Brief Exchange
by Glenn Gray
"Doc," Bob the chief CT technologist says through the intercom. "Got an ER case on the table."
“How’s it look?”
He hesitates. “Think you better check.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“On my way.”
The CT control room is quiet. Bob stands in the doorway, hands in his pockets, face stone. We make eye contact, but do not speak.
The computer monitor is filled with a single cat scan image of a brain. I spin a couple of knobs, scroll through the images.
There’s a large area of abnormality in the left cerebral hemisphere. I look at the data sheet: thirty-nine year-old male, Scott Larson.
I peek over the console, see Scott lying on the gantry, looks like a regular guy. I can’t help but think he’s my age.
The next step is to give IV contrast. Bob has drawn up the syringe. I pick up a clipboard and step into the room. Scott’s head is surrounded by the puffy foam of the holding device. A chinstrap limits his motion. Only his eyes move.
“I’m Dr. Gray.”
“Call me Scott.”
“I’d like to give you an injection of contrast,” I say. “Ever have it?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Allergies?”
“Nope.”
“There’s a rare chance you could have a reaction.”
“No problem.”
“Just gotta mention that.”
“Right-o.”
“Helps show things better.”
“Yup.”
“Give it all the time.”
“Fine.”
I nod.
I can tell he feels something is up.
“Where do I sign?”
“Here.”
He holds the clipboard over his head, quickly scribbles. “Thanks.”
Bob hands me a plastic basin containing a horse-sized syringe full of clear liquid contrast, a tourniquet, squares of gauze, and a tea-bag sized packet containing an alcohol swab. I proceed with the injection.
As I push the viscous liquid, I say, “So what’s been going on?”
“Not much,” Scott says quickly. “Just some headaches.”
“Since when?”
“Couple days,” he says. “Got a little worse today. Went to work, told my supervisor. She suggested I check it out.”
“So here you are.”
“The wife said I pronounced a couple of words funny.”
“How so?”
“Like ‘production’ or something. Said I slurred it. Sound okay to you?”
“Pretty clear.”
“Good.”
There’s a pause.
“Contrast is in.” I remove the needle, place gauze over a drop of blood. “Ready.”
“Great.” This is faked enthusiasm. “Let’s do it.”
Bob and I dart into the control room. Bob presses a slew of buttons. All eyes are fixed on the monitor.
The images are obtained from the skull base upward. The lowest images look normal. The first hint of trouble begins in the inferior left temporal lobe and with each slice the abnormality enlarges. A few cuts later the ugly, irregularly enhancing mass is revealed, cancer.
My heart sinks.
There are not many things it could be, most likely glioblastoma multiforme, a tumor with a notoriously terrible prognosis
The scan ends. Bob enters the room, lowers the table. Scott jumps up, straightens his shirt, wipes his trousers and claps his hands as if to say, “Now what?”
I brace myself, enter the room. Scott is my height, same colored hair cropped in a similar fashion. He looks as if he could be my brother. His eyes are wide.
“So Doc,” he says. “See anything?” His movements are curt. The tone of his voice too positive.
I take a deep breath. I’m not his primary doctor, but I want to tell him something. “Well,” I say, “Yes.”
“Okay.” He nods. “That’s all right, Doc.” The energy in the room changes. The pace of our conversation accelerates.
“Well,” I say. “Something’s there.”
“Yeah. All right.” The head nodding speeds up.
“Where you going now?”
Scott gazes through me.
“Bad?” My question hasn’t registered.
“Don’t know yet.”
“Um.” He scratches his eye. “Was gonna go home.”
“Who’s your doctor?”
Scott hesitates. “Gotta see my kid.”
I follow his train of thought. “How old?”
“Five.”
“Great age. Boy or girl?”
“Girl. Samantha.”
“Pretty name.”
“Pretty girl.”
“I have a little girl too.”
“Girls are great.”
“I know,” I say. “Same age. Name’s Melanie.”
We look into each other’s eyes, smile.
There is an uncomfortable pause. “Dr. Zachman,” Scott says. “My doctor. It’s Zachman.”
“Right,” I say. “I’ll call her.”
“Sure.” Then as an afterthought, “She’s real cute.”
“Dr. Zachman?”
“No.” Scott smiles. “My little girl.”
“Oh.”
“Looks like my wife,” he says softly. “Growing up fast.”
“Mine’s five going on fifteen.”
“Tell me about it.”
After an awkward silence, I say, “I’ll look at the films closely.”
He looks in my eyes, “Real bad?”
“Don’t really know yet.” I run my fingers through my hair. “Gotta develop the films. Look at them more.”
“I understand.”
“So don’t leave just yet.”
“Want me to stay?”
“Until I talk to Dr. Zachman.”
We stand facing each other, two feet apart. I see Bob through the window in the control room, watching.
“Definitely something?”
“Something, yeah.” I don’t want to say the word tumor, not here, now. “Gotta look again.”
“Sure.” Scott starts pacing. “Great. I’ll stick around.”
“Right outside’s okay.”
“All right.” He makes jerky movements with his right hand. His left hand is tucked in his pocket. “Out there?”
“By the desk.” I point. “Right where you came in.”
“Thanks, Doc.” He extends his hand for a shake. I don’t see it immediately so he pulls it back, just in time for me to extend mine. We try again and this time we get it right. “No problem.”
He turns and exits.
I call Doctor Zachman. After discussing Scott’s case, I hang up the phone, stand there, staring at the wall. I call my wife, tell her I want to have a quiet family dinner when I get home. I then say something about savoring every moment with the kids. She says, “Fine, Honey.”
I go back to the reading room, sit in front of the monitor, start dictating a huge stack of films.
END
Glenn Gray is a physician specializing in Radiology. His stories have appeared in Underground Voices, Bewildering Stories, Word Riot, Pequin, Beat to a Pulp, Dogzplot, previous issues of LSS and many others. He lives in New York. Contact Glenn.
