House of God (40 page)

I lay on top of my bed. Berry came in. I was silent. Berry sat on the edge of my bed and talked to me, but I was silent. I was not tired or sad or mad. She cradled my head in her lap and looked into my eyes and started to cry. She tried to leave. She came back a couple of times between the doorway and the bed and finally, hesitating at the door a final time like a mourner might hesitate before allowing the casket to be closed, she left. Her sad footsteps echoed down the stairs and died, and I did not feel sad. I was not tired or mad. I lay on top of my bed and did not sleep. I imagined I felt what the gomers felt: an absence of feeling. I had no idea how bad I might be, but I knew that I could not do what Dr. Sanders had told me to do, to ‘be with' others. I could not ‘be with' others, for I was somewhere else, in some cold place, insomniac in the midst of dreamers, farfar from the land of love.

Part III

The Wing of Zock

But how is the poor wretch to acquire the ideal qualifications that he needs in his profession?

—Sigmund Freud,
Analysis Terminable and Interminable

18

I was ready to be taken over by machines. On the morning of April Fool's Day, I found myself just outside the hermetically sealed double doors of the MICU, the Medical Intensive Care Unit, what the Fat Man had called ‘that mausoleum down the hall.' Like a suburbanite in a fugue state who starts out heading for Wall Street and turns up three days later, blank, in Detroit, I had no past or future, I was merely there. I felt scared. For the next month I would have to take responsibility for the intensive care of those perched precariously on the edge of that slick bobsled ride down to death. I would be on call every other night, alternating with the resident. A bronze wall plaque caught my eye: THROUGH THE MUNIFICENCE OF MR. AND MRS. G. L. ZOCK, 1957. Zock, of the Wing of Zock? When would I meet a real Zock? With the technocratic dispassion of an astronaut, I pushed through the double doors, sealing myself hermetically in.

The inside was ultraquiet, ultraclean, ultraunbusy. MUZAK shirred the crisp atmosphere as gently as a French chef might shir a sleepy egg for an early-rising guest. I wandered through the deserted eight-bed unit, searching for intensive care. The patients were in their beds, quiet, at peace, at home with all they touched in this calm sea, happy fishes floating, floating. I found myself happily humming along with the MUZAK: ‘Some enchanted eeee-veniiiinng . . .' and stopped in front of a computer console, which filled me with a mixture of awed childhood memories of Cape Canaveral and adolescent fears stirred up by
2001
. I watched the bright lights blink, the oscilloscope flicker with what looked like something like rows of heartbeats. As I watched, there was an unpleasant buzz from the console, lights flashed, one of the rows of beats froze in space and time, and like ticker tape, out spewed the pink blue-gridded tongue of an EKG strip. At that, from a nearby room, out spewed a nurse. She looked at the EKG, looked at the oscilloscope screen, did not look at the patient, and with a mixture of pique and cajolery said to the console, ‘Shit, Ollie, wake up and get it together, will you, for Chrissakes?' As if for punishment, she poked a few keys
fortissimo
, which sent the thing humming along again, almost in syncopation with the fresh aria from MUZAK, a samba: ‘When they begin, the beegeeene . . .'

Relieved to see a warm-blooded being in this freaky reptilian lab, I turned to her and said, ‘Hi I'm Roy Basch.'

‘The new tern?' she asked suspiciously.

‘Right. What's this thing?'

‘Thing? Not hardly. He's Ollie, the Computer. Ollie, say hi to Roy Basch, the new tern here,' and with a few prompting punches in the vital parts, Ollie spewed out a pink blue-gridded tongue of an EKG strip, on which was printed: HI, ROY, AND WELCOME, I'M OLLIE. I asked the nurse where I could put my things, and she said to follow her. She was dressed in a green cotton operating-room wraparound, open in the back from neck nape to lumbar-4, that region of the back where the spine begins to make a delicious
contrappunto
curve into what used to be a tail, and what now begins the beegeeene of the fullness of the upper insertion of the
gluteus maximus
, the ass. As she walked, her spine traced imaginary curves in the MICU space. How fitting, I thought, that these firm young muscles, bathed in MUZAK, should dance together so perfectly in neurophysiological synch.

. . . There's nothing more magnificent than the human body and by now you are an expert in dealing with it . . .

