Free Patient by Michael Palmer Page A

controlling movement of the right arm and leg. If there was such a thing as good news for someone with a brain tumor, this diagnosis and location was it.
    Jessie made a futile attempt to smooth some of the wrinkles from her lab coat and scrubs, and cursed herself for not thinking to replace them before coming down. Then she noticed that she still had on the pink canvas Keds she had worn in the operating room. Lord . One look at those and Barbara Sheprow would probably be on the phone, calling an ambulance to spirit her daughter across town to White Memorial.
    “Oh, well,” she breathed, and stepped into the room.
    She introduced herself first to Marci, then to her mother. The Olympic gold medalist, an icon well known in virtually every country in the world, looked frail and very young. But the spark in her green eyes belied that impression. Barbara Sheprow glanced over at Del Murphy uncomfortably.
    “I ... I expected a ... what I mean is, Dr. Murphy didn’t say you were ...”
    “A woman?”
    “That, yes, and so young.”
    “I’m afraid I can’t do much about the woman part,” Jessie said, “but, I can be very reassuring about not being too young.”
    “I didn’t even know there were women neurosurgeons,” Marci’s mother said, pushing.
    A dozen flip remarks crossed Jessie’s mind, but stopped short of her tongue.
    “There aren’t too many of us, Mrs. Sheprow, but there are some. And as you might suspect, we’ve all had to be twice as good to make it to where we are. As I hope Dr. Murphy will affirm, I’m a very well trained and experienced neurosurgeon.”
    “I appreciate the reassurance,” Barbara said, sounding not at all reassured. “I had Marci brought here because Bob McGillvary, our doctor down on the Cape, knew Dr. Shea, the orthopedist who fixed her wrist, and Bob referred us to him. I ... I never dreamed we’d be needing a neurosurgeon.”
    “Well, at this point, I’m not certain what you need. But I do know that to do my job right, I need to hear in Marci’s own words what happened tonight.”
    Barbara Sheprow looked over at her daughter. Jessie could almost hear the woman weighing her options. This was the mother of an Olympic champion, Jessie reminded herself—a woman used to dictating to others, not to being dictated to herself. Finally, Barbara stepped aside and motioned for Jessie to go ahead.
    Del Murphy mumbled something about seeing a consult and returning in a little while, and left the room, perhaps sensing that as long as he was there, Barbara Sheprow would be directing her clinical concerns to him. Under Barbara’s watchful eye, Jessie’s history-taking and neurologic exam lasted half an hour. During that time, she could sense a pleasant rapport developing between herself and Marci, who was brighter and more philosophical than she had anticipated. The MRIs and current neurologic findings suggested that surgery did not have to be done on an emergency basis. But the nature of Marci’s sudden weakness and loss of consciousness shouted a clear warning. There was no question an operation was in her near future.
    Finally, Jessie had all the information she needed. Marci’s father and younger sister were brought in from the waiting room.
    “This is Dr. Jessie Copeland, Paul,” Barbara said to her husband. “She’s on call for the neurosurgical department. It’s her job to evaluate Marci and give us her opinion as to what’s happened.”
    Not exactly a vote of confidence , Jessie thought.
    She slid the MRI films into the two view boxes and described to Marci’s father what she had found.
    “When would you be doing this procedure?” Paul Sheprow ventured when Jessie had finished her explanation.
    Jessie could see the man’s wife stiffen.
    “Now, Paul,” Barbara admonished, “no one has said anything about who would be doing Marci’s surgery, let alone when , or even whether .”
    “But I thought—”
    “Please, dear. Dr. Copeland, is this the best hospital for