TORN

By M. D. William A. Prin

Dr. Jack Conley, a medical intern, is mulling his future at a Brooklyn, hospital. Having found that he is not as fond of medicine as he thought he would be, Jack visits his boyhood friend, the hospital chaplain, and was abruptly interrupted when he was suddenly paged to the intensive care unit of the Eme

• Language: English
• Publisher: Excel Book Writing
• Release date: Feb 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869167583

Book preview

TORN

EBK_27Jun23_Book_Prin_formatted_fileWriterDwayne Mervyn212023-06-22T19:08:00Z2023-07-28T18:25:00Z2023-07-28T18:25:00Z38396001547206Aspose4560128364192416.0000

TORN

A Novel

by

William A Prin, M.D.

Copyright © 2023

William A Prin, M.D.

All rights reserved.

Dedication

To Michelle Timmins Prin,

My wife, My soulmate, My Inspiration, and My Best Friend.

To My Beautiful Children.

To All Women, Past, Present, and Future, who have been or will be faced with this life-altering decision.

Chapter 1

She was scared. Fear gripped her tightly as she faltered slowly, reluctantly, toward the gray stone building. She knew what lay ahead, yet not totally. Despite this, her mind, her heart, and her small body were encouraged by the large figure ambling beside her, holding her arm up, pulling her forward as only the strength of a stronger adult could do – hurrying to get this done and behind them; to live life as they knew it before all of this. Yes, a return to normal as they knew normal to be, but first this. It had to be done and done quickly and efficiently with the world unaware and unconcerned. It had been a mistake, a big mistake, but mistakes happen, and when they happen, they must be corrected. And tonight, was only about correction.

As she walked-ran, Claire felt the chill of the night through her red woolen coat. A coat with big black buttons up the middle. It was the wind that made her cold, but it was her fear that made her bitter cold. Her mother hastened her along, barely looking at the child’s terrified countenance. The kind of fearful look that you would expect to see on the face of a fifteen-year-old adolescent girl briskly walking, during the deep winter night of February, into an unknown abyss. She did not know the neighborhood but sensed it to be threatening. Trash cans, dented from years of crashing against the curbs of the city streets, were strewn along her path. Black ice created obstacles to walking safely. Rising cement slabs which heaved up from a myriad of sidewalks by the cold weather and years of aging, invited tripping. Some dim lights shone through empty windows, but there was no sign of life except an occasional stray cat out foraging for its evening meal.

Suddenly, or so it seemed, the traveling ceased. The destination, for better or for worse, had been reached. Claire looked to her right and to her left as if Bobby would miraculously appear and save her. He promised her that he loved her. He swore to her that he would never forsake her. He repetitively stated to her that he would always shield her from all the dangers of this wicked world. In return, he only implored that she would love him without condition. He was so pretty. He was so funny. He was so believable. And he loved her, Claire Fitzgerald. She was overwhelmed with love and passion that this angel of a boy would want her and only her. And with that in mind and a precious smile on her face, she had said, Yes, I give you my unconditional love and everything precious that goes with it. And that, she stood by, doing all that she could for as long as the circumstances allowed her to. But now, she stood there on weakened legs, holding her mother’s hand on a cold night in a strange place, not knowing what would come next; frightened – almost to death – just thinking about it. There was no Bobby. There was no love. There was no exuberance. There was only the stark fear that a fifteen-year-old girl could feel, dreading that which would come next.

She did not have long to wait. She was hustled quickly up the smooth gray stone steps of the turn of the century building to the glass-lined heavy brown doors decorated with We like Ike signs on each piece of the visible glass. Ike was now the President, but Claire did not know who Ike was, nor did she particularly care. The pictures were not welcoming. They reminded her of the sideshow at Coney Island. Come and see the Freaks, The Bearded Lady, The Spotted Man. Things that were scary to her. This was very scary to her. The smells from the walls and the floor overwhelmed her. The remnants of dried vomit were visible throughout. Toilet fumes from hallway defecations and urinary release sporadically coated the walls.