The small staff room was filled with nurses, doughnuts, and gossip. My arrival punctured the bubble of chat, and out leaked silence. Then Angel, the Angel of the Runt, stood up, came over to me, gave me a hug, and said, ‘I want to'—gesture toward me—‘introduce Roy Basch, the medical intern. I told'—gesture toward nurses—'them about'—gesture toward me—‘you. We're'—gesture toward heaven—‘glad you're'—gesture toward earth—'here. Wanna'—gesture toward doughnuts—‘doughnut?'

I chose cream-filled. Forgetting work, I eased into this friendly group, relieved that things were so relaxed. I flipped my mind-flop to OFF.

The gossip was about the resident in charge of the Unit, Jo. In the weeks she'd been there, Jo had amazed, frightened, and ultimately antagonized the nurses, in that archaic pattern still so familiar when women doctors worked with women nurses. Although Jo usually started her own pre-rounds rounds before usual, on this particular day she was nowhere to be seen.

‘She spent all last night—her night off—here,' said a nurse. ‘She sat up with Mrs. Pedley, wondering why Pedley was still alive. And the only thing wrong with Pedley, really, is Jo's treatment of her. She must have overslept. Will she be mad!'

Jo came in sizzling. She looked at me suspiciously, remembering our debacle when Chuck and the Runt and I had tormented her on the upstairs ward, but she stuck out her jaw and stuck out her hand and said, ‘Hi, Roy. Welcome aboard. Never mind what happened upstairs, you'll like it here. It's high-powered medicine. Tight ship, the tightest ship in the whole House. Fresh start. No gripes, no hard feelings, eh?'

‘No hard feelings, Jo,' I said.

‘Good. Cardiology's my specialty, I'm going on my Fellowship to the NIH in Bethesda in July, so stick with me and you'll learn an incredible amount. In the Unit, we've got total control of all cardiac parameters. It's high-pressure, but if we work hard, we save lives, and we have good fun. Let's go.'

Just as Jo, the head nurse, and I were wheeling the chart rack to the first room, in skipped Pinkus, the Consultant to the Unit, ready to start his teaching rounds. Pinkus was a tall, emaciated-looking Staff cardiologist, heading toward forty. A TURF from the U. of Arizona to the BMS and the House of God, Pinkus was a legend, fanatic in his personal and professional life. Pinkus, it was said, rarely left the House. I myself had seen him, night after night, prowling the corridors, in the guise of following up consults on cardiac patients. Whatever the hour, I had found him patient, helpful, courteous, ready to produce an article, ready to put in a pacemaker, ready to chat. Such was his dedication to being in the House that an apocrypha had arisen about his home life: married, with three daughters, it was rumored that the only way that his wife or daughters knew he'd been home was to notice the toilet seat flipped to the UP mode.

The other part of Pinkus' fanaticism was his obsession with cardiac-risk factors. Smoking, coffee, obesity, high blood pressure, saturated fats, cholesterol, and lack of exercise were like death to him. Rumored at one time to have been sedentary, anxious, overweight, stuffing doughnuts and slurping coffee, Pinkus now through much effort, was on the verge of emaciation, was phobic to cholesterol, and had run himself into incredible shape, for the past two years finishing close to the time of three hours in the April Marathon. Somehow Pinkus had managed to reduce the final risk-factor variable, personality type. In a total turnabout, he'd gone from Type A (anxious) to Type B (calm).

Pinkus and Jo, in a short excoriation of the fuck-up of rounds times, had reached the decision that on this day all rounds would be one rounds, beginning at once. Despite more pressing problems, both Pinkus and Jo were interested in the woman Jo had spent the night with, Pedley. A pleasant seventy-five, Pedley had been TURFED into the House by Putzel, for the usual, the bowel run, for complaints of burping and farting after Chinese food. The bowel run had been negative. Unfortunately, some red-hot noticed on the screening EKG that Pedley was walking around in V Tach, according to the textbooks, a ‘lethal arrythmia.' Whisked by a nervous tern in the MICU, Pedley had fallen prey to Jo, who'd taken one look at the EKG, decided Pedley was dying, and had hooked up the electrodes of the cardioverter, and without anesthetic had burned the skin off Pedley's chest. Pedley's heart, affronted at having been jolted into normal sinus rhythm, stayed there for only a few minutes and reverted to the beat of its own drummer, V Tach. Frantic, Jo scorched Pedley's chest four more times before Pinkus arrived and stopped the barbecue. For the past week Pedley had remained in V Tach. Except for the festering burns on her chest, she was fine, a LOL in NAD. Pinkus and Jo, sniffing a publishable article, had employed Pinkus' fund of expertise: cardio-pharmaco-therapeutics. Pedley had been put on every cardiac drug, to no avail, and by the time I arrived Pinkus was into drugs only he would dare use, ranging from remedies for such noncardiac diseases as systemic lupus erythrematosis (an autoimmune disorder) to
tinea pedis
(athlete's foot). Pedley, held prisoner and suffering the side effects of these meds, wanted out. Daily, Pinkus and Jo would coerce Pedley into a trial of something new. That day it was ‘Norplace,' a derivative of the grease used to stick Ollie's EKG monitor leads to a patient's thorax.

