The Complete Collection. William Wharton

Dr Ethridge! Nobody’s giving my father proper care! What is it; are you all hoping for him to die to get him off your consciences?’

      ‘Come now, Mr Tremont; let’s not be hysterical.’

      ‘God damn it, I’m not hysterical; I’m only trying to keep my father alive and I’m not getting much help from you or the rest of the Perpetual staff.’

      That does it. He blows his stack. He starts off very coldly identifying himself as a doctor of medicine committed to the Hippocratic oath. He rolls on self-righteously for about two minutes. I interrupt him.

      ‘Look, Dr Ethridge, could you settle down long enough to prescribe for my father? He might well be dying while you’re telling me how great you are.’

      There’s silence. I’m expecting another ‘hang up’.

      ‘I’m informing you now, officially, Mr Tremont that I am no longer your father’s doctor. I disassociate myself from his case. I shall make arrangements for another doctor to be assigned.’

      I shout back before he can hang up.

      ‘You’re already disassociated, Dr Ethridge! And don’t bother looking for another doctor, I’ll find one myself!

      ‘I’m warning you now, officially, that you’d better check if your malpractice policies are paid up because you’re going to need them! It was your direct responsibility to have those records forwarded and you are definitely in tort!’

      I hang up. Mrs Kessler is staring at me, her lips pulled tight together. She doesn’t want trouble. She wants to keep her relationship with Perpetual. It’s all in her eyes, in her mouth.

      I say to myself, ‘Now what have you done, fool? God! How does this help?’

      I go into Dad’s room, tell Alicia not to watch, and pop ten milligrams of Valium into Dad’s mouth. He chews it but swallows.

      I sit there holding his hands and wait. He gradually subsides. I keep the cuff on and take his pressure every five minutes or so. It slowly goes down to one eighty over a hundred. He drifts into sleep and I take it off.

      I’m stinking with nervous perspiration. I hate to leave but I have things to do. I need to find a new doctor at Perpetual or, if I have to, change hospitals altogether.

      I go home to Mother’s. Tom, Billy’s friend, has arrived; terrific timing. He’s everything I expected, only Jewish and quiet. He has even more pimples than Billy and wants to be a psychologist.

      Mother’s having fits. She’s not running a flophouse and so forth. It seems Tom came in, dropped his backpack on the floor at the door while Billy and Tom hugged each other.

      Do I think Billy’s queer? You never know with those hippies. They’ve got everything all mixed up. I’m hardly listening.

      First things first. I take Billy and Tom out back. I suggest they’ll be more comfortable camping on the forty acres in Topanga. Billy’s worried about leaving me alone with Mom. I assure him it’ll be all right. Maybe he can come down once in a while to spell me for an afternoon or an evening. I tell him he can take my motorcycle up if he wants.

      Tom has a tent and sleeping bags in the back of his car. I’m wishing I could go with them.

      I use the phone in the bedroom. I call some medical friends. One’s the head of medicine at GWU. I give him a brief rundown of what’s happened and ask if he knows anyone he can recommend here at Perpetual. He doesn’t know anybody. He does know somebody at Wadsworth General and suggests I call her. Her name is Dr Smith. She’s in internal medicine and urology. He says I can use his name.

      I make another call to a neurosurgeon friend in Cincinnati. Max listens to the whole story. He tells me just what neurological procedures should be followed. He volunteers to fly out if it gets desperate.

      I call Dr Smith at Wadsworth. I give the name of my friend at GWU and review the problem. She’s very sympathetic and says she’ll ask around for someone good in the area and phone back within the half hour.

      After fifteen minutes fending off Mother, the phone rings. Mom picks it up before I get to it.

      ‘It’s a woman for you, Jacky.’

      It’s Dr Smith. She’s found a good man named Dr Adam Chad at Perpetual. He’s young but everybody recommends him highly. I thank her and promise I’ll forward her best to Jens at GWU. I hang up, take a deep breath and phone Perpetual. I ask for Dr Chad. His secretary says he’ll call me back.

      I go out and tell Mother I’ve canned Ethridge.

      ‘But, Jacky, Daddy’ll have a fit. You know how much he liked Dr Ethridge. Why, he’s been Daddy’s doctor for almost fifteen years.’

      You never know with Mom. I explain what happened at the convalescent home. I tell her I’m convinced Dad has not been getting the kind of treatment he needs. I admit I’ve just made two long-distance phone calls consulting doctor friends and now have the name of a good doctor at Perpetual.

      Mother wants to know what Dr Ethridge did, what he said. I tell her I accused him of just letting Dad die and not really trying. This fits her prejudice, so now she’s with me. The phone rings.

      It’s Dr Chad. I explain who I am and that my father is a patient in a Perpetual convalescent extension home. I mention how highly recommended he is by Dr Smith. I ask if he’ll add Dad to his case load.

      He asks who Dad’s doctor is now. I tell him Dr Santana recently operated but Dr Ethridge is his regular doctor. I tell how I’ve already spoken to Dr Ethridge and he’s in agreement with the change.

      Chad won’t commit himself but says he’ll look at my father’s record and check with Dr Ethridge. That’s OK with me; Ethridge’ll yammer but he’ll be glad to get off the case.

      I sit down at the typewriter in the middle bedroom. I normally use an electric at home and it takes awhile adjusting to pounding the keys of this old, stand-up Underwood. I think best on the end of a broom, second best on the end of a brush and third best at a typewriter.

      I try to put it all together, all that’s happened to Dad, all that I’ve noticed. Then I retype the whole thing to make some logical sense. It goes to ten pages single-space. It helps, just getting it out and looking at it.

      I call up a friend from UCLA student days. Now he has his own practice in Santa Monica. I make an appointment to see him.

      I think about calling Joan but decide against it. I’m not ready for any calm advice or the reasonable approach.

      The next day I go for my appointment with Scotty, my lawyer-ex-art-student friend. He’s gotten fatter, grayer; looks old. I imagine I look old to him – Archie Bunker without hair. Time is a bitch. Mother keeps saying ‘old age isn’t for sissies’; middle age isn’t either. None of it is.

      Scotty goes over what I’ve written. He asks some questions and takes a few notes. He peers up at me when he finishes and bounces the papers against the desk.

      ‘It looks like a malpractice suit to me, Jack; but I’m not an expert. Perpetual is a big outfit and has some tough lawyers. Also, they have control of the records; doctors will lie like hell to protect themselves. This is an in-house situation, none of them are going to testify against each other.’

      I’m feeling he’s giving me the brush-off, but he goes on.

      ‘Still, it looks as if they’re vulnerable.’

      He gives me a lawyer’s cool stare, razor smile. God, think! They can do this even to an ex-art major.

      ‘Look, Jack, two of the best malpractice lawyers in the country operate right out of Santa Monica here. Both doctors, both lawyers; husband-wife team. They don’t lose. If they’ll take your case, you’ll win.’

      That sounds more like it; I’m tuned to fight.

      ‘How do I get in touch with these people?’