The lighting was dim. Brown paint peeled from every wall, sage and vulgar words scribbled randomly on all writing surfaces. To Claire, they all seemed to shrill at once: Leave this place. But she could not. She was here for a reason her mother had explained well. She must complete this journey – she had to, at any cost – so that life could return to normal. Claire would return to her home and share it with her two brothers, her sister, her mother, and her father. Claire would not be one of those wayward girls who brought shame and humiliation on their precious Catholic family. She would return to St. Thomas’s High School with her long, shiny pigtails blowing in the breeze and her plaid jumper dancing gently around her adolescent waist. Everyone would admire her beautiful blue eyes and lightly freckled face. No one would know about this. This would cease to exist. It was a mistake, and mistakes can be corrected. There would be no more Bobby Maloney and no more chatter about love at the age of fifteen. Claire would receive Confirmation and someday receive the Sacrament of Matrimony in the Church. This would never be mentioned. This was a mistake, and this mistake was, in a few minutes time, going to be corrected.

Claire was of short stature, and the distance to the top of the stairs seemed enormous. She counted them. Only four with a handrail on each side, but the energy required was more than her little body could muster. Her legs trembled with each step, and with each step, her mother pulled more painfully on her arm.

Come, Claire, the doctor is waiting for you.

She did not see a doctor, though. There was a stout lady at the top of the staircase. She looked to be about fifty years old. She wore a dress with a frill around her neck. The remainder of the outfit was gray in color and extended down to her ankles, where Claire could not help but notice black rubber boots in place of shoes. In the woman’s right hand, she carried a large cloth bag. As she moved from one side of the staircase to the other, the contents of the sack clanked with a rather loud metallic noise. She grinned at Claire, but her eyes were empty and gray. These eyes had seen many unfortunate young women, and they were not happy mirrors of her soul.

Come, dear, hurry along now, she cried. We have work to do, and the night is moving on. Hearing these words and seeing her cloth bag drew waves of nausea to Claire, and a cold trail of sweat erupted on her forehead. Tears welled in her eyes, Mama, please take me home. I’m too scared.

The lady in the gray dress seemed annoyed. Her eyes squinted. Her mouth seemed to frown, and her fist around the cloth bag tightened. Come, come, little girl. We’ll get this done, and you’ll be back at home and happy as can be.

Claire’s mother grew angry. If you had kept your legs together and away from that Maloney boy, we wouldn’t be here now, she taunted the girl who did not seem to endure such malice. So, do as you’re told, and let’s get this done. Then, first thing Saturday afternoon, off to Confession for you.

Claire and her mother were now on the landing. There was no turning back, although Claire felt as though she had no legs at all. Suddenly, a solid squeaky metallic door began to open. The woman in the gray dress had opened it slowly. She giggled as she did so. Come, Claire, dear, we will have fun and play doctor. You will be the patient, and I will take that nasty bad thing out of your tummy.

Claire looked into the room through her tears. It was actually quite dim, illuminated only by a small incandescent bulb dangling from the ceiling, but to this little girl, it was the brightest of suns. She was blinded by it and wanted only to run, but her mother insistently prevented that from happening. She was going to see this through.

Under the pendant light was a skinny, metallic table. It wasn’t the kind of table to have a meal at, but rather more like one that would be found in her father’s workshop. It was quite heavy and appeared as if it would not move easily. There were stains on it, brown stains that seemed as if they had been there for quite a while. There was no pillow, but at the bottom end, there were two arm-like structures, one extending to the left and the other to the right. Around each of them at the upper and lower portion were leather straps with buckles. It was a strange contraption, and Claire could not figure out its usefulness. Her thoughts were quickly interrupted, though, by the loud and sudden clank of the satchel landing on a smaller metal table. The lady in the gray dress had dropped her satchel and was smiling now. Things were moving along.

The lady in gray turned to Claire’s mother and said, Do you have the fifty dollars? I need it before I do anything, got it? And, if there are any problems, that’ll be ten bucks more, okay? Mrs. Fitzgerald stared down at her pubescent daughter with great disdain. Claire looked up at her mother as well, but her expression was one of fear and helplessness. Mother unhooked the clip of her pocketbook slowly and with some aggravation. She slowly removed the crisp green slivers of cash. Ten dollars from the rent money, ten dollars from the grocery money, ten dollars from the clothing allocation, ten dollars from the church donation funds, and ten dollars from the utility budget. For one month, the family budget would be worthlessly plundered, and all of this family pain was brought about because of Claire’s carelessness. She had overseen Claire quite carefully, knowing that she had entered that age of adolescence – the age at which things happen – but somehow, her daughter, for one fleeting moment, had escaped her scrutiny, and disaster resulted. Now, to preserve the family honor and decency, funds desperately needed for worthy agendas would be wasted on this terrible misadventure. The money was, nevertheless, paid over, and now it was time to take care of business.

