedure room from the morning biopsies.” For Sally’s benefit she emphasized the “sies.” “And we’ve got a cysto to start the afternoon. Anyway, I’m on a diet.”
“Okay,” Sally shouted back, still oblivious to her scheduling faux pas. “You want me to pick up something for you?”
“No.”
Diane glanced at her watch. It was after one o’clock. They had patients starting at two and the first patient was a cysto for follow-up of a bladder cancer. She’d better quit day dreaming and get the damn procedure room cleaned and the cysto set up.
Ten minutes later, as she was washing the counter, she noticed the prostate biopsy specimen containers. Thinking that she should get them ready to send to pathology, Diane picked up the vials, then involuntarily winced. “Damn it!” She had forgotten to label the specimen containers. That’s what happens when your mind is not on your work. Oh well, too late to worry about it now. Anyway, she was almost a hundred percent positive that Mr. Swensen’s was the one on the right.
Just briefly, it occurred to Diane that she could cause Moe immeasurable problems by labeling the vials incorrectly. The ramifications were almost staggering. Mentally, she tried to follow a couple of possible scenarios to their conclusions. This thought made her smile. It would certainly put that condescending son-of-a-bitch with a fetish for blondes in his place. Should she?
“Diane!”
This time Diane’s feet did leave the floor. Hurriedly, she stuffed the specimen vials in the pocket of her nurses’ uniform, Swensen’s in the right pocket, Robinson’s in the left. Calming herself with a deep breath, she tried to put on her usual dour face, although she was afraid she still looked guilty as hell as she turned to face Moe.
“My, aren’t we jumpy today. Are you coming to lunch with Sally and me?” Moe asked, as he eyed her closely.
“No, I already told Sally,” Diane hissed. She hoped the irritation in her voice would mask her red face.
“Look Diane, about the whole Price Is Right thing, I’m sorry. I won’t do that any more.”
“I should hope not.” Diane’s eyes blazed with fury.
“Uh—uh, I’m sorry about everything else too,” Moe stammered.
“Me too.”
Diane glared at Moe, not saying anything more. After an awkward moment of silence, Moe whispered, “you want me to bring you anything back?”
“No! For the hundredth time, no.”
Diane watched Moe retreat down the hall, then retrieved the vials from her pockets. She absentmindedly toyed with the vials for a minute, then carefully labeled the specimen containers, Howard H. Swensen and Robert E. Robinson. Opening the counter drawer, she grabbed her log book and meticulously entered the serial numbers stamped on each vial by the manufacturer as the plastic cooled. For Howard H. Swensen, she entered #001198-G and for Robert E. Robinson she wrote #001199-G. Finally, she placed the vials in the pathology “out-box” and returned her log book in the drawer.
Russell Wright reclined the seat as far as it would go, but his Southwest Airline’s chair never angled far enough to accommodate his lanky frame. The meetings in New Orleans had been superb. He was anxious to get back to St. George and try the new procedure for female incontinence that he had learned. The early data for the fascial sling cystourethropexy was excellent with much better statistical results than for the Stamey or the Peyera. As usual, Moe would be pessimistic. He would probably mouth one of his tired cliches, “medicine is not a fashion show that you change each fall when new styles came out;” or “don’t be the first to try something new or the last;” or even worse, “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Rusty was growing tired of Moe’s rigid, uncompromising attitude and his folksy, country cliches. If it wasn’t for him, Moe would still be a nineteenth-century country doc, complete with painted wagon, patent drugs and a traveling medicine show. And to carry the analogy further, he probably would still be treating gonorrhea with potassium permanganate urethral irrigations and deep tissue infections with turpentine and a poultice.
Grudgingly, however, Rusty had to admit that Moe was a good surgeon. He could read the technical description of a surgical procedure, such as the fascial sling in one day, then walk into the operating room the next day and perform the surgery. Not just do the operation, but do it well. He, Rusty, was the one who always read the medical journals and went to the AUA meetings. Moe, who almost never went to meetings, would never even hear about new techniques if not for him. But without Moe there for backup, Rusty lacked the confidence and the guts to try new procedures. It frustrated him that he had to rely on Moe for anything, especially surgical assistance. Sometimes, actually quite a bit lately, he wondered why he had ever joined Moe’s practice. They were such complete opposites.
Moe had recruited Rusty as he was finishing his fifth and final year of residency at the University of Utah. Now, Rusty wondered why he hadn’t taken the job he’d been offered in Ogden at that same time. In reality, he knew why. St. George had an Arizona climate, whereas, Ogden had a Wyoming climate. But still, he couldn’t help but think that he had made a mistake. Undoubtedly, his life and his professional practice would have been more satisfying, more complete, in Ogden. At least there, he would not have had Moe as a senior partner. Rusty hadn’t made many mistakes in his thirty-two years of life, but perhaps joining Moe’s practice was the biggest, the one with the most lasting consequences.
Rusty had grown up in a typical middle-class Utah family. His father, a religion professor at Brigham Young University, was never home much, but he was a good provider. His mother, a full time housewife, raised him and his five siblings in typical conservative Mormon fashion, insisting on strict discipline, while at the same time, using the teachings of the church as a template for life. During the week, the family was rarely all together, but on Sunday they were scrubbed, cleaned and collected in the living room, then herded into the station wagon and driven to church. Although it was rare, even among Mormon kids, Rusty enjoyed church and rapidly advanced through the various offices of the Aaronic Priesthood, deacon, teacher, and finally priest. He was rewarded for his diligence by being called to the office of president in both the deacons and priests quorums.
In high school, Rusty excelled in academics and basketball. Accomplishments of his senior year included graduation with high honors, and he was voted to the all-state basketball team by the Deseret News. After high school, he enrolled in BYU for one year, then secured a two-year hiatus from college for a Mormon mission to Bolivia. While on his mission, Rusty, as expected, was very successful in convincing dozens of Bolivians to abandon their Catholic faith and be baptized into the Mormon Church. It did trouble him a little that half his baptisms were young Bolivian maidens who were obviously as much in love with him and the image of the rich-Yankee-gringo