The new school was a far cry from Philips’ student experience: particularly the library. Money had been no object, which was surely the reason the old medical school lay mostly abandoned. The foyer was spacious and carpeted with two mirror-imaged, curved staircases, which swept up to the floor above.
The library’s card catalogue was under the lip of the balcony that formed the mezzanine. Philips got the call number of a standard gynecology text. Although he was interested in reading about the Papsmear, or Papanicolaou Smear, he wasn’t interested in an exhaustive textbook of cytology. He was already aware of the efficacy of the test; as cancer-screening procedure, it was probably the best and most reliable. He’d even performed it himself, as a student, so he knew it was extremely easy, just a light scrape of the cervical surface with a tongue depressor, then smear the material on a glass slide. What he couldn’t remember was the classification of the results, and what was supposed to be done if the report came back “atypical.” Unfortunately the textbook wasn’t too helpful. All it said was that any suspicious cervix should be followed up with a Schiller’s test, which was an iodine-staining technique of the cervix-to determine abnormal areas, or a biopsy, or colposcopy. Philips had no idea what colposcopy was and had to use the index. It turned out to be a procedure whereby a microscope-like instrument was used to examine the cervix.
The thing that surprised Philips the most was learning ten to fifteen percent of new cases of cervical cancer occurred in twenty to twenty-nine year olds. He’d had the mistaken impression that cervical cancer was a problem of an older age group. There couldn’t have been any better argument in favor of the annual gynecological examination.
Martin returned the text and made his way to the university’s GYN clinic. He remembered that this portion of the service had been out of bounds for medical students, which had been like dangling meat in front of hungry animals since the women were usually cute college coeds. The patients available to the medical students were the old multiparous clinic regulars, and the contrast made the college coeds all look as if they were Playboy centerfolds.
Philips felt distinctly out of place as he approached the receptionist. When he stopped in front of her, she batted her eyes and sucked in a deep breath to elevate her flat chest. Martin stared at her because something seemed very strange about her face. He averted his gaze when he realized it was just that her eyes were unusually close set.
“I’m Dr. Martin Philips.”
“Hi, I’m Ellen Cohen.”
Involuntarily Philips glanced back at Ellen Cohen’s eyes. “I’d like to talk with the doctor in charge.”
Ellen Cohen again fluttered her eyelids. “Dr. Harper is examining a patient at present, but he’ll be out soon.”
In any other department Philips probably would have walked directly back into the examining area. Instead he turned to face the waiting room, feeling as self-conscious as he remembered he’d been at age twelve waiting for his mother in a hair salon. There were half-a-dozen young women sitting staring at him. The moment they caught his eye, they turned back to their magazines.
Martin sat down in a chair immediately adjacent to the receptionist’s desk. Stealthily Ellen Cohen slid her paperback novel off the desk and dropped it into one of her drawers. When Philips happened to glance in her direction, she smiled.
Philips let his mind drift back to Goldblatt. The nerve of the man to think that he had the right to dictate Philips’ personal life, or even his research, was astounding. Perhaps if the department funded Philips’ research there might be some justification, but it didn’t. Radiology’s contribution was Martin’s time. Funding that had been needed for hardware and programming fees, which had been considerable, came from sources available through Michaels’ Department of Computer Science.
Suddenly Martin realized that a patient had approached the receptionist and was asking the meaning of an atypical Pap smear. She seemed to speak with effort, and she leaned weakly on the receptionist’s desk.
“That, dearie,” said Ellen Cohen, “is something you’ll have to ask Ms. Blackman about.” The receptionist immediately sensed Philips’ attention. “I’m not a doctor,” she laughed, mostly for his benefit. “Sit down. Ms. Blackman will be out shortly.”