The incandescent light bulb above the metal table took on an eerie appearance. The sun had now set. The appearance of the lady in the gray dress changed as well. Claire looked into her eyes, which were narrowing by the second. They appeared blanker as if what she was about to perform was very mechanical and a matter of fact. And in all honesty, it was. The lady in gray, Gladys Newcombe, her given name, had been doing this procedure for many years. In fact, she had been doing it for so many years that she had forgotten how long, but it paid well. The return was quite lucrative despite her lack of formal training in its mechanics. Yet, she had paid her dues. For many years, she had been a trusted disciple of Dr. Samuel Solomon. She assisted him at every event and helped when there were a few bumps in the road. Though bumps were few and far between when they did occur, the complications were catastrophic. Dr. Solomon was careful but given his meager working conditions in an illegal environment, problems were bound to happen, and when they did, horrible consequences could be the result. The injuries were so terrible that Mrs. Newcombe, herself, would never entertain the thought of producing her own offspring.

She had the greatest admiration for Dr. Solomon. Though she had no idea as to the extent of his training nor where he obtained it, he seemed caring and skilled. He also seemed relatively affluent because of the fees that he accrued from the misfortunes of these girls and young women. But he was, after all, helping them to leave past mistakes, brought about by silly romances, behind them and the ability to return to an everyday, albeit scarred, life. Mrs. Newcombe admired all aspects of Dr. Solomon’s skills and paid close attention to their performance. Hopefully, one day, she, herself, would acquire skills such as his and be able to assist these foolish young women while at the same time providing a prosperous existence for herself. Claire Fitzgerald was not her first adventure, and hopefully, she would not be her last. Mrs. Newcombe was committed to stamping out unwanted pregnancies and building a considerably ample bank account for herself while doing so. If there were some physical misadventures along the way, they would be dealt with.

Come on, now, young lady, she instructed the girl. The night is moving on, and we have many things to get done. Take off your shoes and panties and climb up on the table. Claire turned her head to her mother’s face. The greater fear, if that was indeed possible, was overcoming her quickly. Her legs trembled. Mrs. Fitzgerald would have none of it. Claire, she exclaimed. Do as you’re told. Kick your shoes off and pull your panties down.

Claire felt her fear increasing at an accelerated pace. The room was becoming blurry. Perspiration was pouring down her face, and her skin was becoming clammier by the passage of each second. It was at that point that she heard a quiet, but distinct snicker coming from the corner of the room. Her eyes instantaneously swayed in that direction. She spied a small elfish figure in the corner of the room. The figure became much more distinct as her eyes focused on it. The appearance of a diminutive man came into focus. Yes, it was a man, but older and somewhat distorted. He did not appear sympathetic, but almost as if he was enjoying the scene of her torment. He had seen it many times before.

Quiet, you little imp, hissed Mrs. Newcombe at the cowering creature in the corner. Start getting things ready. Her eyes then shifted to the unnerved girl, And you, little one, climb up on that damn table and move this along.

Mrs. Fitzgerald grabbed her daughter by the waist and, lifting up her skirt, began accomplishing the disrobing of Claire. The little girl’s tears now became a river. Claire’s psyche was erupting as she was forcibly pushed to the metal table, displaying her currently almost-naked torso to the room. She could not climb up onto the table because of her overwhelming fear, nor could her mother lift her onto it. Jimmy emerged from the corner and hurtled toward her, grabbing Claire around the waist and, with Mrs. Fitzgerald’s help, pushed the girl rather than lift her onto the metal table.

Claire could see the smirk on Jimmy’s face as he extended her thighs to the left and to the right strapping them in place so that her body took on the appearance of the perfect letter Y. Claire’s mother remained at her head, holding her upper chest in place while her small thin arms were strapped into place by Jimmy. The scene was set. Mrs. Newcombe remained at the intersection of the Y staring at the pubescent body before her. Claire heard in the distance the loud clanking of metal instruments. The noise kept reverberating as her mind began retreating away from the chaos surrounding her. Then suddenly, Jimmy’s contorted face appeared above her face with a sneering grin – his breath was foul and nauseated Claire. Worse was the rag that he now held over her face. It was chloroform. The purpose was not to diminish her oncoming pain, but to force her cooperation. The chemical began to make her drowsy. She was drifting, but glanced in her drowsiness at Mrs. Newcombe, who was holding a metal instrument aloft with a loop on its end. The last thing that Claire heard was the lady in gray fondling the tool and murmuring, "Welcome back, Francine."