‘Hello, dearie, how's the gal today?' asked Pinkus.

‘I want to go home. I feel fine, young man. Let me go.'

‘Do you have a hobby, dear?' asked Pinkus.

‘You ask me that every day,' said Pedley, ‘and every day I tell you: my hobby is my life outside of here. If I had known that Chinese food would lead to this, I'd never have called Putzel. Wait'll I get my hands on him—he won't visit me, you know. He's scared of me.'

‘My hobbies are running and fishing,' said Pinkus. ‘Running for fitness and fishing for calm. I heard you had Jo worried last night.'

‘She's worried, I'm not. Let me go.'

‘There's a new medicine I wish you'd try today, dear,' said Pinkus.

‘No more medicines! That last one had me thinking I was a fourteen-year-old girl again in Billings, Montana. I came in here in good faith, and you're giving me trips to Montana! No more meds for Pedley!'

‘This one will work.'

‘There's nothing wrong with me for it to work on!'

‘Please, Mrs. Pedley, try it for us,' pleaded Jo sincerely.

‘Only if you get me some fish chowder for lunch.'

‘Done,' said Jo, and we left.

In the hallway, Pinkus turned to me and said, ‘It's important to have a hobby, what's yours, Roy?'

Before I had a chance to answer, Jo whipped our caravan forward again. Of the other five patients, none could speak. Each suffered in the throes of some horrible, incurable, lingering disease that would almost certainly kill, usually involving major organs like heart, lung, liver, kidney, brain. The most pathetic was a man who'd started with a pimple on his knee. Without culturing it, his House Private, Duck's Ass Donowitz, had given him the wrong antibiotic, which had eradicated the bacteria that were containing the spread of the resistant
staph
in the pimple, allowing the
staph
to spread, producing total body sepsis, and turning a happy forty-five-year-old successful broker into an epileptic, mute, debilitated skeleton who could not speak because of the hole that had rotted through the cartilage of his trachea from his months on a respirator. In our rounds, he looked at me, dumbfounded and terrified, pleading to be saved. His only hope now would be the hope of a dream, his only solace, dreamsolace, a time when his dream of his voice, of his full life, would comfort him until the daily awakening to the nightmare of his crushed life. It was obvious malpractice by Donowitz. No one had told the man who'd started with the pimple on his knee that he could sue for millions. At his doorway, I heard his story from Jo in clipped dispassionate argot like Ollie's. I saw his eyes fasten on me, a newcomer, someone who might bring a miracle, asking me to give him back his voice, his Saturday-afternoon game of squash, his piggyback rides under his kids. I was overwhelmed. As if by fate, with a little help from an incompetent and lazy doc, a man's life had taken a sharp permanent turn down. I turned my head away. I never wanted to look into those mute eyes again.

He was not alone. Four more times I was shaken by the horror of ruined life. One after the other, totally immobilized, lungs run by respirators, hearts run by pacemakers, kidneys run by machines, brains run barely, if at all. It was terrible. The smell was that of lingering death: sickly-sour, feverish, sliding away far off on a horizon I could barely see. I didn't want any part of it. I would not touch these putrid ones, no. It was all too sad for me.

Not for Jo. At each room she riffled her three-by-five cards and rattled off numbers, and then had the nurse hoist the body up to sitting, so she could listen to the chest. Pinkus looked distractedly out the window, unable to ask or tell about hobbies, and I felt dead inside. Jo asked me didn't I want to listen to their chests, and reflexively, I did. The last was a second-year BMS student who, while on a pediatrics rotation, had caught a cold from a kid, which turned into a cough, then a flu, then a something beyond the realm of the known or the treatable that had hit his lungs, heart, liver, and kidneys and left him driven by respirator, pacemaker, and kidney machine. Despite this, despite the MICU's ‘4-plussing' him—going all-out—he was dying. The stubble on his cheeks was blond. Jo had the nurse hoist him up. put her stethoscope on him, and motioned for me to join in, I said I'd pass.