Tales from the Emergency Room (3 page)

On Valentine’s Day the following year, I went to pick up my mail at the college post office where a rather large package was waiting for me. It did not have a return address, but in those days, that was of no consequence. Back in the dormitory I opened the package and discovered a quite thoroughly dissected cat. I knew instantly that it was from Margie who was in Miami, Ohio studying to be pharmacist and was taking vertebrate anatomy as I was in Rochester. For some weeks thereafter, I occasionally used the cat specimen to study in my room. The cleaning lady dutifully shifted the box back and forth under the sink as she went about her work. (I’m quite sure she knew what was in the box.) Of course, my friend won all the points there were to win and remains far ahead of me in that regard to this day. All of our friends were highly entertained. (I had the honor to introduce Margie to the assembled multitude at our Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary party as the reason we were all there, since she had introduced Peggy and me.)

The Mouse-brown Limousine

In 1953, my father and I bought a used Dodge 4-door with fluid drive. Since the car had belonged to a good friend of his and since my father taught auto mechanics in high school, we knew the car was in excellent condition. It was a significant $300.00 investment for me, however, and I took very good care of the car. My college friends rode all over with me but they knew the rules, such as no eating in the car, and they abided by them. Later on, as an engagement present, my parents presented us with a case of motor oil. For our wedding present my father had the engine entirely rebuilt. Both of these strange gifts would eventually save us a lot of money.

After I was married as a sophomore in medical school we continued to drive the car. However, the car was the same color as the street outside our apartment and was hardly visible from our garret apartment. It really was a mouse-brown color. At some point the glove compartment door could not be closed and stuck straight out over the passenger’s knees. Add to this a completely rusted away floor on the passenger side due to Rochester winter road salt. Thus, riding in the car was an adventure. Our baby sitters, who were nursing school students, knew to ride with one foot on the frame and the other on the drive shaft, and not to look down. They also gave up trying to close the glove compartment door.

When medical school graduation weekend arrived, my father, thinking mainly about his grandson, announced that we would not be riding home in that car. So, we took it to the nearby junk yard and sold it for $35.00. It had served us well for 7 years and provided us with many stories and fond memories.

The GI Bug

At times, my best college friend could be very precise. In our sophomore year an epidemic of food poisoning swept the campus. I was spared because I had not eaten the tainted food, but nearly everyone else had. I knew my former roommate was sick, so I decided to visit him in his room directly above mine. When I entered his room, it was plain that he had been really sick. He said to me as I stood there in my crepe soled shoes, “It may interest you to know that you are standing in my shit.” It did indeed interest me and I retreated to the hall. Whereupon he arose from his sick bed, bundled up all the bed clothes and marched naked to the incinerator chute. So, I knew he was getting better and left him to finish the cleanup. Over the years, I would still chide George about throwing all that bedding and clothes out.

Contraband Liquor

These days especially it is not prudent to be smart with border officers. But, neither was it back in 1956, in the middle of the night when the officers had little to do. My college friend and eventual medical school roommate, Chuck, our girl friends (who both became our wives) and his parents had spent several days in the Michigan north woods at his parents’ cabin. We were on our way back to Rochester by the shortest route, through Canada, when we crossed the border in the middle of the night. Peggy and I were travelling in my car behind the others. Chuck’s mother had a fun-loving disposition, was a known jokester and went by the name “Hotrod Hannah” in some circles because of her driving style. We noted that their car had been directed to pull into a slot by the station house, and then, we were directed there, too. We got out of my car and were herded into the station. We were questioned about what we might be transporting into the States and were told our car was about to be examined. Now, these officers had virtually nothing to do as far as we could see and they could plainly tell that we were just “innocent” college students. But, search the car they did, finding nothing suspicious. Eventually, we were allowed to proceed on our way. It seems that when our host and his folks had been cleared at the border, his mother announced that she had reason to believe that the car behind them was carrying contraband liquor. Thus, the inspection procedure. We spent an hour there and I am not sure that Hotrod was having as much fun as she thought she would. Despite that we have laughed about the episode for many years.

A Messy College Room

My college roommate and I kept a very neat dormitory room. His mother used to mail his personal laundry to him—ironed sheets and underwear—which stunned me. But we rarely had a mess in our room, beds were made, clothes hung up, etc. One day however we were both being a bit sloppy and the room was in maximum disarray, looking like a bombsite. My roommate’s mother and father showed up unannounced. I knew who it was of course, but I continued to fake a nap, facing the wall, while George’s father opened the windows to air the place out and his mother began straightening things up. It was a most unpleasant visit for us both, the more so since I steadfastly refused to become involved. Later we often laughed about his parents’visit on one of the few days when things were not “just so”.

Dr. Engel’s Mail

My college roommate and best friend had the same name as an internationally renowned psychiatrist and eventual professor of mine at the medical school. When we went to pick up our mail I would often watch him sort through his mail and toss letter after letter into the trash. George was throwing away all of the doctor’s mail which had come to him. This went on for the whole time we were in college. Years later at my twentieth medical school reunion I had a chance to talk with the psychiatrist who by then was well into his eighties. I knew he would have no idea who I was, but I told him the story of the mail mix up. He paused and then said that at one time, for several years, he had received very little mail and had never been able to figure out why. I was glad to be able to enlighten him—a role reversal of sorts.

Medical School Interviews

Midway through our junior year in college we began our medical school applications. These nearly always required personal interviews at the schools we had applied to. It was easy to get to my interviews at the University of Rochester Medical School since it was just a short walk across the college campus. My close friend and confidant and early medical school roommate, Chuck, and I had one of our interviews with the same young doctor at the medical school. At the end of my interview, the doctor asked me if I knew Chuck. Startled, I said that I did. He said that he thought so since my answers to his questions were virtually identical with Chuck’s. I admitted the closeness of our relationship and the fact that he and I discussed everything of importance with one another. Of course, I decided on the spot that neither one of us would be accepted at Rochester.

