The Doctor's Tale

Cover and Interior Design by Smoking Gun Publishing, LLC

Copyright © 2015 Claire Applewhite. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.

This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. People, places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.

ISBN: 978-1-940586-24-3

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015905469

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Published by Smoking Gun Publishing, LLC

Printed in the United States of America

This book is the culmination of years of reading, research and listening to a seemingly endless supply of stories related to St. Louis City Hospital. Where did I find them? It seemed that nearly every St. Louisan had at least one to share with me. I never questioned the credibility of these tales; rather, I wondered how such events managed to occur. It soon became apparent that St. Louis City Hospital owned a unique reputation—specifically, a universal belief that this was a place where anything could and did happen.

I would especially like to thank the St. Louis City Hospital Alumni Association for their enthusiasm in keeping the memory of this St. Louis landmark alive, for their entertaining tales, and their camaraderie.

Thank you to Lois Mans, my graphic artist and friend, for sharing her many talents, friendship and support.

A special thank you to Thomas Applewhite, M.D., without whom this book could not have been written.

Finally, thank you to the St. Louis City Hospital employee “family.” You did your best to make St. Louis a better place for those who could not otherwise afford health care.

Claire Applewhite

April 26, 2015

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to those men and women who selflessly cared for the patients at St. Louis City Hospital. Often working in substandard conditions, these devoted people confronted the challenges posed by poverty and disease with courage and determination. To this day, a strong camaraderie exists among them.

“Okay, listen up!” The young resident grinned at the fresh crop of interns. “Welcome to Orientation.” He pointed at a name embroidered on his long, white lab coat. “I am Dr. R. Franklin Freeman. Call me Dr. Freeman. And remember, this is not a hospital.” He chuckled, and gestured to the thick metal doors behind him. “Follow me, and you’ll see what I mean. We’ll start with the inmates of Division Sixteen.” He winked at a petite brunette. “Later, cutie.”

The metal doors parted. The stale scent of disease filled my nostrils. Rusty fan blades sliced the still air. Mammoth flies circled rows of huddled bodies, trapped in creaky beds.

Dr. Freeman sipped coffee from a dingy foam cup. “Ah! Another day in paradise,” he quipped. “Straight ahead there, folks. Watch your step!”

My colleagues and I gawked at Freeman, and then, at one another. Some advanced with caution, while others hesitated, immobilized by his unabashed scorn for the chronically ill.

I recalled my days in the second grade at St. Ambrose Elementary School, when Sister Loretta asked us to pray for the poor souls who had no one to pray for them. As a child, I didn’t understand how I could pray for people I didn’t know. Back then, I wondered where they lived. Now, I knew.

“Take a good look,” Freeman said. “But, don’t take too long. We’ve still got a lot of looking to do. I promised some sweet young things we’d stop at the nurses’ station. Chat a little, you know. A few words to the wise: it’s smart to stay friendly with the help.” He took another swig from the cup and pressed a large silver button below the EXIT sign. The
scratched metal door whined and opened into a wide hallway. “Trust me.” He tossed his half empty cup onto the seat of a dilapidated wooden wheelchair and grinned. “Welcome to City Hospital!”

My name is Thomas Anthony Spezia. I am a first year intern at University School of Medicine. Besides Mamma, Papa and Grandpa, I have two brothers and four sisters. We live in an Italian-American neighborhood in St. Louis, Missouri, known as “The Hill,” in a house that’s been in our family for, well…just a very long time. Since I’m the first Spezia to graduate from college, the whole family believes I’m a genius, except for my older sister, Rosa. To her, I’m just the little brother who wants to be a doctor.

Sometime around my fifth birthday, I found a robin in our backyard. When I picked it up, it tried to fly, but its wing was broken. I decided to fix it.

Mama was the only person who knew about my “patient.” At first, she wasn’t too enthusiastic, but I was determined to succeed. Finally, she agreed to buy a few supplies. “Just don’t be surprised if this doesn’t end up the way you expected,” she said.

