Patient by Michael Palmer Read Free Book Online Page B

the neurosurgical operating room was a rush few would ever experience. And Jessie loved the feeling.
    One of the fringe benefits of being a surgeon was not having to build up a wardrobe of business clothes. Scrubs and a lab coat were always as fashionable in the hospital as they were functional. Jessie dressed in sneakers, khakis, a button-down shirt, and a blue cardigan, and spent a minute in front of the bathroom mirror, applying a bit of lip gloss and some mascara. Her shoulder-length hair was still mostly chestnut brown, but each day, it seemed, there were a few more gray strands. Monique, the Newbury Street stylist she saw every couple of months, had started pushing for a cosmetic response.
    Maybe someday , she thought, fixing her hair back with a turquoise clip. Right now you’ve got a little neurosurgery to do .
    She trotted down three flights and exited her building by the basement door. A year or so ago she had won a lottery among the tenants in all of the apartments that allowed her to pay through the nose for one of the parking spaces behind their building. On days like this one—rainy and raw—the absurd tariff seemed almost worth it. Swede, her five-year-old Saab, had begun to nickel-and-dime her, and was especially cranky in rainy-and-raw. Still, out of loyalty, she was totally devoted to the machine. Today Swede turned over on the first try—a good omen.
    Traffic to the hospital was so light that Jessie made the drive to parking lot E in fifteen minutes. Her assignment to E—an eight-minute walk to the hospital—easily counterbalanced her success in the apartment building lottery. Monthly petitions to the parking office to move to one of the garages had yet to be dignified with a response. As she hurried, jacket over head, to the hospital, she reminded herself for the hundredth time to get an umbrella.
    By the time Jessie arrived on Surgical Seven, Sara was floating through a drug-induced haze. Her husband, Barry, and their three children were at her bedside.
    “Hey, I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up,” Sara said thickly.
    “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Jessie replied. “At last the chance to look into that goofy brain of yours and find out what really makes Sara Devereau tick.”
    “Tell me something. How come I got all that pre-op medication and I’m still scared to death?”
    Jessie grinned and took her friend’s hand.
    “Beats me,” she said. “I guess you’re just chicken. Listen, Sara, we’re going to do it this time. If it’s humanly possible to beat this thing, we’re going to be fearless, and we’re going to do it.”
    Jessie knew that the pep talk was as much for her own benefit as her patient’s, and she suspected Sara knew it as well.
    “Fearless,” Sara said. “I trust you, coach.”
    “What can we expect?” Barry asked.
    Jessie knew better than to measure her response too much. Sara’s kids were not naive. They had been through this twice before.
    “The tumor is right alongside some vital neurologic structures,” she began, “including the nerve packages that control Sara’s right visual field, right arm, and right leg. But we’ve got to be especially careful operating around what’s called Wernicke’s area. That’s the center that controls speech and language.”
    “Mom could lose her ability to speak?” the oldest child, Diana, asked.
    “Yes. I certainly hope not, but that’s a possibility. And maybe even to understand speech.”
    Jessie could see nine-year-old Jared’s eyes begin to well up. She moved aside so that the boy could take her place beside his mother. Enough , she decided. The rest would be between her and Sara.
    “There is one thing you all need to know,” Jessie added. “Even if this operation is the total success I hope it will be, we might not know the results for a while—days, even weeks, afterward. Brain tissue has been pushed aside by the tumor. Once the tumor is gone, normal tissue will fall back to