Author: Elbrecht
Allen Street
Author: Dr. Lewis Thomas (1913-1993)
Reprinted from “The Youngest Science: Notes of a Medicine Watcher”
Canto I: Prelude
Oh, Beacon Street is wide and neat, and open to the sky
Commonwealth exudes good health, and never knows a sigh
S collar Square, that lecher’s snare, is noisy but alive
While sin and domesticity are blend on Park Drive
And he who toils on Boylston Street will have another day
To pay his lease and live in peace, along the Riverway
A thoroughfare without a care is Cambridge Avenue,
Where ladies fair let down their hair, for passers-by to view
Some things are done on Huntington, no sailor would deny,
Which can’t be done on battleships, no matter how you try
Oh, many, many roads there are, that leap into the mind
(Like Sumner Tunnel, that monstrous funnel, impossible to find!)
And all are strange to ponder on, and beautiful to know,
And all are filled with living folk, who eat and breathe and grow.
Canto II
But let us speak of Allen Street—that strangest, darkest turn,
Which squats behind a hospital, mysterious and stern.
It lies within a silent place, with open arms it waits
For patients who aren’t leaving through the customary gates.
It concentrates on pending results, and caters to the guest
Who’s battled long with his disease, and come out second-best.
For in a well-run hospital, there’s no such thing as death.
There may be stoppage of the heart, and absence of the breath
But no one dies!
No patient tries this disrespectful feat.
He simply sighs, rolls up his eyes, and goes to Allen Street.
Whatever be his ailment—whate’er his sickness be,
From “Too, too, too much insulin” to “What’s this in his pee?”
From “Gastric growth,” “One lung (or both),” or “Question of Cirrhosis”
To “Exitus undiagnosed,” or “Generalized Necrosis”
He hides his head and leaves his bed, and, covered with a sheet,
He rolls through doors, down corridors, and goes to Allen Street.
And there he’ll find a refuge kind, a quiet sanctuary,
For Allen Street’s that final treat—the local mortuary.
Canto III
Oh, where is Mr. Murphy with his diabetic ulcer,
His orange-red precipitate and coronary?
Well, sir,
He’s gone to Allen Street.
And how is Mr. Gumbo with his touch of acid-fast,
His positive Babinskis, and his dark lunatic past?
And what about that lady who was lying in Bed 3,
Recently subjected to such skillful surgery?
And where are all the patients with the paroxysmal wheezes?
The tarry stools, ascitic pools, the livers like valises?
The jaundiced eyes, the fevered cries, and other nice diseases:
Go! Speak to them in soothing tones. We’ll put them on their feet!
We’ll try some other method, some newer way to treat
We’ll try colloidal manganese, a diathermy seat,
And intravenous buttermilk is very hard to beat
W’ll try a dye, a yellow dye, or different kinds of heat
But get them on their feet
We’ll find some way to treat
I’m very sorry, Doctor, but they’ve gone to Allen Street.
Canto IV
Little Mr. Gricco, lying on Ward E,
Used to have a rectum, just like you or me
Used to have a sphincter, ringed with little piles,
Used to sit at morning stool, face bewreathed with similes,
Used to fold his Transcript, wait in happy hush
For that minor ecstasy, the peristaltic rush…
But in the night, far out of sight, within his rectal stroma,
There grew a little nodule, a nasty carcinoma.
Oh, what lacks Mr. Gricco?—Why looks he incomplete?
What is this aching, yawning void in Mr. Gricco’s seat?
Who made this excavation? Who did this foulest deed?
Who dug this pit in which would fit a small velocipede?
What enterprising surgeon, with sterile spade and trowel,
Has seen some fault and made assault on Mr. Gricco’s bowel?
And what’s this small repulsive hole, which whistles like a flute?
Could this thing be colostomy—this shabby substitute?
Where is this patient’s other half! Where is this patient’s seat!
Why, Doctor, don’t you recollect: It’s gone to Allen Street.
Canto V: Footnote
At certain times one sometimes finds a patient in his bed,
Who limply lies with glassy eyes feeding in his head.
Who doesn’t seem to breathe at all, who doesn’t make a sound,
Whose temperature is seen to fall, whose pulse cannot be found.
And one would say, without delay, that this is a condition
Of general inactivity—a sort of inanition—
A quiet stage, a final page, a dream within the making,
A silence deep, an empty sleep without the fear of waking—
But no one states, or intimates, that maybe he’s expired,
For anyone can plainly see that he is simply tired.
It isn’t wise to analyze, to seek an explanation,
For this is just a new disease, of infinite duration.
But if you look within the book, upon his progress sheet,
You’ll find a sign within a line—“Discharged to Allen Street.”