Francine was tossed gently onto the small metal table while Jimmy hustled to complete preparations for the procedure. Mrs. Fitzgerald held her daughter securely on the metal table – as if she were not there to hold her daughter’s hand through the process, but to get a liability done and over with. In the meanwhile, Mrs. Newcombe pulled another of her tools from the satchel that lay on the table – it resembled a duck’s bill. The upper bill opened to allow visualization. Mrs. Newcombe turned and stared at Claire’s vagina and, with the skill of an experienced midwife, rapidly thrust the duck-billed speculum into Claire’s vagina, opening it up for all to see. Instantly, her cervix came into view. And there it was, the neck of the womb, the entrance into the world of life’s very beginning.

Mrs. Newcombe smiled. It was less of a mischievous smile and more of a smile that clearly stated, This would be an easy one. She would soon have the contents of Claire’s womb in the black plastic bag that had been placed in the old metal bucket that was placed by Jimmy underneath the young girl’s Y. She would soon complete her work and be on her way back to her everyday life, a bit richer.

It looked like there was no more time for pleasant thoughts and all Mrs. Newcombe cared about was the task at hand. The lady in gray reached into her satchel and withdrew yet another of her tools. This was a long scissor-like instrument, yet thinner and without blades. In their place were two prongs, one north, and one south. The utensil was sharp and meant to hold its victim motionless. And here, its victim was the winking cervix of Claire Fitzgerald. With an eye on its cervical target, the lady in gray thrust the tenaculum into the orifice of Claire Fitzgerald’s vagina and snapped it onto the upper rim of the cervix. Claire thrust her abdomen and pelvis up with the snap.

Mrs. Newcombe glanced sharply at Mrs. Fitzgerald, murmuring in disapproval, Hold her down, damn it. Mother Fitzgerald drew back and lost the color in her face. It went ashen pale. I’m doing my best to hold her, but she’s a strong kid.

Jimmy then threw his elvish body across Claire’s chest, not permitting her to move further. Mrs. Newcombe returned to her satchel and withdrew a cigar-shaped metal rod. It was rigid and would create a tunnel for Francine to do her work. Mrs. Newcombe stared at Claire’s cervix, eyeing her target. She then took the metal dilator into her right hand and centered it onto the cervix as if it was a bull’s eye. She then began to push. She pushed harder. The cervix resisted, attempting its best to safeguard the contents of the womb, but it was not really a match for the iron rod. With one final push, it entered the territory that carried Claire’s baby. It entered the dome of life.

Claire bucked again, rocking Jimmy. He fell backward. Mother Fitzgerald fell harder onto her daughter’s chest. Claire opened her eyes widely, and a loud moan leaped out between her lips. The lament was followed by a wave of vomit that covered Mrs. Fitzgerald.

Hold her down, damn it! Hold her down! How many times do I have to tell you? shouted Newcombe. Jimmy, get your ass up off the floor and hold her, damn it! The smile returned to the lady in gray’s face. She reached for Francine and pivoted around to the center of the Y. Holding the tenaculum, she introduced Francine into the tunnel created in Claire’s cervix. Like a serpent, Francine snaked its way through the tunnel and into the womb. It curled around and moved side to side, looking, seeking, and then finding that sac, the same gelatinous sac that it so wanted to destroy, to devour. It began to poke and prod and finally wrent the filmy surrounding, unleashing its contents.

Mrs. Newcombe knew that she had accomplished her task when the sanguineous fluid began emanating from the tunnel in the cervix. It ran out of the vagina and into the black plastic bag that laid under the Y. She ran Francine back and forth with the joy of her accomplishment. She ran her repeatedly, much like a violinist during a concert, loving the music created by the movement of the strings. But, in this case, the fluid would not stop. Its clearness was replaced by red and then a deeper shade of red – more fluid. Something was awry. She had sensed it; she knew it. It was one of those bumps in the road.

