Free Cancer Ward by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn Page B

freedom which when we possess it goes completely unnoticed.
    â€œTake off your jacket, please.”
    His green and brown pajama jacket had large buttons and was the right size. No one would have thought it could be difficult to take off. But when he stretched his arms it pulled at his neck, and Pavel Nikolayevich groaned. The situation was serious! The impressive, gray-haired nurse helped him untangle himself from the sleeves.
    â€œDo your armpits hurt?” Dontsova asked. “Does anything bother you?”
    â€œWhy, might it spread down there as well?” Rusanov’s voice had now dropped and was even quieter than Ludmila Afanasyevna’s.
    â€œStretch your arms out sideways.” Concentrating and pressing hard, she began to feel his armpits.
    â€œWhat sort of treatment will it be?” Pavel Nikolayevich asked.
    â€œInjections. I told you.”
    â€œWhere? Right into the tumor?”
    â€œNo. Intravenously.”
    â€œHow often?”
    â€œThree times a week. You can get dressed now.”
    â€œAnd an operation is … impossible?”
    (Behind the question lay an overriding fear—of being stretched out on the operating table. Like all patients he preferred any other long-term treatment.)
    â€œAn operation would be pointless.” She was wiping her hands on the towel the nurse held out to her.
    â€œI’m very glad to hear it,” Pavel Nikolayevich thought to himself. Nevertheless he would have to consult Kapa. Using personal influence in a roundabout way was never very easy. In reality, the influence he had was not as much as he might have wished for, or as great as he was now pretending it was. It was not at all an easy thing to telephone Comrade Ostapenko.
    â€œAll right, I’ll think about it. Then we’ll decide tomorrow?”
    â€œNo,” said Dontsova mercilessly, “you must decide today. We can’t give any injections tomorrow, it’s Saturday.”
    More rules! Doesn’t she realize rules are made to be broken? “Why on earth can’t I have injections on Saturday?”
    â€œBecause we have to follow your reactions very carefully, both on the day of the injection and the day after. And we can’t do that on a Sunday.”
    â€œSo you mean … it’s a serious injection?”
    Ludmila Afanasyevna did not answer. She had already moved to Kostoglotov’s bed.
    â€œCouldn’t we wait till Monday…?”
    â€œComrade Rusanov! You accused us of waiting eighteen hours before treating you. How can you now suggest waiting seventy-two?” (She had already won the battle. Her steam roller was crushing him; there was nothing he could do.) “Either we take you in for treatment or we don’t. If it’s yes, you will have your first injection at eleven o’clock this morning. If it’s no, then you must sign to the effect that you refuse to accept our treatment and I’ll have you discharged today. But we certainly don’t have the right to keep you here for three days without doing anything. While I’m finishing my rounds in this room, please think it over and tell me what you’ve decided.”
    Rusanov buried his face in his hands.
    Gangart, her white coat fitting tightly right up to her neck, walked silently past him. Olympiada Vladislavovna followed like a ship in full sail.
    Dontsova, weary of the argument, hoped to be cheered up at the next bed.
    â€œWell, Kostoglotov, what do you have to say?”
    Kostoglotov smoothed down a few of his tufts of hair and answered in the loud, confident voice of a healthy man, “I feel fine, Ludmila Afanasyevna. Couldn’t be better!”
    The doctors exchanged glances. Vera Kornilyevna’s lips were smiling faintly, but her eyes—they were fairly laughing with joy.
    â€œWell, all right” Dontsova sat down on his bed. “Describe it in words. How do you feel? What’s the difference since you’ve