{"id":1115,"date":"2016-06-20T16:45:07","date_gmt":"2016-06-20T16:45:07","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/?p=1115"},"modified":"2020-10-09T23:08:20","modified_gmt":"2020-10-09T23:08:20","slug":"rod-of-asclepius","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/2016\/06\/20\/rod-of-asclepius\/","title":{"rendered":"The Rod of Asclepius"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

By Jacob Appel<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

“A first pulse of memory:  My father, broad-shouldered and dashing, sliding his arms into a long white coat that smells of bleach.  It is springtime in St. Arnac, a balmy Sunday afternoon snowing crab-apple petals.  We\u2019ve parked in the physicians-only lot atop the roof of the hospital\u2019s garage, the same hospital where, the previous Thanksgiving, my pregnant mother died of a ruptured uterus.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

By Jacob Appel<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

A first pulse of memory:  My father, broad-shouldered and dashing, sliding his arms into a long white coat that smells of bleach.  It is springtime in St. Arnac, a balmy Sunday afternoon snowing crab-apple petals.  We\u2019ve parked in the physicians-only lot atop the roof of the hospital\u2019s garage, the same hospital where, the previous Thanksgiving, my pregnant mother died of a ruptured uterus.  What my six-year-old self doesn\u2019t realize then, though it is clear to me now, is that this may be the first time my father has left our apartment in several months, that I am witnessing the man emerge from a winter-long twilight of raw anger.  He drapes his stethoscope around his neck, retrieves his leather bag from the trunk of our Oldsmobile.  \u201cAre you ready to change the world, princess?\u201d he asks.  At that moment, I am suddenly persuaded that the world does indeed require changing, that the entire cosmos yearns for radical transformation.  Vigorous nods earn me a kiss on the forehead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My father leads me by hand across the broad granite plaza, colonized with lunching nurses and orderlies on smoke-break, where statues of North Carolina\u2019s war heroes guard the revolving doors.  At the security desk, a red-faced officer with a bulbous nose and greasy comb-over greets my father with a genial, \u201cHi, doc,\u201d and then salutes me with a more formal, \u201cGood afternoon, ma\u2019am.\u201d  I am still too young to distinguish personal from business relationships, friends from sociable strangers\u2014it will be another several years before I realize, in an innocence-shattering blast, that our postman is paid<\/em> to deliver the mail\u2014so I swell with pride as the officer waves us past the visitors waiting to register, believing a personal honor is being bestowed upon my father, not realizing the privilege is afforded all<\/em> white-coated medical gentry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We ride the elevator to the top.  The doors open directly onto the lobby of the VIP atrium, where angelfish and gouramis cross paths in a colossal aquarium, while a sad-eyed pianist plays cocktail-lounge standards on a baby-grand.  Panoramic windows reveal the rolling, sun-drenched hills of the Piedmont and the wood-shingled rooftops of St. Arnac\u2019s commercial district\u2014an assortment of family-owned specialty shops, like my Aunt Hannah\u2019s millinery, which have since been swallowed by suburban Greensboro.  Papa\u2019s grip is tight on my hand.  He crosses the lounge and strides briskly down the adjacent corridor, practically sweeping me along the tiles behind him.  We pass the nursing station where, beneath the cardiac monitors, a solitary aide reads a magazine.  A whiff of disinfectant hangs in the stagnant air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then\u2014without warning\u2014Papa veers through an open door.  Suddenly, we stand inside a patient\u2019s private room, the temporary home of an ancient, one-legged man dwarfed by his own wheelchair. The man\u2019s truncated knee is wrapped in gauze, suggesting a recent amputation.  At his side, perched at the foot of the tidy bed, sits an equally wizened woman.  To my surprise, my father apologizes for disturbing the couple and we retreat back into the corridor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A moment later, we\u2019ve entered another room.  Here, a skeletal woman watches television from a stack of pillows.  She cannot be much older than my father, but her eyes are sunken and her pale skin drapes off the bones of her face.  On the end table, two photographs depict the same woman in the full bloom of health.  In one picture, a handsome man clasps his arm around her waist; in the other, she cradles an infant.  A basket of fruit and gourmet items\u2014still wrapped\u2014sits on the radiator.  When the woman sees my father, she uses the remote control to lower the TV\u2019s volume.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHave you seen Dr. Hagerman?\u201d she asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Papa touches the woman\u2019s shoulder to offer reassurance.  \u201cI\u2019m covering for Dr. Hagerman today,\u201d he informs her\u2014in the same confident voice he uses to comfort me when I have a nightmare.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe swore he\u2019d be here before noon,\u201d says the woman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry.  