The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [22]
Johnny, now feeling very good about himself, pursed his lips, looked up at the group clustered around his narrow bed, then nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”
“And I’m going to make you a promise. You’ll be out of here by early next week and you’re going to be feeling a lot better.”
This was, in fact, a routine diagnosis. Examination of a blood sample had confirmed a red cell deficiency—anemia—which, given the boy’s slum address, was almost certainly due to iron deficiency in his diet. Simple anemia could be treated with an elixir rich in that element, although the boy’s diet once he returned home was unlikely to prevent a relapse.
“Johnny, the nurses will be coming around with medicine. It isn’t going to taste very good, but it’s going to help you get better very quickly. The nurses are very nice women and I don’t want you to give them any trouble about taking it. Then, they are going to give you a nice meal and I expect you to eat it without a fuss. All right?”
The boy agreed quite willingly and we moved on to the next bed, which was occupied by a scrawny girl with sunken eyes and stringy blond hair, no more than twelve. She had been here for over a week with a nontubercular pulmonary illness. “Well, Annie.” The Professor smiled, pulling up a chair next to the bed while the rest of us gathered around. He took her hand and patted it softly. “How are you feeling today?”
“A little better today, Doctor.” The rasp from her lungs was audible with each breath.
“Doctor?” he scolded gently. “Didn’t I tell you to call me Willie?”
A strained smile played across the girl’s pallid face. Her teeth, even at such a young age, were stained and rotting. “Willie,” she whispered.
The Professor nodded. “That’s better.” Again he removed his stethoscope. “Now I’m going to auscultate … you remember … it means I’m going to listen to your breathing.” The Professor listened to her lungs.
“Well, that certainly sounds better,” he said to her after he was done. “In fact, I’d like some of these other doctors to listen also. Would that be all right?”
Annie smiled and nodded. The Professor had made her feel proud, part of the process instead of the subject of it. We took turns listening, the grate in her lungs roaring like surf in our ears. She was not in the least improved. As Simpson placed the stethoscope’s diaphragm against the girl’s protruding ribs, I saw moistness in her eyes and realized that my colleague was fighting for control. I then remembered that she was always stiffer and quieter in the children’s ward. I surmised that despite her protestations, not having children of her own had not left her inured to maternal instincts.
When the examination was complete, the Professor reached down and smoothed the girl’s hair. “Well, Annie,” he said, “we have to move along and examine some other children who are really sick. I’ll be back tomorrow. Will you wait for me?”
“Oh, yes, Willie.” Her eyes had brightened and she seemed genuinely happy. But her tomorrows were not to be many.
As we moved away, one of the students, a boy of about twenty named Naughton, began to ask a question while we were still in earshot of the girl’s bed. The Professor spun and faced him with a glare that closed Naughton’s mouth like a bear trap. Particulars of a case were never discussed when a patient could overhear. In this case, particularly, there was little that needed to be said.
After rounds, the Professor asked me to join him for a moment. As we walked down the corridor, unexpectedly he asked, “Do you have any notion of where Turk is this morning?”
I said I did not, although I did not look him in the eye.
“Excuse me for embarrassing you,” he said, “but when a physician who has not made a misstep in two years arrives at work appearing as you do, it is not difficult to diagnose the cause … or the means of transmission.”
I admitted that I had been out with Turk, but