But this fluid was blood – and a great deal of it – which flooded out of the vagina. It was then accompanied by a gray, slimy, tubular structure that also snaked its way out. It was glistening and moist though covered in blood. It went on and on, seemingly without an end. It had the appearance of an intestine. Mrs. Newcombe had lost her sense of joy, as her face suggested. Mrs. Fitzgerald took on a sense of bewilderment. Claire became listless, but vomit still ran down her neck. Jimmy was stunned. The lady in gray did not know what to do. Was it possible that Francine had penetrated the womb and snagged Claire’s intestine? Not likely, but what else could be so snake-like? She had heard of this happening, but never thought that she would witness it herself. She had wanted to run, but to where?

Jimmy, pick her up, and you, too, lady. We have to get out of here, panicked Newcombe, trying to not give show it.

Where are we going with her bleeding like this? wailed Claire’s mother.

Newcombe appeared angry, You’ll bring her to the hospital and hope that they can help her. You also owe me another ten bucks for dealing with this mess. Jimmy will help you get her out of here. I gotta get going.

Jimmy and Mrs. Fitzgerald did not bother to dress Claire. There was too much blood for that. They carried and dragged her down the stairs and onto the cold pavement with her intestine, like jump rope that was just there, dangling between her legs.

A yellow cab drove by, and reluctantly, the driver let mother and daughter enter, but only by paying twice the standard fare. He drove quickly to the first hospital they came to, Memorial, and then, unceremoniously, dumped them out. The driver, not wanting to get involved in a police report, immediately tore out of there. Nurses in white hats came flooding out of the hospital and were stricken by the scene of this young girl, now quite pale and bloodied in a semi-conscious state. They immediately placed her on a stretcher, and she entered the confines of Memorial Hospital, almost dead upon her arrival.

Chapter 2

Dr. Jack Conley was bored and languishing in the on-call room of the maternity section of Memorial Hospital. He sat back on an old swivel chair with his feet up on an ancient wooden desk. A desk with a multitude of messages carved into its writing surface so that one could, within a few hours of wasted time, discern the long history of the maternity section of Memorial Hospital. He was staring blankly at the large, dirty, opaque windows of the room, wondering what his future held. Jack had graduated from the Memorial Medical School, which was just across the street, six months ago. The Dean had handed him the Doctor of Medicine diploma and moved the gold tassel from one side of the cap to the other, signifying his change in status from Mr. to Dr. Yet, since that day Jack was still undecided as to what kind of physician he would evolve into. He doubted his abilities and, in some sense, cared less about his skills and decision making. He was proud of telling his family and friends that, He couldn’t remember much of what he had learned in medical school and more and more he cared less and less. A feeling that he never shared was that he did not like being around sick people. Children with terminal illness gave him depression and despair. Surgery, where he only assisted, which was most of the time, was found to be tedious. Medical problems which seemed to multiply with the patient’s age were treated endlessly until the ultimate outcome of death occurred. Yet, now after having dedicated so much time and effort to reaching the pinnacle of his academic goal, he knew that he would have no real choice but to push on. That was what this internship was all about.

Following medical school, there was the necessity of an internship. Though a doctor had accumulated much information through the grueling four years of professional school, that was not enough. It now had to be put into practice by applying that which was learned to the actual healing of acutely and chronically ill humans. Jack Conley had never thought to put much effort into gaining a prized internship position at some famous hospital. Rather, he opted to take a default position at Memorial Hospital, which was right across the street. That was easy. It was also close to the home that he had grown up in.

Memorial was a city hospital charged with the care of the poor, the downtrodden, and the hopelessly ill with no other place to go. It was old with a turn of the century appearance. The hospital stretched for three city blocks, encompassing clinics of all manners. There were no private physicians on the staff of Memorial. Private, experienced doctors from the affluent proprietary hospitals were enlisted to be on the voluntary staff that would guide the interns and residents who ran the place. The motto for the so-called house staff was, See one, do one, and teach one. This is how it actually was done. The care provided at Memorial was objectively quite adequate. Objective observers would note that the destitute who were cared for at Memorial were among the most ill in the city and their stay at the hospital came only at the end of their affliction in a desperate attempt to keep on breathing.

