Tales from the Emergency Room (2 page)

Three Fingers

One evening, I found myself alone in the pharmacy. A young man came up to the prescription counter and pressed three fingers of his right hand into the palm of his left hand and lightly tapped them into his palm three times. He spoke not a word. I was totally mystified. To one side of the counter was an elegant set of wooden built-in drawers each with a small brass frame into which a card was inserted bearing a list of the contents of the drawer. I glanced in that direction and noticed that one of the labels was not black and white typing, but red and white with no words. Aha, I said to myself, Trojan condoms come in red and white packages of three. Having no idea if I was right, I removed a three pack from the drawer and put it on the counter. The man laid his fifty cents down, picked up the condoms and left. No one was around to witness this transaction and a similar one never occurred to me again. To this day, I am rather proud of myself for figuring out the sign language. Those days are far removed now when enormous displays of condoms adorn drugstore walls.

The Orderly

When I was in high school and college, I worked as an orderly at St. Agnes Hospital in White Plains, NY. I was born there and subsequently my daughter was born there as well. I always worked the night shift so that I would be able to spend my days with my friends, often on weekends at the beach. So, I would get off early on Friday morning, sleep a short time and then catch up with the gang. By Friday night I wasn’t able to sleep very well since that was my usual working time. But, Saturday was always a busy time, too. Late parties on Saturday night were the best since I would be wide awake. On Sunday evening, I would arrive at the hospital pretty much wiped out. I endeavored to complete my duties in a timely fashion so I could have a nap (on company time I must confess). I worked on the main medical floor for the “charge nurse”. We all called each other by our last names only and enjoyed working together. Some nights if it was slow I would have a rest on an unused gurney. When I woke up, I was often in an entirely different location having been wheeled there by my “friends”. Once, I was presented with an oblong, pink cellophane bag tied at one end with a blue ribbon. This was a symbol of the many times I had prepared male patients for surgery. I was also fired three times by the head nun on our floor, probably because I was having too much fun. The head Sister of the hospital always hired me back in the morning. Indeed, eventually no one was able to make up a hospital bed better or faster than I, a real achievement among the pros. Many years later it was my privilege as a doctor and an old friend to wish my charge nurse the very best upon her retirement from nursing.

The Glasses

When I was sixteen years old, I went to New York City on a class trip to the opera (Lucia di Lammermoor). I was seated on the train with my best friend, Lou, who commented about one of the advertising signs at the end of the rail car. Well, to my amazement and Lou’s amusement, I was unable to make out the writing on the sign.

I told my parents about this and my father and I went off to the ophthalmologist. After my exam, as the doctor was writing out the prescription for my glasses, I noticed that he reached into his desk drawer and took a drink out of a soda bottle. After I got my new glasses, I had a great deal of trouble figuring out where my feet should be. I tripped up stairs and nearly fell downstairs several times. I thought that this was just me getting used to the glasses but finally, I had to report the problem. My father then took me to see an optometrist friend of his. This doctor reported that, while the ophthalmologist had gotten the prescription correct, he had written it upside down—or something like that. The lenses were corrected and ever since I have worn glasses quite comfortably.

The ophthalmologist in question turned out to be an alcoholic, drinking straight whiskey out of his soda bottle. He soon closed his practice and after a lengthy time successfully reopened it having become a recovering alcoholic.

A Platonic Friend

In high school I was a member of the foreign exchange student club. We met with other clubs from nearby schools and got to know visiting students. There I met a pretty young lady and we became good friends. (She would eventually introduce me to her best friend who later became my wife. She figures in a later story.) We had a purely platonic relationship but would call one another up and get together if neither of us was otherwise occupied. One summer night I returned my “date” to her house quite late and she sat on her brick front steps while I stood as we chatted a bit more. Then I said that I was leaving, expecting her to go into her house. When she didn’t budge after much coaxing, I just left her there, checking to see that she actually did go inside as I drove off. It seems that we had had a good laugh or two after we got to her house. She wet her pants and knew that that would be obvious when she stood up. What a good sport she was to tell me about her problem later on. She is still a good sport and a good friend.

The Hat

In an OB-GYN class in medical school we had all convened on schedule but no professor showed up so we all left. The professor was not happy, but it reminded me of a story about my father when I was about seven years old. He often took night courses at New York University in the City and so I was used to his routine. One night he came home before I had gone to bed. Most unusual on his class night. Two weeks later I remember him rummaging around in the closet for an old fedora. He left with it and once again returned early.

Two weeks before, his class of adults had shown up but the professor did not, though his hat was on his desk. So, after an appropriate waiting period, the class left. The next week a very annoyed professor announced that, “When my hat is here, I’m here!” Before the next class all the students arrived a bit early, placed a hat on their desks and left. The professor never said another word about his hat and thereafter showed up on time to teach, albeit with some catching up to do in the curriculum.

Sundays with Hilara

A few houses down the hill from my house a neighbor lady ran a lending library. My mother had to be her best customer. Hilara was a speed reader and so she went through books at a rapid pace. She did a lot of her reading on Sunday afternoons and my friends would often gather around to question her about what she had read while slowly, steadily turning the pages of a book. Their skepticism about her ability was allayed after they had carefully perused the pages she was reading and she had gotten everything right. To this day my friends remember my mother, probably because she did not seem to realize what a significant ability she had.

Also, when I was very young, my mother and I would go to the paper store across the street from church. It never failed that we would be surrounded by some very unusual people. They certainly did not fit my definition of “normal”. It was obvious that they loved my mother. Later, I found out that she had been the first special education teacher in the school system, before the days when these mentally and physically challenged people were “mainlined”. So, Hilara would go to their homes to teach them, probably the only educational help they had ever gotten, and they had not forgotten their gratitude for my mother.