I lined a shoebox with crumpled newspaper, and “set” the wing with a popsicle stick and adhesive tape. Three times a day, I fed the bird some milk and honey from an eyedropper. My “patient” grew stronger. Mama couldn’t believe it. One morning, the robin hopped out of the shoebox, and Mama told me it was time to say goodbye. I felt a little sad, but my curiosity overwhelmed me. When I unwrapped the crude bandage, the bird fluffed its feathers, flapped its wing and soared into the clouds. I felt elated!

That same day, I told Mama I wanted to be a doctor. She said she never considered a choice like that for me, but she thought it was a nice idea. Then, she said what she always said when a decision needed to be
made. “Talk to Papa.” When Papa came home from work, I told him about the bird’s broken wing and how I got it to heal. Finally, I told him I wanted to be a doctor.

He listened, and nodded once or twice, but he didn’t say anything. In fact, I thought he forgot what I said until the following day, when the entire Spezia family gathered for Sunday dinner. I will never forget that night.

Papa always sat at the head of the table. We had just finished a meal of Mama’s lasagna, accompanied by her special 10 ingredient salad. Mama placed a large platter of cookies from the Italian bakery in the center of the table. Then, she arranged half a dozen cookies on a smaller plate, and served them to Papa. My sisters, brothers, and Grandpa served themselves.

“I’ll get the coffee,” Mama said.

“Not now, Marie. I want you to sit down,” Papa said.

Mama immediately sat in her chair, beside Papa.

Papa took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and faced the members of his family. I didn’t recognize the expression on his face.

“There’s some things I want to ask you tonight,” he said. “Because I have a big question—and no answer.”

Everyone stopped eating. A tense silence filled the room.

“Okay,” Papa said. “I’ll get straight to the point. Does anyone here know what it means to be a Spezia?”

“What’s bothering you, Vinnie?” Grandpa said. “Just tell us already.”

Papa pounded the table with his fist.

“I’ll tell you what’s bothering me! I don’t think this family understands the Spezia tradition, the pride, the…”

“Papa, what do you mean?” Rosa said.

“I mean, Spezias are cops. We have always been cops.” His lower lip started to tremble. He stopped talking, but only for a moment. “We’re the best of the best.”

“Yeah, Vinnie,” Grandpa said. “That’s right. So what’s the big question you got with no answer?”

“Yesterday, I hear my son wants to be a doctor.” Again, he pounded the table. “Not a cop, mind you. Not even a stinkin’ detective. No, he wants to be a doctor!”

Grandpa turned to me.

“Tommy, is this true?” he said.

“Yes, Grandpa. But, I don’t want to make Papa angry.”

“Papa isn’t angry,” Mama said.

No one spoke.

“Vinnie,” Mama said, “remember the night your father got shot? The ambulance took him to City Hospital. Remember?”

Papa stared at Mama for a few seconds.

“Of course I remember, Marie. How could I ever forget?”

“Then, you remember how grateful we were to the doctor that took such good care of him.”

Papa studied the platter of cookies. “Yeah.”

“Do you remember the thing your father said on the way home from the hospital?”

“He said a lot of things, Marie. Which thing you talking about?”

Mama smiled at Papa.

“He said if Spezia cops have to take a bullet to make a living, they deserve their own doctor.”

Papa grinned at the memory. “Yeah, now I remember. He did say that. I guess I forgot.” Papa turned to me. “I’m sorry about all the doctor stuff I said to you, son. I just didn’t understand the big fuss about a bird, and all this talk about being a doctor. I still don’t. It’s just that, to me, Spezias are cops. They aren’t doctors.” He sighed and studied his plate of cookies. “You really want to be a doctor?”

“Yes, Papa,” I said. “I really do.”

“Tommy’s a smart boy, Vinnie,” Grandpa said. “Why shouldn’t he be a doctor?” He waved at the air as if he was swatting a fly. “I know, I know. Spezias are cops. But Vinnie, listen to me. Cops need doctors too.”