Dr. Hagerman had an emergency.  Something personal.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The emaciated woman seems partially assuaged.  Papa opens his leather bag and methodically fills a syringe.  \u201cWe need to give you some blood thinner,\u201d he explains.  \u201cDr. Hagerman was concerned about your most recent laboratory values, especially the risk for spontaneous clotting\u2026.\u201d  As he speaks, my father rolls up the sleeve of the woman\u2019s gown; she winces and the injection is over.  \u201cThat should do the trick,\u201d he says.  \u201cDr. Hagerman will be here to see you in the morning\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My father discards the syringe and removes his gloves.  Even as he shuts the clasps on his bag, the woman drifts into slumber, a tranquil smile settled upon her lips.  We are already halfway down the corridor when an alarm bell sounds from the woman\u2019s room; as we approach the nursing station at a rapid clip, a junior physician in aqua scrubs charges past us headed in the opposite direction.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We traverse the VIP atrium again, descend the elevator to the lobby.  My father and the red-faced officer exchange another greeting.  I feel anxious, but I cannot say why.  Out on the granite plaza, a swarm of starlings blankets the austere statues of Confederate generals and colonels.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My father lifts me into his powerful arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe reason we went to the top floor,\u201d he explains, \u201cis because that\u2019s where the doctors\u2019 wives and mothers go when they get sick.\u201d  Papa\u2019s eyes are level with mine, his nose so close I could touch it.  \u201cDon\u2019t be afraid to ask your father questions, Lauren,\u201d he adds.  \u201cI want this to be a learning experience.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Or maybe that is not<\/em> a first pulse of memory.  Quite possibly, that visit to the hospital occurs after<\/em> Aunt Henrietta comes to live with us.  I can vividly remember her boyfriend\u2014one of my aunt\u2019s many<\/em> boyfriends\u2014transporting her suitcases from the trunk of his car into the guest bedroom.  She\u2019ll be twenty-eight that summer, five years younger than my father, and stunningly gorgeous.  I don\u2019t recall if Papa is also present that afternoon, but I do remember the two of them arguing bitterly, a few days later, while Aunt Henrietta drains bottles of whiskey into the hollyhocks.  Only years in the future did I discover that my aunt\u2019s arrival hasn\u2019t been Papa\u2019s choice:  It is part of the custody arrangement he has agreed to with Guilford County\u2019s Bureau of Child Welfare after I go truant from kindergarten.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If my aunt resents her premature summons to child-rearing, I never recall her showing it.  Since I have no memories of my biological mother, a direct comparison remains impossible\u2014but I cannot imagine anyone being more devoted to my welfare than is Aunt Henrietta.  After school lets out for the summer, I accompany her to the millinery each morning, where she assigns me various \u201cuseful\u201d tasks around the bustling shop.  Some days, I sort ribbons or buckles.  On other occasions, I unwrap exotic hats that arrive from the warehouse packed in newsprint.  Once, I have an opportunity to pose in various bonnets for a professional photographer from the St. Arnac Beacon<\/em> who is compiling a full-page spread on juvenile fashions.  Yet I spend most of my time with the young African-American fitters who \u201cmind the store\u201d while my aunt enjoys half-day lunch breaks with her various suitors.  One of these shop-girls, an olive-skinned teenager named Lila, takes a particular fancy to me, because, as she phrases it:  \u201cWe\u2019re both orphans, so we have to look out for each other.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not<\/em> an orphan,\u201d I insist.  \u201cMy father is still alive.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lila hugs me to her ample bosom.  \u201cSilly girl,\u201d she says. \u201cFathers don\u2019t count.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What I do know with certainty is that our visit to the hospital precedes my conversation with Aunt Henrietta about what I hope to become when I grow up.  That talk occurs while we\u2019re on an excursion to pick our own peaches.  My aunt is dating a dental student whose family owns vast orchards south of Asheboro, so I\u2019m ensconced between the two of them on the front seat of the young man\u2019s Cadillac.  The open windows bring a gentle breeze and with it the scent of drying alfalfa.  My aunt\u2019s boyfriend, whose marriage proposal she will soon reject, has urged her to invite me along on this outing; he is doing his utmost to keep me entertained\u2014to prove, I suppose, that he\u2019d make a satisfactory partner with whom to raise children of his own.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He addresses me in a high-pitched, sing-song voice, as though I am an infant and not a rising first grader.  \u201cSo, young lady, do you have any career plans yet?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Aunt Henrietta asks, \u201cDo you know what a \u2018career\u2019 is?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNope.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her boyfriend tries again.  \u201cWhat do you want to be when you grow up?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve folded my arms across my chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWould you like to be a princess?\u201d he asks. \u201cOr how about a mermaid?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Both sound like perfectly reasonable occupations to my six-year-old mind, but the young man\u2019s tone makes me feel contrary.  \u201cI want to be a doctor,\u201d I announce.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNothing wrong with that,\u201d says the dental student.  He is grinning.  \u201cWe could use more lady doctors.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Aunt Henrietta also appears amused.  \u201cThat\u2019s the first I\u2019ve heard of this,\u201d she says.  \u201cI\u2019m curious, Lauren.  Why<\/em> do you want to be a doctor?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t have a good answer.  Even when I apply to medical school two decades later, my various justifications\u2014to help people, to expand human knowledge, even to save lives\u2014somehow never seem adequate.  I suppose the real reason I become a physician is because I can\u2019t imagine doing anything else, but it takes another thirty years of reflection to reach that degree of insight.  The explanation I serve my aunt is far more concrete:  \u201cBecause Papa is a doctor.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The dental student flashes my aunt a puzzled look.  I sense that I\u2019ve said something wrong, but I\u2019m honestly not sure what.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour papa isn\u2019t a doctor,\u201d says Aunt Henrietta\u2014her voice kind but firm.  \u201cWhat on earth would ever give you that idea?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I understand that I must not mention our visit to the hospital, that my father will want that to remain our secret.  \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHer father was<\/em> an architect,\u201d my aunt informs her date.  \u201cBefore<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The young man nods sympathetically.  \u201cDoes she know about\u2026?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He lets his sentence trail away, as though the word mother<\/em> were toxic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe knows<\/em>,\u201d says Aunt Henrietta.  \u201cBut I don\u2019t think she really understands<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can\u2019t be certain whether my father visits the hospital again on his own, but the next time we visit together, it is already late summer and the corn along the county highway towers over his Oldsmobile.  Instead of the community hospital in St. Arnac, we drive forty-five minutes to the freshly-minted women\u2019s clinic in Greensboro.  My aunt is away for the weekend with her new boyfriend, a veterinarian, who will soon become my Uncle Conrad, and will later become my former Uncle Conrad, and will eventually move to Florida and open a theme park featuring exotic animals.  Papa has finally mustered the wherewithal to warn me against discussing our hospital field trips with his sister, but when I tell him that I already know they are our secret, he grins.  \u201cYour mother would be so proud of you, princess,\u201d he says.  Later, as we pull into a metered space opposite the clinic, he adds, \u201cNever forget why <\/em>we\u2019re here, Lauren.  This is for your mother.  So that those doctors who butchered her learn what it feels like.\u201d  And his voice is compelling, although even at the age of six, I\u2019m already aware that his thinking itself is muddled, that my mother had never stepped foot inside the women\u2019s clinic in Greensboro.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The security guard on duty, a dour young woman, takes her job far more seriously than the jolly old-timers in St. Arnac.  She asks my father for his ID card and, when he apologizes that he has left it in his car, she suggests with a firm civility that he retrieve it.  \u201cIf you insist,\u201d he replies genially.  But we do not return to the Oldsmobile:  Rather, we circle the building until we arrive at the ambulance bay.  \u201cPretend your sleeping, princess,\u201d instructs Papa, scooping me up and carrying me into the emergency room as though I were an accident victim.  A genuine trauma patient has arrived ahead of us, so the ER is a maelstrom of clattering equipment and frantic resuscitation efforts.  An elderly woman pleads with God for her son\u2019s recovery, at top volume, while medics shear the clothing off a blood-drenched body.  Nobody takes much notice of Papa when he strolls confidently through a graveyard of gurneys into the belly of the hospital.  Soon enough, we\u2019ve found ourselves another private room on an upper floor of the building.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This room appears far fancier that the one we visited in St. Arnac; oak-paneled walls and rosewood furniture lend it the ambiance of a private library.  Years later, when I reconstruct these events from newspaper articles, I learn that the room belongs not to a physician\u2019s relative, but to a physician herself:  Dr. Jane Barnwell, the forty-two year-old head of pediatric nephrology, who has suffered minor complications following the birth of her first child and is being held overnight for observation.  Fortunately for us, Dr. Barnwell sleeps soundly.  