Excerpt of Prescription for Death |
April 14, 1931.
At 2:16 in the morning Dr. Stuart Downing pronounced Johnson dead. Downing’s ears stung with the wails of Johnson’s widow. Wails that bounced off the tiles of the ER. Wails that turned to sobs, finally muffled.
He waited alongside Mrs. Johnson, while she stood next to the gurney on which the body of her husband lay. With her head bowed and her eyes closed, she reached out and touched the sheet covering him. She seemed tobe saying a silent prayer, an action so tender a lump rose in his throat and his eyes misted. When she turned away and appeared ready to leave, he put an arm around her shoulders and led her out of the room.
In the waiting room, after seating her in a corner, he said, “Can I have the nurse give you a sedative?”
She shook her head. “I’ll be all right.” The words came out in a hoarse whisper.
Although Johnson was already dead, probably from a massive coronary occlusion, when the ambulance had brought him to the hospital, Downing couldn’t drive from his head the feeling that somehow he was to blame for the man’s death. Maybe he should have foreseen it when he saw Johnson in his office for a routine examination just two weeks ago. At the time, he’d only complained of being “a little tired.” He’d seemed healthy. Seemed. How crude a measure. Downing had listened to the man’s heart, felt its pulsing, even percussed its borders, but how little those tests told him. Rituals. He might just as well have waved his arms or beaten a drum like a shaman for all the information they gave him.
Mrs. Johnson dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
Downing said, “Can I take you home?”
“Thank you, no. I phoned our—my daughter before I left home to follow the ambulance. Sally and her husband will be here shortly. They’ll take care of me.” She reached for Downing’s hand and took it in both of hers. “Thank you for your help, Doctor. I know you did all you could for Robert.”
He nodded, too choked up to speak. He heard the hiss of the outer door, and a moment later a young woman rushed into the waiting room, dropped to her knees alongside Mrs. Johnson and embraced her.
“Oh, mother,” she sobbed.
* * *
Downing pulled up the lapels of his topcoat against the early morning chill as he slowly walked from the ER entrance to his car. Is this what he had to look forward to? In practice three years, he probably had another thirty or forty to go. No one expected him to perform miracles. But to stand by helplessly while a life slid away…?
Massive coronary occlusion. Today it was Johnson, only 58 years old Three years ago, Downing’s own Dad had dropped dead. Charlie Downing, an insurance salesman who had just turned 60, boasted that he had the best life insurance policy you could get: his son-the-doctor. Sure. A hell of a lot of good his son-the-doctor doctor could do for him. Wasn’t there something—anything—that might have served as a warning of impending disaster?
At 2:16 in the morning Dr. Stuart Downing pronounced Johnson dead. Downing’s ears stung with the wails of Johnson’s widow. Wails that bounced off the tiles of the ER. Wails that turned to sobs, finally muffled.
He waited alongside Mrs. Johnson, while she stood next to the gurney on which the body of her husband lay. With her head bowed and her eyes closed, she reached out and touched the sheet covering him. She seemed tobe saying a silent prayer, an action so tender a lump rose in his throat and his eyes misted. When she turned away and appeared ready to leave, he put an arm around her shoulders and led her out of the room.
In the waiting room, after seating her in a corner, he said, “Can I have the nurse give you a sedative?”
She shook her head. “I’ll be all right.” The words came out in a hoarse whisper.
Although Johnson was already dead, probably from a massive coronary occlusion, when the ambulance had brought him to the hospital, Downing couldn’t drive from his head the feeling that somehow he was to blame for the man’s death. Maybe he should have foreseen it when he saw Johnson in his office for a routine examination just two weeks ago. At the time, he’d only complained of being “a little tired.” He’d seemed healthy. Seemed. How crude a measure. Downing had listened to the man’s heart, felt its pulsing, even percussed its borders, but how little those tests told him. Rituals. He might just as well have waved his arms or beaten a drum like a shaman for all the information they gave him.
Mrs. Johnson dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
Downing said, “Can I take you home?”
“Thank you, no. I phoned our—my daughter before I left home to follow the ambulance. Sally and her husband will be here shortly. They’ll take care of me.” She reached for Downing’s hand and took it in both of hers. “Thank you for your help, Doctor. I know you did all you could for Robert.”
He nodded, too choked up to speak. He heard the hiss of the outer door, and a moment later a young woman rushed into the waiting room, dropped to her knees alongside Mrs. Johnson and embraced her.
“Oh, mother,” she sobbed.
* * *
Downing pulled up the lapels of his topcoat against the early morning chill as he slowly walked from the ER entrance to his car. Is this what he had to look forward to? In practice three years, he probably had another thirty or forty to go. No one expected him to perform miracles. But to stand by helplessly while a life slid away…?
Massive coronary occlusion. Today it was Johnson, only 58 years old Three years ago, Downing’s own Dad had dropped dead. Charlie Downing, an insurance salesman who had just turned 60, boasted that he had the best life insurance policy you could get: his son-the-doctor. Sure. A hell of a lot of good his son-the-doctor doctor could do for him. Wasn’t there something—anything—that might have served as a warning of impending disaster?