it, you can’t be brushing your teeth and not be smiling. And there are people who can simultaneously sing and smile, but!”cried the patient triumphantly as if he were his own prosecutor clinching the case against himself: “You cannot—because I’ve tried it in front of the mirror and you cannot brush and sing and smile and I see her smiling and think I hear her singing ‘Smile the Physohilo smile, oh!’ while she is brushing her teeth. Which is not possible! ”
The patient’s hysterical enthusiasm made the doctor pick up the telephone. “This is Dr. Erwin in admissions. See who’s on duty, will you?” The doctor, with the phone to his ear, turned to frown at the venetian blind, which faintly rustled like the little sound that balled-up paper makes when it relaxes in your wastebasket, and it was driving the doctor insane. “Fine! You send me Clarence,” he said into the telephone. “I have a patient ready to be taken to A North. Right away, please .” While they waited for Clarence to come and fetch Francis Rhinelander, the doctor got up, walked to the window, and shut it.
It was Dr. Erwin who, seven weeks later, signed Francis Rhinelander’s release, citing a diagnosis of “temporary reactive psychosis” with the question of the stimulus to which the patient had been reacting, as is so often the case, left unanswered. At his hearing, the patient affirmed the reality of the music that he had hallucinated to be hallucinating. It was no strain for Francis to appear his naturally courteous and apologetic self, which had assured the three examining doctors, correctly, that he presented no danger to himself or others. The hospital had released him on his own recognizance.
Ida Farkasz
Ida Farkasz did not recognize her name being called, and the triage nurse had to come out into the waiting area and lead the patient into her office.
“Do you know where you are?” the nurse asked the patient.
“Where you are,” said the patient and touched her forefinger to her lip, then to her chin, and then to her lip again.
The nurse spoke slowly into the patient’s face. “Do. You. Know. Where. You. Live?”
Ida Farkasz frowned and said, “Where you live.” Ida was frowning at not knowing what the person was saying to her. Not knowing had volume, was cloud-colored and located behind her eyes. Ida moved the finger from her lip to a place toward the back of the top of her head. She needed to put her hand inside, to reach around the way you reach around inside a drawer for—what?
The triage nurse had to walk the patient into the ER. “They’ll take care of you! You sit here.”
Ida sat on a chair and touched her lip, her chin.
The nurse went back out to the triage office and called Phyllis on the second floor.
Samson Gorewitz
Lucy saw Benedict. She watched him talking to a pleasant-looking nurse who had just come on duty.
“Yours is Samson Gorewitz,” the nurse was saying, “the transfer from Glenshore General.” The old man lay flat on his back and looked at the ceiling. Benedict had to lean over the gurney to place himself in the patient’s field of vision, and he said,
“Hi! Hello. I’m your interviewer.” Benedict asked the patient if he knew where he was and thought the old man said, “In heaven.” He spoke out of the right corner of his mouth, which was raised and might be smiling. He said,
“Iftheyfindmenotlookintheotherplace.”
Benedict experienced a powerful sense of ill usage: this was not what he had signed on for. He looked around for that pleasant nurse but she had her back to him, standing on tiptoe to write on the green chalkboard mounted high on the wall. Benedict looked to his mother, whose head was lowered over something she was writing on her lap. He wished himself back in the office, wanted his computer, but followed the orderly who had come to wheel his patient into one of the cubicles. It was like the cubicle where they had sat with his father; Benedict had stood
The patient’s hysterical enthusiasm made the doctor pick up the telephone. “This is Dr. Erwin in admissions. See who’s on duty, will you?” The doctor, with the phone to his ear, turned to frown at the venetian blind, which faintly rustled like the little sound that balled-up paper makes when it relaxes in your wastebasket, and it was driving the doctor insane. “Fine! You send me Clarence,” he said into the telephone. “I have a patient ready to be taken to A North. Right away, please .” While they waited for Clarence to come and fetch Francis Rhinelander, the doctor got up, walked to the window, and shut it.
It was Dr. Erwin who, seven weeks later, signed Francis Rhinelander’s release, citing a diagnosis of “temporary reactive psychosis” with the question of the stimulus to which the patient had been reacting, as is so often the case, left unanswered. At his hearing, the patient affirmed the reality of the music that he had hallucinated to be hallucinating. It was no strain for Francis to appear his naturally courteous and apologetic self, which had assured the three examining doctors, correctly, that he presented no danger to himself or others. The hospital had released him on his own recognizance.
Ida Farkasz
Ida Farkasz did not recognize her name being called, and the triage nurse had to come out into the waiting area and lead the patient into her office.
“Do you know where you are?” the nurse asked the patient.
“Where you are,” said the patient and touched her forefinger to her lip, then to her chin, and then to her lip again.
The nurse spoke slowly into the patient’s face. “Do. You. Know. Where. You. Live?”
Ida Farkasz frowned and said, “Where you live.” Ida was frowning at not knowing what the person was saying to her. Not knowing had volume, was cloud-colored and located behind her eyes. Ida moved the finger from her lip to a place toward the back of the top of her head. She needed to put her hand inside, to reach around the way you reach around inside a drawer for—what?
The triage nurse had to walk the patient into the ER. “They’ll take care of you! You sit here.”
Ida sat on a chair and touched her lip, her chin.
The nurse went back out to the triage office and called Phyllis on the second floor.
Samson Gorewitz
Lucy saw Benedict. She watched him talking to a pleasant-looking nurse who had just come on duty.
“Yours is Samson Gorewitz,” the nurse was saying, “the transfer from Glenshore General.” The old man lay flat on his back and looked at the ceiling. Benedict had to lean over the gurney to place himself in the patient’s field of vision, and he said,
“Hi! Hello. I’m your interviewer.” Benedict asked the patient if he knew where he was and thought the old man said, “In heaven.” He spoke out of the right corner of his mouth, which was raised and might be smiling. He said,
“Iftheyfindmenotlookintheotherplace.”
Benedict experienced a powerful sense of ill usage: this was not what he had signed on for. He looked around for that pleasant nurse but she had her back to him, standing on tiptoe to write on the green chalkboard mounted high on the wall. Benedict looked to his mother, whose head was lowered over something she was writing on her lap. He wished himself back in the office, wanted his computer, but followed the orderly who had come to wheel his patient into one of the cubicles. It was like the cubicle where they had sat with his father; Benedict had stood
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