Papa takes great care not to wake her.  He loads his syringe in her private bathroom, instructs me to wait for him, then returns several seconds later and tucks the spent needle and rubber gloves into his leather bag.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll done, princess,\u201d he says.  \u201cGood job.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He snaps shut the satchel and gives the room a final once-over.  Dr. Barnwell doesn\u2019t look any different than she did ten minutes earlier, except her chest no longer heaves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you say we stop for ice cream on the way home?\u201d asks Papa.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStrawberry?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhatever your heart desires,\u201d agrees my father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We exit the hospital as we have entered, through the emergency room, again drawing virtually no attention.  On the avenue, however, a squad car with flashing lights has drawn up behind the Oldsmobile.  One of the officers remains seated in the vehicle, while the other stands on the sidewalk, comforting a distraught young woman in a burgundy smock.  The woman has fiery red hair\u2014like my own mother\u2019s\u2014and wide, child-bearing hips; if she wore less makeup, she\u2019d be prettier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I am still at an age when I find the presence of police officers to be reassuring, rather than threatening, yet that afternoon I suspect their arrival bodes trouble.  My father, however, does not appear at all unnerved by their presence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs something wrong, officer?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The officer looks up.  \u201cYour car?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m afraid so,\u201d says Papa.  \u201cDid I park in the wrong place?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, you did,\u201d says the cop.  He\u2019s a gaunt bulrush of a man who looks as though a strong wind might topple him.  \u201cYou parked right behind this woman\u2019s vehicle\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I now notice\u2014for the first time\u2014that glass shards blanket the asphalt, remnants of the Oldsmobile\u2019s left headlight.  A deep cleft forks the vehicle\u2019s front bumper, which buckles over the grill.  The redheaded woman has apparently backed her car into ours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m so<\/em> sorry, doctor,\u201d the woman apologizes to Papa, who still sports his white coat.  \u201cI honestly don\u2019t know what happened.  I thought I was in drive, and I must have been in reverse, and I can\u2019t believe I could ever be so stupid\u2026.\u201d  She sounds as though she is seconds away from tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot a big deal,\u201d says Papa.  He turns to the slender cop.  \u201cOfficer, is there any way we can just forget this ever happened?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

These days, I practice medicine in Manhattan, and asking a question like that in this city can get a person arrested, but three decades ago, in Greensboro, the rules are more flexible.  The slender officer steps over to the patrol car to confer with his partner.  The second cop, an older man with a shock of white hair, climbs out of the vehicle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat are you going to do about the insurance?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAbsolutely nothing,\u201d replies Papa.  \u201cIt\u2019s not worth it.  I\u2019ll just patch her up in my garage and she\u2019ll be as good as new.  If I can operate on a human brain, I can operate on a busted bumper.  Anyway, there\u2019s no reason this lady\u2019s insurance rates should skyrocket over a minor accident.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The veteran cop shrugs.  \u201cSuit yourself, doc,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The older cop nods to the younger cop, and the pair depart into the urban web of Greensboro, leaving us alone with the grateful redhead.  \u201cI don\u2019t know how to thank you,\u201d she says.  \u201cI\u2019ve never even been in an accident before.  I\u2019d offer to buy you lunch in the cafeteria sometime, but this is the last day of my rotation.  I\u2019m a nursing student\u2014did I mention that?\u2014and I go back to the hospital in Winston-Salem next week.\u201d  She looks at Papa, who hasn\u2019t said a word, and blushes.  \u201cOh, goodness.  I\u2019m talking too much, aren\u2019t I?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot at all.  Why don\u2019t we<\/em> buy you<\/em> lunch?  Right now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The nursing student, whose name I later learn is Suzanne, glances at me with apprehension.  \u201cWon\u2019t this girl\u2019s mother worry if you\u2019re not home on time?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis girl\u2019s mother,\u201d replies Papa, matter-of-fact, \u201cis dead.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Suzanne\u2019s expression flutters from shock to sympathy, but possibly sympathy tempered by relief.  \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot half as sorry as I am,\u201d says Papa.  \u201cBut now that we\u2019ve broken the ice, how do you two beautiful ladies feel about barbecued chicken?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n