Strong Medicine (23 page)

his desk, he shuffled several file folders, pulled one free from the

others and opened it, From the other side of the desk Celia could see

that it contained financial statements.

"This hasn't been circulated yet, but the board of directors will see it

soon." Sam put his finger on a figure. "When you went over to Bray &

Commonwealth, revenues from that division were ten percent of all

Felding-Roth sales. This year the figure will be fifteen percent, with

profit up proportionately." Sam closed the folder and smiled. "Of course,

you were helped a little by a falloff in prescription drugs sales. Just

the same, it's a tremendous achievement, Celia. Congratulations!"

"Thank you." Celia was pleased. She had expected the figures to be

favorable, though not as outstanding as those Sam had just reported. She

considered briefly, then told him, "I think O-T-C will keep its momentum,

and Bill Ingram has become very good. Since, as you just said,

prescription sales are down, maybe I could help out there."

"You will," Sam said. "I promise it. Also, we may have something special

and interesting for you. But be patient for a few months more."

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3

Andrew faced the hospital administrator grimly, They were in Leonard

Sweeting's office and both were standing. Tension hung in the air between

them.

It was a Friday, close to noon.

"Dr. Jordan," the St. Bede's administrator said formally-his voice taut,

his expression serious-"before you go any further, let me caution you to

be absolutely certain of what you are saying and to consider the

consequences which may follow."

"Goddammit!" Andrew, who was short-tempered from a sleepless night, was

ready to explode. "Do you think I haven't done that?"

"I imagined you had. I wanted to be sure." As usual, Sweeting's thick,

bushy eyebrows moved up and down rapidly as he spoke.

"All right-here it is again, Leonard, and this time I'm making it

official." Continuing, Andrew chose his words carefully, the sentences

wrenched reluctantly from his heart.

"My partner, Dr. Noah Townsend," Andrew said, "is up on the medical floor

at this moment where he is seeing patients. To my personal knowledge, Dr.

Townsend is under the influence of drugs, to which he is addicted. In my

opinion he is incompetent to practice medicine and may be endangering

patients' lives. Further, also to my personal knowledge, a patient died

needlessly in this hospital this week because of an error by Noah

Townsend when he was impaired by drugs."

"Jesus!" At the final sentence the administrator had paled. Now he

pleaded, "Andrew, can you at least leave that last bit out?"

"I can't and I won't! I also demand that you do something immediately."

Andrew added savagely, "Something you should have done four years ago

when we both knew what was happening, but you and others chose to keep

your mouths closed and your eyes averted."

Leonard Sweeting growled, "I have to do something. Legally,

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Andrew's mother, who had moved to Europe, was seldom heard from and,

despite invitations, had never been to visit. She had not seen her

grandchildren and apparently had no wish to. "When she hears from us, we

remind her that she's old," Andrew observed. "She'd prefer not to have that

happen, so I think we'll leave her alone."

Celia sensed the sadness behind Andrew's remark.

Andrew's long-estranged father had died; the news reached them, by merest

chance, several months after it happened.

As to younger family members, Lisa was now seven and in second grade at

school. She continued to exhibit a strong personality, took her schoolwork

seriously, and had a special pride in her growing vocabulary, though

sometimes straining it. Referring to an American history lesson, she told

Celia, "We learned about the American Constipation, Mommy," and on another

occasion when explaining a circle, "The outside is the encumbrance."

Bruce-now almost five-showed, in contrast, a gentleness and sensitivity,

partly offset by a droll sense of humor. Celia was prompted to observe once

to Andrew, "Brucie can be hurt easily. He'll need more protecting than

Lisa."

"Then he must do what I did," Andrew responded, "and marry a strong, good

woman." He said it tenderly and Celia went to him and hugged him.

Afterward she said, "I see a lot of you in Brucie."

Of course, the two of them bickered occasionally, and there had been a

serious quarrel or two during eight years of marriage, but no more than

wits normal between husbands and wives, nor did the minor wounds they

inflicted fail to heal quickly. Both knew they had a good marriage and did

all they could to protect and preserve it.

The children were with them when they watched, on TV, the rioting in Watts.

"My God!" Andrew breathed, as scene followed awful scene-of burning,

looting, destruction, brutality, injury and death, savage fighting between

embittered blacks and beleaguered police in the wretched, degrading,

segregated ghetto slum of Charcoal Alley. It was a living nightmare of

poverty and misery the world ignored, except at moments like this when

Watts obligingly provided drama for the TV networks, which it would

continue to do for five more dreadful days and nights. "My God!" Andrew

repeated. "Can you believe this is happening in our own country?"

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All of them were so riveted to the TV screen that not until near the end

did Celia observe Bruce who was shaking, quivering, sobbing silently, with

tears streaming down his face. She went to him at once and held him, urging

Andrew, "Switch it offl"

But Bruce called out, "No, Daddy! No!" and they continued watching until

the terrible scenes were done.

