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"It's alive," said Homer Wells. "That's the only thing."
"You are involved in a process," said Dr. Larch. "Birth, on occasion, and interrupting it--on other occasions. Your disapproval is noted. It is legitimate. You are welcome to disapprove. But you are not welcome to be ignorant, to look the other way, to be unable to perform--should you change your mind."
"I won't change my mind," said Homer Wells.
"All right, then," said Dr. Larch, "should you, against your will, but for the life of the mother, for example . . . should you have to perform."
"I'm not a doctor," said Homer Wells.
"You are not a complete physician," said Dr. Larch. "And you could study with me for another ten years, and you still wouldn't be complete. But regarding all the known complications arising in
the area of the female organs of generation, regarding those organs--you can be a complete surgeon. Period. You are already more competent than the most competent midwife, damn it," said Wilbur Larch.
Homer had anticipated the extraction of the small curette; he handed Larch the first of several sterile vulval pads.
"I will never make you do what you disapprove of, Homer," said Dr. Larch, "but you will watch, you will know how to do what I do. Otherwise, what good am I?" he asked. "Aren't we put on this earth to work? At least to learn, at least to watch? What do you think it means, to be of use?" he asked. "Do you think you should be left alone? Do you think I should let you be a Melony?"
"Why don't you teach her how to do it?" Homer Wells asked Dr. Larch.
Now there's a question, Nurse Angela thought, but the woman's head moved slightly in Nurse Angela's hands; the woman moaned, and Nurse Angela touched her lips to the woman's ear. "You're just fine, dear," she whispered. "It's all over now. You just rest."
"Do you see what I mean, Homer?" Dr. Larch asked.
"Right," Homer said.
"But you don't agree, do you?" Larch asked.
"Right again," said Homer Wells.
You damn sullen self-centered self-pitying arrogant untested know-nothing teen-ager! thought Wilbur Larch, but instead of any of that, he said to Homer Wells, "Perhaps you're having second thoughts about becoming a doctor."
"I never really had a first thought about that," Homer said. "I never said I wanted to be a doctor."
Larch looked at the blood on the gauze--the right amount of blood, he thought--and when he held out his hand for a fresh pad, Homer had one ready. "You don't want to be a doctor, Homer?" Dr. Larch asked.
"Right," said Homer Wells. "I don't think so."
"You've not had much opportunity to look at other things," Larch said philosophically; his heart was aching. "It's my fault, I know, if I've made medicine so unattractive."
Nurse Angela, who was much tougher than Nurse Edna, felt that she might cry.
"Nothing's your fault," Homer said quickly.
Wilbur Larch checked the bleeding again. "There's not much to do here," he said abruptly. "If you wouldn't mind just staying with her until she's out of the ether--you did give her rather a wallop," he added, looking under the woman's eyelids. "I can deliver the Damariscotta woman, when she's ready. I didn't realize you didn't like the whole business," Larch said.
"That's not true," Homer said. "I can deliver the Damariscotta woman. I'd be happy to deliver her." But Wilbur Larch had turned away from the patient and left the operating room.
Nurse Angela glanced quickly at Homer; it was a fairly neutral look, certainly not withering, or even faintly condemning, but it wasn't sympathetic either (or even friendly, thought Homer Wells). She went after Dr. Larch, leaving Homer with the patient making her way out of the ether.
Homer looked at the spotting on the pad; he felt the woman's hand graze his wrist as she said groggily, "I'll wait here while you get the car, honey."
In the boys' shower room, where there were several toilet stalls, Wilbur Larch put cold water on his face and looked for evidence of his tears in the mirror; he was no more a veteran of mirrors than Melony was, and Dr. Larch was surprised by his appearance. How long have I been so old? he wondered. Behind him, in the mirror, he recognized the pile of sodden clothes upon the floor as belonging to Curly Day. "Curly?" he asked; he'd thought he was alone, but Curly Day was crying too--in one of the toilet stalls.
"I'm having a very bad day," Curly announced.
"Let's talk about it," Dr. Larch suggested, which coaxed Curly out of the stall. He was dressed in more or less fresh clothes, but Larch recognized that the clothes weren't Curly's. They were some of Homer's old clothes, too small for Homer now, but still much too large for Curly Day.
"I'm trying to look nice for the nice couple," Curly explained. "I want them to take me."
