The Final Diagnosis by Arthur Hailey Page A

the way you want it.”
    “Thanks, Joe.” O’Donnell knew he had won; it had been easier than he had expected. Maybe this would be a good time to raise the other thing. “Joe,” he said, “while we’re here, there’s something else.”
    “I’ve got a lot to do. Couldn’t it wait?” As Pearson spoke, O’Donnell could almost read his mind. The pathologist was making it clear that though he had conceded one point he had not abandoned his independence.
    “I don’t think it can. It’s about surgical reports.”
    “What about them?” The reaction was aggressively defensive.
    O’Donnell went on smoothly. “I’ve had complaints. Some of the reports have been a long time coming through Pathology.”
    “Rufus, I suppose.” Pearson was openly bitter now. You could almost hear him saying: Another surgeon causing trouble.
    O’Donnell determined not to be provoked. He said quietly, “Bill Rufus was one. But there have been others. You know that, Joe.”
    For a moment Pearson made no answer, and O’Donnell reflected that in a way he felt sorry for the old man. The years were slipping by. Pearson was sixty-six now; at best he had another five or six years of active work ahead of him. Some people reconciled themselves to change like that, to younger men moving into prominence and taking over leadership. Pearson had not, though, and he made his resentment plain. O’Donnell wondered what was back of his attitude. Did he feel himself slipping, unable to keep up with new developments in medicine? If so, he would not be the first. And yet Joe Pearson, for all his disagreeable ways, had a lot to commend him. That was one of the reasons why O’Donnell trod circumspectly now.
    “Yes, I know.” Pearson’s reply held a tone of resignation. He had accepted the fact though. That was typical of him, O’Donnell thought. Right from the beginning at Three Counties he had liked Pearson’s directness and at times had made use of it in raising surgical standards.
    O’Donnell remembered that one of the problems he had faced in his early months at the hospital had been the elimination of needless surgery. Under this heading had come an unnatural number of hysterectomies, and in too many cases healthy, normal uteri were being removed by a few staff surgeons. These were men who found surgery a convenient and profitable remedy for any female pain, even those which might have responded to internal medication. In such instances euphemisms in diagnosis like “chronic myometritis” or “fibrosis of uterus” were resorted to as a smoke screen to cover up the pathology report on the removed tissue. O’Donnell remembered telling Pearson: “When we’re reporting on tissue we’ll call a spade a spade and a healthy uterus a healthy uterus.” Pearson had grinned and co-operated fully. As a result most of the unnecessary surgery had stopped. Surgeons found it embarrassing to have tissue they had removed from patients listed for all their colleagues to see as normal and uninfected.
    “Look, Kent.” Pearson was more conciliatory now. “Just lately I’ve been up to my ears. You’ve no idea how much work there is.”
    “I do have an idea, Joe.” This was the opening O’Donnell had hoped for. “Some of us think you’ve too much to do. It isn’t fair to you.” He was tempted to add “at your age” but thought better of it. Instead he added, “How about getting some help?”
    The reaction was immediate, Pearson almost shouting. “You’re telling me to get more help! Why, man alive, I’ve been asking for months for more lab technicians! We need three at least, so what am I told I can have? One! And stenographers! I’ve got reports that have been piling up for weeks, and who’s going to type them?” Not waiting for an answer, he went storming on. “Me? If the administration would get off its fanny we might get a few things done—including faster surgicals. By God! When you tell me I should get more help, that’s really