The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [30]
“I came to understand that Jorgie’s cynical demeanor, and even his drinking, helped him to cope with the tragedies that we seemed to encounter almost every day—a Lithuanian whose hand had been mangled in a grinding machine, a woman whose three sons had either died or been killed in three successive years, a series of children born with horrible deformities, untreated wounds that festered into infection, and endless victims of crime, violence, or neglect. There were rewards, certainly, in trying to provide some basic medical care to a segment of the population who could get it no other way, but mostly we simply flailed about.”
“How did you ward off despair?” she asked, as would one who has been forced to fight despair herself.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Perhaps I didn’t. I was constantly frustrated by the extreme limitations of medical knowledge. Finally, I realized that, despite whatever comfort I might be giving to these poor wretches, this was not the medicine I wished to practice. Perhaps that was despair and I didn’t recognize it.”
“Is that when you left Chicago to come here?”
How to respond? “Soon after. I decided that what I wanted was to help develop improvements in the science of medicine so that my work might help not just a few patients, but thousands.”
“Do you ever regret the decision?”
“There is guilt sometimes … for abandoning Jorgie’s practice and leaving his patients with even less hope than before.”
We spoke easily for another hour, talking mostly of science and the even greater advances in medical care and technique that would be manifest in the coming years. The enthusiasm and energy she exhibited were in contrast to the extreme discipline that always dominated her behavior at the hospital. Unlike Turk, who thought medicine merely a means to wealth, here was someone who shared my vision and my hopes. Mary Simpson, I decided, was even more formidable—and more interesting—than I had previously been aware.
Soon afterward, I thanked her for an evening as illuminating as she had promised, and offered to see her home. She declined, saying she lived only a few streets away, and offered me use of the carriage. Instead of giving the driver directions to Mrs. Mooney’s, I told him to return to the hospital. I had two unfinished chores to complete.
I arrived just after nine P.M. I waited for the carriage to pull away and then, rather than walking to the front door, headed down the street to the side of the building. Soon I was at a gate in the Blockley wall and, minutes later, I stood at the entrance to the Dead House. Low clouds were draped across the sky and a March chill had settled over the city. My breath formed plumes in the night air. I waited for a moment, my ears attuned to the sound of anyone else who might be wandering the grounds.
Charlie kept a spare key in one of the flowerpots that had been incongruously placed on either side of the door in a miserable attempt to provide a dose of cheer. When I was completely sure that no one else was about, I quickly retrieved the key and slipped inside.
When the door was shut, I was alone in the dark, in the silence, alone with the dead. Science deserted me and I felt as if I had ventured without leave into forbidden terrain, perhaps even to purgatory itself. At any moment, I feared cold fingers on my cheek or a grasp at my ankle. I tried to be furious with myself for fearing the dark like a child, but my palms remained moist and my breath shallow and labored. Forcing myself inside, I felt my way to the drawers where the matches were kept. With some difficulty, I located the box and, although even through the thick curtain the illumination might be visible to a passerby, lit one quickly all the same.
As soon as the match was struck, I felt an enormous wave of relief.