From Here to the Sea
We had been driving for quite some time, our trip dotted with several detours, by the time we arrived at the final checkpoint. As we came to a stop, there were hundreds of people lining the road, the result of the clearly demarcated “point of no further progress”, which necessitated them leaving their vehicles if they wished to investigate further.
I had expected to find some sort of barrier to prevent further vehicular transport, as Joseph had earlier remarked there would come a place where security would be heavy.
As we approached the checkpoint, even from my seat in the back of the SUV, I could see there was only a small security station with an uniformed officer. He was flanked by an elderly gentleman who sat in a small folding chair holding a thin rope across the road. In retrospect, it would be an inaccurate characterization to call it a rope; instead, it was more like a cord.
Certainly, if we had needed, we could have carried through the checkpoint unabated, likely causing only a slight rope burn to the old man’s hands as it was torn from his grasp. I doubt there would even be a thread on the bumper.
If we had decided to forgo the minor annoyance of stopping at this point, the security officer would have needed to make a quick decision: either climb into his vehicle and begin pursuit, which probably would have caused hundreds more to climb back into their vehicles in an attempt to evade the blistering sun and proceed past the check point; or stood guard, calling for back-up, and awaiting our return at some point, knowing the road ahead only went from here to the sea.
Instead, the portly gentleman we had picked up at the last stop jumped out of the back of the SUV, where he had been napping since we departed Rameswaram. He had joined us at the medical clinic for our trip to the sea for this exact moment.
I had not caught his name when he was introduced, even though I had been asked to palpate the abdominal hernia protruding from his large belly when we met some earlier. Later, I would come to discover he was to return from Rameswaram to Madurai with us that evening in order for him to undergo a surgical repair the following day.
Joseph, who also had joined us at the medical clinic and was in charge of the Rameswaram Trust, remarked that this man had some connections with the police and would have some words with the security officer standing post at the check point.
He returned a few moments later, climbed into the back of the SUV again, and the elderly man dropped the cord separating us from the continuation of our journey. We slowly rolled through the security checkpoint to the amazement, perturbation, and perhaps disgust of those we passed by.
The road from here to the sea had been finished months ago, Joseph informed me, but it had yet to be christened by the government, an act set for the following week, which necessitated the security checkpoint. There had previously been only sand covering the narrow strip of land separating the Bay of Bengal from the Indian Ocean until that time.
It had been laid down as a means for tourists to safely proceed to a point where they might find what remained along its path: the remnants of a town destroyed by a cyclone over 50 years earlier. Joseph grimly told me how the cyclone had ravaged the area, resulting in more deaths than he cared to recall. Many people had tried to escape by train or finding cover in the church or school.
When I looked closely, I could see a few railroad ties left visible as we continued along the road; I didn’t need Joseph to describe the scene that must have occurred that day. I could imagine the terror.
The opposite side of the road was pock-marked with destruction. It was barely evident that a congregation had ever met in the structure I was told had been the cathedral. Now sand-blasted and with no signs of life, it was clear no one would have survived.
We proceeded to the end of the road, where a golden monument stood high into the air. The stanchion holding it was clearly vandalized with etchings of remarks and names. Either the elderly gentleman who held the cord was not on watch 24/7 or the two kilometer distance had not deterred scoundrels from walking to this point.
As we had made our way from the checkpoint to the monument, the stark contrast between the two receding coast lines was ever more apparent.
The Indian Ocean raged on the south coast, where we had passed the remains of the cathedral. But only 100 meters away, the bay calmly pulsated. I imagined the cyclone washing over the small community some 50 years ago, leaving nothing in its wake but memories, and then violating the bay, distorting its history to this day.
Despite these cruel series of events, our varied group did manage to get a few pictures for posterity’s sake. We snapped photos together in order to commemorate our trip and new-found friendships. The driver even proudly commented he would place the Polaroid photo I gave him on his refrigerator. I sheepishly thanked him for safely guiding us to this point.
Our departure from Madurai five hours earlier included the three-hour journey to Rameswaram with the Rose Marie and Davenandran, who led the telemedicine project I had come to observe and the technician to assure its functional capacity, respectively.
Joseph had been alerted to my impending arrival by Rose Marie and joined our troupe at the telemedicine clinic. A man, no older than myself, he was easily the least-accented Indian I had met to this point, I asked if he had studied away from home when he mentioned he was in charge of the Rameswaram Trust.
Expecting that he must have studied in a native English-speaking country, or perhaps had lived there for quite some time before returning to his home town, he reported having only studied at a Seminary more inland than Rameswaram for a short time.
