Cassi turned to Joan, bringing her mind back to the present. “I was hospitalized when I was nine,” said Cassi hurriedly, hoping Joan hadn’t noticed the fact that she had been daydreaming. “The diagnosis was made then.”
“That must have been a difficult time for you,” said Joan.
“It wasn’t so bad,” said Cassi. “In some respects it was a relief to know that the symptoms I had been having had a physical basis. And once the doctors stabilized my insulin requirements, I felt much better. By the time I reached my teens I even got used to giving myself the injections twice a day. Ah, here we are.” Cassi motioned them off the elevator.
“I’m impressed,” said Joan with sincerity. “I doubt if I’d have been able to handle my medical training if I had had diabetes.”
“I’m certain you would have,” said Cassi casually. “We’re all more adaptable than we give ourselves credit for.”
Joan wasn’t sure she agreed, but she let it go. “What about your husband? Having known a few surgeons in my life, I hope he’s understanding and supportive.”
“Oh, he is,” said Cassi, but she answered too quickly for Joan’s analytical mind.
Pathology was its own world, completely separate from the rest of the hospital. As a psychiatric resident, Joan hadn’t visited the floor in the two years she’d been at Boston Memorial. She had prepared herself for the dark, nineteenth-century appearance of the department of pathology in her medical school, complete with dingy glass-fronted cabinets filled with round specimen jars containing bits of horror in yellowing Formalin. Instead, she found herself in a white, futuristic world composed of tile, Formica, stainless steel, and glass. There were no specimens and no clutter and no strangely repulsive smells. At the entrance there were a number of secretaries with earphones typing onto word-processing screens. To the left were offices, and down the center was a long white Formica table supporting double-headed microscopes.
Cassi led Joan into the first office where an impeccably dressed young man leaped up from his desk and greeted Cassi with a big, unprofessional hug. Then the man thrust Cassi away so he could look at her.
“God, you look good,” he said. “But wait. You haven’t colored your hair, have you?”
“I knew you’d notice,” laughed Cassi. “No one else has.”
“Of course I’d notice. And this is a new blouse. Lord and Taylor?”
“No, Saks.
“It’s wonderful.” He fingered the material. “It’s all cotton. Very nice.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” said Cassi, remembering Joan and introducing her. “Joan Widiker, Robert Seibert, second year pathology resident.”
Joan took Robert’s outstretched hand. She liked his engaging, forthright smile. His eyes twinkled, and Joan had the feeling she’d been instantly inspected.
“Robert and I went to the same medical school,” explained Cassi as Robert put his arm around her again. “And then by chance we both ended up here at the Boston Memorial for first-year pathology.”
“You two look like you could be brother and sister,” said Joan.
“People have said that,” said Robert, obviously pleased. “We had an immediate affinity for each other for a lot of reasons including the fact that we both had serious childhood diseases. Cassi had diabetes, and I had rheumatic fever.”
“And we’re both terrified of surgery,” said Cassi, causing herself and Robert to burst out laughing.
Joan assumed it was some kind of private joke.
“Actually, it’s not so funny,” said Cassi. “Instead of mutually supporting each other, we’ve ended up making each other more seared. Robert is supposed to have his wisdom teeth removed, and I’m supposed to have the hemorrhage in my left eye cleared.”
“I’m going to have mine taken care of soon,” said Robert defiantly. “Now that I’ve got you out of my hair.”
“I’ll believe that when it happens,” laughed Cassi.
“You’ll see,” said Robert. “But meanwhile let’s get down to business. I’ve saved the autopsy until you got here. But first I promised to call the medical resident who tried to resuscitate the patient.”
Robert stepped back to his desk and picked up his phone.
“Autopsy!” Joan whispered, alarmed. “I didn’t bargain on an autopsy. I’m not sure I’m up for that.”
“It might be worthwhile,” said Cassi innocently, as if watching an autopsy was something people did for amusement. “During my time as a pathology resident, Robert and I became interested in a series of cases that we’ve labeled SSD, for sudden surgical death. What we found was a group of cardiac surgery patients who had died less than a week after their operations even though most had been doing well and who, on autopsy, had no anatomical cause of death. A few might be understandable, but counting what turned up in the records for the last ten years, we found seventeen. The case Robert is going to autopsy now could make eighteen.”