The View from the Vue Read Online Free PDF

What have they done to you?”
    His eyes rolled uncontrollably. “Oooooh, no!” he wailed. “No, no, no, no, no! Ge’em oudda here, ge’em away.” He brushed clumsily at the air in front of his face. Streams of sweat rolled off his forehead in every direction.
    A nurse walked up beside me. “First time you see a good case of the DT’s?” she asked. “That’s the delirium tremens, when they sees things an’ hears things an’ shakes all over.” She shook her head and chuckled. “I just dunno. These ol’ alkies, long as they keep drinkin’ they’re okay, but then they come in here an’ go a day without no booze, they all get the DT’s.” She jabbed a needle into Mr. Washington’s rump, emptied the syringeful of tranquilizer, and crooned, “Doncha worry now, honey, this’s gonna make all them snakes ‘n’ elephants go ’way, hear?”
    My ears began to burn. I could have killed Mr. Washington for hoodwinking me, and I would not have suffered a pang of remorse. Nor were my feelings mitigated the next morning when Dr. Rothstein asked me to tell the group about my patient, and then, with an arch smile, he asked me whether I had learned anything from the case.
    Bellevue abounded in contrasts. Two years later, as an intern on the psychomedicine ward, I took care of Mr. Washington’s opposite number. His name was Harold Bullock, and he even looked like Mr. Washington. Bullock was brought in one evening as a florid DTer, screaming and hallucinating, having been picked up on a midtown street. He was uncontrollable on admission, and it took four of us to get him into restraints. Only when we had sedated him was I able to examine him. I could find nothing of significance aside from his disorientation and a fever of 101°. There was no infectious explanation for the latter, and so I chalked it up to the joint effect of alcohol and agitation, and proceeded to treat him for his DT’s.
    On rounds the next day, Mr. Bullock was no better, but that wasn’t unusual: attacks of DT’s can last for days. However, his temperature was now 102.6°, and our resident, Dr. Ronnie Edelson, frowned as he took note of that. “Where’s the fever coming from?” he asked me sharply.
    I shrugged. “I guess it’s just the DT’s,” I answered. “His chest is clear; there’s no urinary tract infection; no abscesses on him; liver’s not enlarged. It must be a metabolic fever.”
    Ronnie looked back at Mr. Bullock, and pulled thoughtfully at his chin. Then he leaned over, put his hand under the patient’s head, and lifted. Mr. Bullock’s entire body rose off the bed.
    I noticed a very unpleasant sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach.
    “
Schmuck
!” said Ronnie, in a withering tone. “This guy’s neck is as rigid as a board. He’s got meningitis. Plenty of alkies do, y’know. Get a hold of an LP tray and do a spinal tap, fast.”
    Less than ten minutes later I had a needle in Mr. Bullock’s back. I expected to see pure pus come out of it, but when I removed the stylet, to my amazement, out flowed crystal-clear fluid. I collected a sample of it, took it to the lab, and analyzed it. Then I went looking for Ronnie.
    “I don’t know why he’s so stiff,” I said, “but one thing he
hasn’t
got is meningitis. His fluid’s perfectly benign. No bacteria in it, no pus cells—”
    “Was it under increased pressure?”
    “High normal. But not elevated.”
    Ronnie shook his head. “With a neck like that he’s got to have meningitis,” he said. “Did you send a sample for culture?”
    “I asked them to check for every bacterium I could think of.”
    “Did you ask for fungal cultures too?”
    “Fungi?” I wrinkled my forehead. “That’s reaching pretty far out, isn’t it?”
    “Did you?”
    “No, I didn’t. I really didn’t think…”
    “No, that’s right. You didn’t think,” said Ronnie, thoroughly exasperated. “I’ll only forgive you because it’s early in the internship year. Listen. One