On our trip to the sea, he guided our troupe to a small fishing village where we stopped to check-in with a family he had known for quite some time. They were incredibly comfortable with me as a complete stranger and quickly offered food and drinks. I had not seen another Caucasian person in three days, so my presence was probably tempered by Joseph and Rose Marie. After some time catching up, none of which I could understand, we proceeded on.
On our path back, Joseph guided us to another home, where he introduced me to a woman who cared for the HIV+ fisherman whose numbers were creeping up in their community. She apparently did her best to also educate the townspeople of the treatment and safety of these men, all of whom had been outcast after their diagnosis was made. Joseph informed me this often fell on deaf ears.
By the time I returned to Madurai late that evening, I was exhausted but also fulfilled in the days events. It had been an unexpected event to be transported so far from the familiarity of Madurai, which I had known only for two days.
There had been little expectation on my part for what would occur on the way from Madurai to Rameswaram; even less so, the events of what transpired on our trip back to Madurai, most of which I have actually not documented here.
But the day fit with the nature of my overall journey so far, one which has been full of surprises, catching up with old friends, and making new ones. All the way from here to the sea.
The Death of Magneto
Magneto was beginning to feel a cool wave of energy course through him. So close as to almost be one with him, Dr. Bett calmly placed his left hand on Magneto’s shoulder and his right hand, with stethoscope resting in the palm, against Magneto’s chest.
As calmly as the placement of his hand, came the words from Dr. Bett’s mouth.
“Don’t be afraid. Don’t run away- stay where you are.”
Magneto, born from tireless experiences of Intern year, knew a last gasp struggle with Dr. Bett would be moot. The poison Dr. Bett had so effortlessly and stealthily placed on Magneto’s mucous membranes was already causing a microscopic cascade of cellular apoptosis.
“Et tu, Dr. Bett?”
It was all Magneto could think to say in the moment before his death.
“Only Magneto had to die for this ambition,” responded Dr. Bett, recalling Brutus in the moments after he joined the assassination of Caesar.
Since his birth, Magneto had anticipated the greatest threat to his existence to come from his progenitor, Ean the Intern. From Ean’s grueling experience, Magneto had arisen as a counterbalance to the unbridled instincts and passion necessary for survival in Medical Residency.
Magneto had provided the organization and realization necessary to prevent Ean the Intern’s passions from destroying himself from within and ending this fantastic journey in its infancy.
Inadvertently, Magneto became the genesis for the Super Ego, Dr. Bett, who would become the moral compass on their tenuous journey.
Having given rise to Dr. Bett, Magneto was astounded of his own capabilities, but even more so, he was in awe by the strides Dr. Bett had made.
Each step Dr. Bett had taken brought Ean and Magneto closer to their ultimate goal. It also provided them even greater strength. His passion increasing along every one of Dr. Bett’s strides, Ean became harder for Magneto to control.
Magneto’s sole purpose now seemed to revolve around keeping Ean’s passions in check and preventing them from obliterating their common purpose as the completion of Residency loomed ever closer.
Dr. Bett had entrusted this responsibility upon Magneto, from which he expected a long and successful existence.
His last moments, so close to the end of their journey, had not been anticipated.
As the end of Residency became a reality, Dr. Bett began to feel the weight of Ean and Magneto with each step he took. While both had been necessary for his own creation, he could not envision the next journey coming to fruition if he would have to be responsible for them both.
This misunderstanding, which blinded Dr. Bett ever increasingly, gave rise to The Death of Magneto.
While Ean could at times create trouble if not adequately balanced by Magneto, Dr. Bett believed Ean’s instincts to be invaluable to their next journey. Simultaneously, Magneto’s own strength, as a counterbalance and as his own entity, could not be overlooked.
Dr. Bett, after painful deliberation, could see Magneto becoming too powerful to control due to the opportunities awaiting them on their next journey. Eventually, Magneto’s strengths could make Dr. Bett unnecessary.
More importantly, Magneto’s relationship with Ean, while needed at this stage, was not deemed to be necessary by Dr. Bett in the future. Dr. Bett could harness Ean’s energy on his own.
And if Magneto eventually realized that Ean was beholden to him, and not Dr. Bett, it would be Magneto, and not Dr. Bett, who would truly be in charge of this journey.
This was a reality Dr. Bett was not willing to allow.
There was a brief moment when Magneto looked into Dr. Bett’s eyes as his vision blurred and the sound of his own heart faded.
Dr. Bett looked as caring and thoughtful as ever.
It was a moment not foreseen by Magneto. But he was comforted by it.
That was the moment. The Death of Magneto.
Elbrecht's Corpuscle 