As if that weren’t enough, my second interview was with a Nobel Laureate. Someone had given me a subscription to Scientific American and, by chance, I had begun to read an article in the magazine on the Theory of Numbers. To be honest, I paid attention to the summary of the article just under the title and little else, since it was all way beyond me. The professor greeted me cordially and asked a few questions about myself. Then he paused, looked me in the eye and said, “What do you know about the Theory of Numbers?” I recited what I had read of the article, whereupon he proceeded to regale me with a long and complicated explanation of the theory. My job, I guessed, was to listen and keep looking as intelligent as I could. Again I thought that my goose was cooked as far as the U of R medical school was concerned.

My friend and I were accepted at the medical school, first choice for both of us. To this day, I think that there must have been other reasons for the school to accept me and that I might have missed the purpose of the interviews altogether.

Another Medical School Interview

I arranged an appointment for an interview at a well-known Boston medical school. I was aware that new rules applied to such interviews, namely that the applicant would not be told whether or not he/she was accepted, at the interview. So, off I went on my first plane ride, in the pouring rain. The Chairman of the Anatomy Department was to interview me. We met in the student snack room. The Chairman turned out to be a woman. Her opening line was about the fact that she hadn’t known what to expect I would look like since I had not sent a picture with my application. (I am sure that I did!) Then she began to ask a few questions, one of which I remember clearly, “What book are you reading now for pleasure?” I had just finished
The Egyptian
by Mika Walteri. (I had no idea Mika was a man, however the Chairman did.) The book is a story about a physician in Egypt and my interviewer referred to the author as “him.” We then talked amicably about what my life had been like, how college was going, why I wanted to be a doctor and many other things. Finally, it came time for the Chairman to leave and I walked with her to a huge, marble spiral staircase in the lobby. When she had gone up four or five steps, the chairman turned and, looking down at me, said, “I am on my way to a meeting of the Admissions Committee and I am going to recommend very highly that you be accepted here.” Naturally, I was thrilled because this was her way of getting around the rules, communicating to me that I was accepted at her school and that medical school was now definitely in my future.

From this experience, I learned to keep my face on when unexpected things happened during interviews. I flew home on a plane where I sat next to a lady who proudly showed me her wrist band from her hospital stay. We were served a chicken dinner. How I was supposed to attack this meal in my crowded seat on an airplane was a mystery to me, but I really didn’t care so elated was I.

The Medical School Acceptances

So there I was one spring day in college lying on my bed when there came a knock at the door. My best friend, George, now lived across the hall from me. We had an arrangement whereby if one of us went to pick up our mail he would deliver the other person’s mail to his room. So, I assumed it was he and I said for him to come in. He stepped inside the door and said that he had a letter for me from the U of R medical school. I froze instantly, finally managing to croak out, “Is it thick or thin?” I should have known that my friend would do anything to create a little drama by the way he paused before he answered, but I missed that part. He finally said that it was “thick”. That did the trick, releasing me from my anxiety because I knew that rejection letters were thin while acceptance letters were thick since they contained all the important documents that needed to be filled out. In truth, the letter deliverer was as thrilled as I was. Then began a day and evening of celebrating with my classmates who had been accepted at the medical school. Fifty years later nearly all of these people came back to our Class of ’56 college reunion where we spent another day and evening of celebration.

An Incidental Tutor

I remember Dick for many reasons. I was best man at his wedding. In German class when I gave a perfectly inane answer to a question from the professor, he loudly announced that I had an “outstanding command of the obvious”. I thought it was a marvelous comeback!

He was an outstanding scholar and helped me greatly to get through my math class. The night before the big exam, he made me memorize ten formulas for solving various problems, and instructed me just to fill in the numbers in the questions. I did just that and managed a “B” in what was otherwise a totally opaque subject to me.

 
The Medical School Years

Hydatidiform Mole

Before I went off to medical school, a physician friend of the family gave me a pile of medical journals (JAMA) to browse through. As school was about to begin, my roommate and I were wondering one evening whether we would be able to handle it. We felt quite confident of course, but our confidence was being eroded by our nervousness. We began to read the titles of the medical articles in the journals. The contents were on the cover so we didn’t even have to open a journal. We were doing OK just trying to pronounce the words with no idea what many of them meant. Then, we got to a title about hydatidiform moles. This sent us over the edge and we spent the rest of the evening laughing and trying out different pronunciations. To this day, the mention of this word, even correctly pronounced, gets us laughing.

Iceboating

Irondequiot Bay, near the medical school, was a favorite spot to go iceboating. Boaters would lie prone on their wind-driven sailing sleds and achieve remarkable speeds over the ice. Great fun until one of the shore landowners decided that he didn’t want the boaters near his property. He strung three lengths of barbed wire across the ice to keep the boaters out. An ice boater, a man of about 21 years of age, sailed right into the wires which caught him across his neck, face and scalp.

We were in a full-class session when the Chief of Plastic Surgery came to lecture. His first slide showed a red, ball-shaped arrangement of unknown, to us, identity. Urged to look closely, we all eventually spotted a tooth imbedded in the mass. Then followed a long selection of slides documenting the reconstruction of the boater’s face. One hundred and twenty five long and short operations later his face looked normal with scars barely visible along his jaw lines. It took two and one-half years to complete the reconstruction which included saving about 20 of his teeth and most of the nerve functions. To think that the original injury could be repaired to the result we saw was a source of awe to all of us then and at least to me, still is today.