"They were hurting people, Mommy!" Bruce protested afterward.

Still comforting him, Celia answered, "Yes, Brucie, they were. It's sad and

it's wrong, but it sometimes happens." She hesitated, then added, "What

you're going to find out is that things like what you saw often happen."

Later, when the children were abed, Andrew said, "It was all depressing,

but you gave Brucie the right answer. Too many of us live in cocoons.

Sooner or later he has to learn there's another world outside."

"Yes," Celia said. She went on thoughtfully, "I've been wanting to talk to

you about cocoons. I think I've been in one myself."

A swift smile crossed her husband's face, then disappeared. He asked,

"Could it be an O-T-C cocoon?"

"Something like that. I know that some of what I've been doing involves

things you don't approve of, Andrew-like Healthotherm and System 500. You

haven't said a lot. Have you ininded very much?"

"Maybe a little." He hesitated, then went on. "I'm proud of you, Celia, and

what you do, and it's the reason I'll be glad when someday you go back to

the prescription medicines side of Felding-Roth, which we both know is a

whole lot more important. Meanwhile, though, there are things I've come to

terms with. One is, people will go on buying snake oil whether you or

others produce it, so it doesn't make a helluva difference who does. And

something else: If people didn't buy O-T-C potions and went to doctors

in~tead, we'd all be swamped-we couldn't cope."

"Aren't you rationalizing?" Celia asked doubtfully. "Just because it's me?"

"If I am, why not? You're my wife, and I love you."

"That goes both ways." She leaned over to kiss him. "Well, you can stop

rationalizing, darling, because I've decided that O-T-C and I have been

together long enough. Tomorrow I intend to ask for a change."

"If it's what you really want, I hope you get it."

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after what you've told me, I have no choice. But as to what's past, I know

nothing about it."

"You're lying," Andrew said, "and both of us know it. But I'll let that

go because at the time I was as bad, and as gutless as you. What I'm

concerned about is now."

The administrator sighed. He said, half to himself, "I guess this had to

break open sometime." Then, moving to his desk, he picked up a telephone.

A secretary's voice rattled in the instrument and Sweeting instructed,

"Get me the chairman of the board downtown. Whatever he's doing, tell his

people to break into it. This is urgent. When you've done that, you and

anyone else out there get on phones and summon a meeting of the medical

executive committee. The meeting will be held immediately in the

boardroom." Sweeting glanced at a clock. "Most heads of services should

be in the hospital now."

As the administrator put down the phone he grimaced wearily, then his

manner softened. "This is a bad day, Andrew. For all of us, and for the

hospital. But I know you've done what you felt you had to."

Andrew nodded dully. "What happens next?"

"The executive committee will meet in a few minutes. You'll be called in.

Meanwhile wait here."

Somewhere outside a noontime whistle sounded.

Time. Wait. Waiting.

Andrew mused dejectedly: Waiting was what he had done too much of. He had

waited too long. Waited-until a patient-a young patient, who should have

lived for many more years-had died.

After his discovery, four years and eight months earlier, that Noah

Townsend was a drug addict, Andrew had kept watch as best he could on the

older physician-the objective being to ensure that no medical mishap or

crucial misjudgment occurred. And while there were limits, obviously, to

the closeness of Andrew's scrutiny, he was satisfied that no serious

malpractice problem had existed.

As if recognizing and accepting his colleague's concern, Noah would often

discuss his difficult cases, and it was evident that, drugs or not, the

elderly doctor's diagnostic skills were continuing to function.

On the other hand, Dr. Townsend became noticeably more careless about

taking drugs, not bothering with the concealment from Andrew he had

practiced earlier, and showing increasing signs of

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the drugs' effects-glazed eyes, slurred speech and shaky handsboth at the

office and St. Bede's. He left dozens of sample bottles of prescription

drugs lying around in his office, not even taking the trouble to put them

out of sight, and he would dip into themoccasionally when Andrew was with

him-as if they contained candy.

Sometimes Andrew wondered how Townsend could continue to be a drug addict,

yet function as well as he appeared to. Then Andrew reasoned: habit died

hard, and so did instincts. Noah had been practicing medicine for so many

years that much of what he did-including diagnoses which could be difficult

for others-came easily to him. In a way, Andrew thought, Noah was like a

flawed machine which goes on running of its own momentum. But a question

was: How long would the momentum last?

Still, at St. Bede's, no one else appeared to share Andrew's concern.

However, in 1961-a year after Andrew's discovery about Noah and the first,

abortive session with Leonard Sweeting-Noah Townsend did step down as chief

of medicine, also quitting the hospital's medical board. Whether the