...never let things get away from me... know too much to ever lose control... I know where and when to stop...” seemed a pathetic echo of what Andrew read. The point was made that doctors became "successful addicts," undetected for long periods, because of the ease with which they could obtain drugs. How well Andrew knew it! It was something he had discussed with Celia-the fact that physicians could get free supplies of any drug, virtually in unlimited quantity, merely by asking a detail man from the company concerned. In a way he was ashamed of, yet mentally justified as necessary, Andrew managed to inspect the cupboard in Noah Townsend's office where drug supplies were kept. He did it at a time when Townsend was at the hospital, making grand rounds. The cupboard should have been locked, but it wasn't. In it, piled high and occupying all available space, was an astounding collection of drugs in manufacturers' containers, including narcotics of which there was a large supply. Andrew recognized some which Townsend had named. Andrew kept some drugs in his own office, samples of those he prescribed regularly, which he sometimes handed out to patients who he knew were in financial need. But compared with what was here, his own supply was trifling. Nor, for safety reasons, did Andrew ever accumulate narcotics. He whistled softly in amazement. How could Noah be so careless? How had he kept his secret for so long? How did he take the drugs he did and keep control? There seemed no simple answers. Something else shocked Andrew. He discovered from his researches that no overall program existed either to help doctors in trouble through excessive drug taking, or to protect their patients. The medical profession ignored the problem when it could; when it couldn't, it covered it up by secrecy and closing ranks. No doctor, it seemed, ever reported another doctor for drug addiction. As for a drug-addicted physician losing his license to practice, Andrew couldn't find a record of its happening. And yet the question haunted him: What about Noah Townsend's patients who, in a way, were also Andrew's because of the shared practice, with each doctor sometimes substituting for the other? Were those patients now at risk? While Townsend seemed normal in his behavior, and while he had made no mistakes medically so far as Andrew knew, would that condition continue? Could it be relied on? Would Noah someday, because of drugs, misdiagnose or fail to see an important symptom he should have caught? And what of his even larger responsibility as chief of medicine at St. Bede's? The more Andrew thought, the more the questions multiplied, the more elusive were any answers. In the end he confided in Celia. It was early evening, a few days before Christmas. Celia and Andrew were at home and, with Lisa's excited help, had been decorating their tree. It was Lisa's first awareness of "Kissmus," as she called it; all three were loving the experience. Eventually, with his daughter almost asleep from excitement and fatigue, Andrew gently carried her to bed. Afterward he stopped briefly in the adjoining bedroom where Bruce, the baby, was sleeping soundly in his crib. When Andrew returned to the living room, Celia had mixed a scotch and soda. "I made it a stiff one," she said as she handed him the glass.”I think you need it.”
As he looked at her inquiringly, she added, "Lisa was good for you tonight; you were more relaxed than I've seen you in weeks. But you're still troubled. Aren't you?" Surprised, he asked, "It shows that much?" "Darling, we've been married four years.”
He said feelingly, "They've been the best four years of my life.”
While he drank his scotch Andrew studied the Christmas tree and there was a silence while Celia waited. Then he said, "If it was that obvious, why didn't you ask me what was wrong?" "I knew you'd tell me when you were ready.”
Celia sipped a daiquiri she had made for herself.”Do you want to tell me? Now?" "Yes," he said slowly.”Yes, I think I do.”
"My God!" Celia said in a whisper when Andrew had finished.”Oh, my God!" "so you see," he told her, "if I've been less than a barrel of laughs, there's been good reason.”
She came to him, putting her arms around him, her face against his, holding him close.”You poor, poor darling. What a burden you've been carrying. I had no idea. I'm so sorry for you.”
"More to the point-be sorry for Noah.”
"Oh, I am. I really am. But I'm a woman, Andrew, and you're the one who means most to me. I can't, I won't, see you go on this way.,, He said sharply, "Then tell me what to do.”
"I know what to do.”
Celia released herself and turned to face him. "Andrew, you have to share this. You have to tell someone, and not just me.”
"For instance--who?" "Isn't it obvious? Someone at the hospital-someone with authority who can take some action, and help Noah too.” "Celia, I can't. If I did, it would be talked about, brought out in the open... Noah would be disgraced. He'd be removed as chief of medicine, God knows what would happen about his license, and either way it would break him. I cannot, simply cannot, do that.”
"Then what's the alternative?" He said glumly, "I wish I knew.”
"I want to help you," Celia said.”I really do, and I have an idea.”
"I hope it's better than the last one.”
"I'm not sure the last was wrong. But if you won't talk about Noah Townsend specifically, why not talk to someone in the abstract. Sound them out. Discuss the subject generally. Find out how other people at the hospital feel.”
"Do you have anyone in mind?" "Why not the administrator?" "Len Sweeting? I'm not sure.”
Andrew took a turn around the room, considering, then stopped beside the Christmas tree.”Well, at least it's an idea. Thanks. Let me think about it.”
"I trust that you and Celia had a good Christmas," Leonard Sweeting said. "Yes," Andrew assured him, "we did.”
They were in the hospital administrator's office with the door closed. Sweeting was behind his desk, Andrew in a chair facing it. The administrator was a tall, lanky ex-lawyer who might have been a basketball player but instead had the unlikely hobby of pitching horseshoes, at which he had won several championships. He sometimes said the championships had been easier than getting doctors to agree about anything. He had switched from law to hospital work in his twenties and now, in his late forties, seemed to know as much about medicine as many physicians. Andrew had come to know Len Sweeting well since their joint involvement in the Lotromycin incident four years earlier, and on the whole respected him. The administrator had thick, bushy eyebrows which moved up and down like vibrating brushes every time he spoke. They moved now as Sweeting said briskly, "You said you had a problem, Andrew. Something you need advice about.”
"Actually it's a physician friend of mine in Florida who has the problem," Andrew lied.”He's on staff at a hospital down there and has uncovered something he doesn't know how to deal with. My friend asked me to find out how we might handle the same situation here.”
"What kind of situation?" "It has to do with drugs.”
Briefly Andrew sketched out a mythical situation paralleling his own real one, though being careful not to make the comparison too close. As he spoke he was aware of a wariness in Sweeting's eyes, the earlier friendliness evaporating. The administrator's heavy eyebrows merged into a frown. At the end he pointedly stood up. "Andrew, I have enough problems here without taking on one from another hospital. But my advice is to tell your friend to be very, very cautious. That's dangerous ground he's treading on, especially in making an accusation against another doctor. Now, if you'll excuse me...”