Coma

“Susan, you are very apparent in any group and if you don’t show up at my lecture, I’m going to have to account for you.”

“The luxury of anonymity,” said Susan, “has not been something I could enjoy ever since I started medical school. I understand what you are saying, Mark. At the same time I feel I need just one more day. One more.” Susan held up one finger and tilted her head in a coquettish fashion. Then she laughed.

“You know, Mark, it is reassuring to hear you say that you think being a female medical student is difficult, because it is. Some of the girls in my class deny it, but they’re fooling themselves. They’re using one of the oldest and easiest defense mechanisms;, get around a problem by saying it’s not there. But it is. I remember reading a quote by Sir William Osier.

He said there were three classes of human beings: men, women, and women physicians. I laughed when I read that the first time. Now I don’t laugh anymore.

“Despite the feminist movement there still lingers the conventional image of wide-eyed feminine naiveté and all that bullshit. As soon as you enter a field which demands a bit of competitive and aggressive action, the men all label you as a castrating bitch. If you sit back and try to use passive, compliant behavior, you find yourself being told that you can’t respond to the competitive atmosphere. So you’re forced to try to find your own compromise somewhere in the middle, which is difficult because all the while you feel like you’re on trial, not as an individual but as a representative of women in general.”

There was silence for a few moments, each digesting what had been said.

“The thing that bothers me the most,” added Susan, “is that the problem gets worse, not better, the farther, into medicine one goes. I cannot imagine how these women with families do it. They have to apologize for leaving work early and then they have to apologize for getting home late, no matter what time it is. I mean, the man can work late, no problem, in fact it makes him seem that much more dedicated.

But a woman physician: her role is so diffuse. Society and its conventional female mores make it very difficult.

“How did you get me on this platform?” asked Susan suddenly, realizing the vehemence with which she had been speaking.

“You were just agreeing to my statement that being a female medical student was difficult. So how about agreeing to the last part, about not taking on any more handicaps?”

“Shit, Mark, don’t push me right at this moment. Obviously you can see that once I got involved in this thing, I probably need to resolve it somehow. Maybe it’s related to my feeling like I’m on trial for women.

God, I’d like to show that Harris where to get off. Maybe if I can see Berman again, I’ll be able to give up without any loss of intellectual face or ... what should I say, self-image or self-confidence. But let’s talk about something else. Would you mind if I were to give you a hug?”

“Me, mind?” Bellows sat up quickly but slightly flustered. “Not at all.”

Susan leaned over and gave him a squeeze with a force that surprised him. Instinctively his arms went around her and he felt her narrow back.

Somewhat self-consciously he patted it, as if he were comforting her.

She pulled back.

“I hope you’re not waiting for me to burp.”

For several moments they studied each other in the firelight. Then tentatively their lips sought each other, gently at first, then with obvious emotion, finally with abandon.

Wednesday, February 25, 5:45 A.M.

The alarm jangled in the darkness, making the air in the room vibrate with its piercing sound. Susan sat bolt upright from a dead sleep. At first she wondered why her eyes wouldn’t open; then she realized that they were open. It was just that they could not pierce the utter blackness in the room. For several seconds she had no idea where she was. Her only thought was to try to find the alarm clock and deaden its awful nerve-shattering noise.

As suddenly as it had started, it stopped with a metallic click. At the same time Susan became conscious that she was not alone. The memory of the previous evening swept over her, and she remembered that she was still at Mark’s apartment. She lay back, bringing up the covers to cover her nakedness.

“What in God’s name was that noise for?” said Susan to the blackness.

“It’s an alarm. I suppose you’ve never heard one before,” said a voice from beside her.

“An alarm. Mark, it’s the middle of the night.”

“Like hell it is; it’s five-thirty and time to get rolling.”

Mark threw back the covers and put his feet onto the floor. He turned on the lamp next to the bed and rubbed his eyes.

“Mark, you’ve got to be out of your squash. Five-thirty, Christ.” The voice was muffled; Susan had her head underneath the pillow.

“I’ve got to see my patients, grab a bit to eat, and be ready for rounds at six-thirty. Surgery starts at seven-thirty sharp.” Mark stood up and stretched. Disregarding his nakedness and the coldness, he started for the bathroom.