 
The College Years

The Valedictorian

Shortly after I arrived on campus at college I was wandering around wearing my Frosh beanie as required, when two other freshmen approached and we started up a conversation. Eventually, one of the guys noted that he had been valedictorian of his high school class. I asked how many were in his class. There were 46. His companion had the distinction of being salutatorian of his class of 23. I couldn’t resist and so I said, quite truthfully, “There were 643 people in my graduating class.” And I walked off. Let them wonder about my high school class rank, I thought.

Cutthroats

It wasn’t long after I got to college that I learned about cutthroats. They were plentiful among the pre-med students. It was said that they would stoop to anything to see if other people’s scores on tests and projects were above or below theirs. There may actually have been attempts to change results or mislead others into poorer performances, but that, thankfully, did not happen to me. My group of pre-med friends was highly supportive of each other, even tutoring one another on occasion. However, it was not unusual for me to be informed of my scores on tests while on my way across campus before I even got to the postings. I remember one man who actually studied with a gun displayed on his desk—a friend of mine took me to see for myself. My feeling was that the people who spent their time creating and maintaining lists of students they were in “competition” with might better have used their time in academic study. In any case, several of the cutthroats were eventually unable to get into medical school. Almost everyone in my group was accepted at their medical school of choice. In fact, seven of the eight who applied to the University of Rochester School of Medicine and Dentistry were accepted there in spite of a policy of the medical school to accept only about three students from its own college class. The eighth studied elsewhere. (We all felt a little uncomfortable about that, but he wound up at an excellent school as well.)

Speech Training

Included in our first semester of college was a course, mandatory for all, in speech training. There were weekly critiques of our use of the English language. The thing about it all that I remember best, probably because I got kidded about it so much, was the professor’s admonition to me that I must learn to speak in a lower register. While saying this she forced her voice into the baritone range. I went about trying to train myself to do this, usually when my roommate was present, but I never did succeed. We had a lot of laughs about it though.

Big Brother

Upon arrival in college I was assigned a “big brother” who was a senior in pre-med. I really do not know how I would have made it without him. Despite my successful high school career, I was unprepared for college study. I like to say that my big brother dragged me kicking and screaming through my freshman year. By the time he went off to medical school I was able to get along on my own. I am forever grateful for his advice and counsel.

About ten years later I attended a medical staff meeting at Lenox Hill Hospital in New York where I was an attending physician. The new Director of Hematology was introduced during the meeting. He was my old friend! As the meeting ended and I made my way toward him, he turned, looked at me and said, “Hi Bill!” Subsequently he sent patients to me and we worked together on fund-raising projects for The University of Rochester. It was a real pleasure to become reacquainted with my college mentor.

Bibs

Not long after college classes began I met a girl named Bibs. I have no idea if this is her actual given name or not. However, we saw each other frequently, mostly lounging around the student union. We might even have had a date or two. One day while we were sitting in the lounge Bibs remarked to me that she had finally figured out what my “line” was. I had only a vague idea of what this might mean. She announced that my “line” was that I didn’t have a “line”. I guessed that she was right. Anyway, we had a lot of fun together. In one noteworthy instance, we had carefully coordinated our train ride back to school after Thanksgiving break. I got on the train at Harmon station and she got on at Albany. (Bibs was heiress to a well known household cleanser fortune located near Albany, a fact I did not find out about until much later.) In those days, one could smoke on the train and so we did. Bibs carried a small silver silent butler in her purse into which she deposited her cigarette ashes. Near Utica I began to smell something burning and then several others did, too. Of course, it was Bib’s purse, not quite in flames yet, but certainly on fire. The silent butler had come open and spilled smoldering ashes. After much commotion and things were back under control, we had a good laugh. I have never seen any such thing as that little device since then.

The Cigarette

In my freshman year at college, a friend who owned a car suggested that four of us drive to New York City with him. I agreed to go if I could be left off in White Plains where, I assured everyone, my mother would have plenty of refreshments for us before the rest of the group continued on. I cautioned my travelling companions quite emphatically not to mention that I smoked. While we were enjoying our supper at my parents’ house, my father, in an apparent attempt to say that I was now allowed to smoke, offered me a cigarette. A chorus of voices rang out, “Oh, Bill doesn’t smoke!” I knew my father instantly realized what had happened and so I accepted the cigarette, able now to smoke without guilt.

Assorted Ice Creams

My father was in Syracuse, NY on business and invited me and my roommate George to meet him at his hotel for dinner. It was not a long drive and a half-way decent free meal appealed to us. When the dessert menu was presented to us, my father’s brilliant son ordered the “assorted ice creams”. My roommate didn’t even try to let this go unnoticed and so we both burst out laughing. My father smiled indulgently probably wondering how he had wound up with these two nuts!

That was not the only time he and I managed to attract attention over something we found hilarious. A notable example occurred just before my friend died as we were walking with our wives through an antique shop in Mt. Dora, Florida. We both spotted a yellow china cup labeled “yellow cup”. Our wives shooed us onto the street where we continued our uproarious laughing sitting on a curbside bench.

The Dead Cat

I have mentioned the girl who was my occasional date in a previous story. We were pals, buddies. In our group we used to play practical jokes on one another and the crowd would assign points for whatever mischief we managed to pull off. One evening at Christmastime, we went out dancing as a group. The dance floor was extremely crowded. I asked Margie to dance and arranged for her to precede me onto the dance floor. I suggested that she move right into the center of the crowd. Then I returned to my table and waited with the rest of the group to see what would happen. Naturally, when she turned around, already in dance position, I was nowhere to be seen. By the time she got back to the table, the crowd was laughing. My friend cheerfully agreed that she had been had. I would pay, I knew, but I did get a lot of points.