Doctors and Wives [antikvár]

ONE Pearce Memorial Hospital jutted out of the surrounding slum like some great plant fed by the decay at its feet. It breathed, digested, disgorged—having lacked only the ability to reproduce itself, now this final function appeared to have taken place with the new building attached alongside; all white stone and glass, it contrasted arrogantly with the original red brick and smaU windows like tomorrow and yesterday. On the stone steps of the old building babies had been born; the sloping stairs had been washed in blood from neighborhood victims unaware of the existence of emergency room entrances. Inside, the hospital smelled of illness and despair, an essence unnoticed by the attending doctors who came in with an energy which set them apart from patients and families; the interns moved as quickly but on the glaze of fatigue. Orderlies pushed patients on stretchers along the halls and in and out of elevators having no separate pathways to protect the privacy of the sick. It was June 30th and hot. The ceiling fans provided no respite, their slow circling accenting their uselessness. Behind the glassed-in information desk a corridor held a series of offices; the one for the social services, in this neighborhood, always crowded with the petitioning, confused poor. The Director and the administrative staff, the nursing department and the chiefs of surgery, obstetrics and pediatrics had all moved into the new air-conditioned wing. One office was still occupied by the Chief of Medicine, Fenway Stewart, who had postponed moving as he opposed most changes in his routine. He was examining the list of new interns ready for tomorrow's changeover day. Pearce Memorial, along with institutions like Mount Sinai in New York, the Brigham in