The Final Diagnosis by Arthur Hailey

Joe Pearson?—Joe Pearson who could never compete with the glamor of surgery, whose work was essential but undramatic, who had chosen a branch of medicine seldom in the public eye. Lucy herself had heard people ask: What does a pathologist do? No one ever said: What does a surgeon do? She knew there were some who thought of pathologists as a breed of hospital technician, failing to realize that a pathologist had to be first a physician with a medical degree, then spend years of extra training to become a highly qualified specialist.
    Money sometimes was a sore point too. On Three Counties’ staff Gil Bartlett ranked as an attending physician, receiving no payment from the hospital, only from his patients. Lucy herself, and all the other attending physicians, were on staff on the same basis. But, in contrast, Joe Pearson was an employee of the hospital, receiving a salary of twenty-five thousand dollars a year, roughly half of what a successful surgeon—many years his junior—could earn. Lucy had once read a cynical summation of the difference between surgeons and pathologists: “A surgeon gets $500 for taking out a tumor. A pathologist gets five dollars for examining it, making a diagnosis, recommending further treatment, and predicting the patient’s future.”
    Lucy herself had fared well in her relationship with Joe Pearson. For some reason she was not sure of, he had seemed to like her, and there were moments she found herself responding and liking him also. Sometimes this could prove a help when she needed to talk with him about a diagnosis.
    Now the discussion was ending, O’Donnell winding things up. Lucy brought her attention back into focus. She had let it wander during the last case; that was not good—she would have to watch herself. The others were rising from their seats. Joe Pearson had collected his papers and was shambling out. But on the way O’Donnell stopped him; she saw the chief of surgery steer the old man away from the others.
    “Let’s go in here a minute, Joe.” O’Donnell opened the door to a small office. It adjoined the board room and was sometimes used for committee meetings. Now it was empty. Pearson followed the chief of surgery in.
    O’Donnell was elaborately casual. “Joe, I think you should quit riding people at these meetings.”
    “Why?” Pearson was direct.
    All right, O’Donnell thought, if that’s the way you want it. Aloud he said, “Because it gets us nowhere.” He allowed his voice to take on an edge. Ordinarily in dealing with the old man he deferred a little to the gap of years between them. But this was a moment to exercise his own authority. Although, as chief of surgery, O’Donnell had no direct control of Pearson’s activities, he did have certain prerogatives when the work of Pathology cut across his own division.
    “I pointed out a wrong diagnosis—that’s all.” Pearson was aggressive himself now. “Do you suggest we keep quiet about such things?”
    “You know better than to ask that.” O’Donnell slammed out the answer, this time not bothering at all to keep the ice from his voice. He saw Pearson hesitate and suspected the old man knew he had gone too far.
    Grumblingly he conceded, “I didn’t mean that; not that way.”
    Despite himself Kent O’Donnell smiled. Apologizing did not come easily to Joe Pearson. It must have cost him quite a lot to say that. Now O’Donnell went on more reasonably, “I think there are better ways to do it, Joe. If you don’t mind, at these meetings I’d like you to give us the autopsy findings, then I’ll lead the discussion afterward. I think we can do it without getting tempers frayed.”
    “I don’t see why anybody has to get in a temper.” Pearson was still grumbling, but O’Donnell sensed he was backing down.
    “All the same, Joe, I’d like to do it my way.” I don’t want to ram it down his throat, O’Donnell thought, but this is the time to make things clear.
    Pearson shrugged. “If that’s