Dr. Jack, as he was known, suddenly emerged from the mindless reconnoitering of his current situation. After six months of interning, he still had no idea as to what his future held. He would soon have to decide, but on this very cold February night he was not about to come to any decisions. He rose out of the swivel chair, stood up and stretched. After a long eighteen-hour shift, his appearance was deplorable. His hair was dirty and unwashed. The beard on his face had moved well beyond the point of a five o’clock shadow. A green scrub shirt, which he seemed to wear from one week to the next, was wrinkled and sported stains from various bodily fluids. Pants that had at one time had been white were now covered in a myriad of stains from a mixture of bodily fluids. His once white shoes were of no detectable color. In a word, he had the appearance of the age and characteristics of the institution he served.

During his shift today, there had been only two normal deliveries in which he participated. They were uneventful. Beyond that there was boredom. He had already read Williams, Textbook of Obstetrics from cover to cover at least twice. It was almost midnight on this Saturday, and he knew that his lifelong friend, Bill Hurley, a Catholic priest, would be saying a Sunday Mass in the hospital chapel. Jack decided that he would go to Mass and spend a little time hanging out with his old buddy, afterward.

Jack and Bill had grown up together in the same Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn. They had attended the same parochial school, played baseball for the Police Athletic League, and then attended St. Thomas High School, but then life took them down separate paths. There was a vast world war being waged and the boys had received notice from the Selective Service informing them that they were to report to Fort Hamilton for pre-induction physicals prior to entering the armed forces. They reported together. Bill passed the examination without difficulty, but Jack was found to have a loud, blowing heart murmur from a defect in his heart. Bill was classified as ready for service. Jack was rejected. Bill prepared for the European theater. Jack, dejectedly, decided to go on to college, hoping to discover a purpose in his life.

The army trained Hurley to become a corpsman, a medic. The job could at times be gruesome, but he felt that he was performing a real service to his comrade in arms. Killing was not on his agenda, but rather the saving of lives when possible and comforting the dying when there was no hope. By war’s end he came to despise the violence, no matter that there was a good purpose for it. He came to wonder endlessly what evil drove humanity to kill or maim his fellow man. He loved serving their needs whether minor or fatal. He came to know that his life would be best utilized serving the desperate needs of his fellow man and to help him find God in his life. At war’s end, if he himself survived, he decided to enter the seminary. He would become a Catholic priest.

Jack remained at home for the duration of the war. He was not happy about that, thinking that he was shirking his duty. He felt that he was being watched, with disdain, by the whole community, asking themselves why he wasn’t serving. While attending college, he resided at his parents’ home. With money not being readily available, he was fortunate to have been accepted into the freshman class at Brooklyn College, a part of the New York City school system and therefore almost free. He was, in the end, excited about school and more specifically the biological sciences. The study of the foundations of life and then life itself brought him exhilaration. The biology laboratories were held on an almost daily basis, allowing him to explore microscopic life and then the macro study of higher forms intrigued him, allowing a desire to discover more. The interaction of the human body with its internal and external environment produced a fascination that could never seem to satisfy his curiosity. Then, at the end of four years, a decision had been reached. His adventure would not end with college studies. He needed more. He had to incorporate all of his studies into a lifelong experience. He decided that he would enter medical school and become a physician.

After completing their respective studies, Dr. Jack Conley, and Father Bill Hurley unexpectedly crossed paths again at Memorial Hospital. Bill had been assigned as Chaplain of the Hospital and Jack became one of several interns. Their meeting there was quite joyful. Friends from childhood to adulthood were once again together. They spent what little free time they had together and exchanged stories though generally not about school and not about the war, itself. Their stories focused on long ago childhood adventures and then adult realities. They touched and provided support during stressful experiences and touched each other’s souls in a way that only two good friends could do. They loved each other.

As he walked toward the chapel, Dr. Jack looked forward to attending his good friend’s mass. He also looked forward to chatting with him afterward on this dark, and bone chilling night in February. Suddenly out of the darkness of the hospital corridor the shrill, a raspy voice of the telephone operator seemed to blast from the corners of every wall, Dr. Conley, Dr. Jack Conley to the ER, stat. The voice seemed to grow louder with each of three renditions, Dr. Conley, Dr. Jack Conley to the ER, stat. The sound pierced Jack’s psyche sharply. For the wall speaker to be used at this time of night, he knew that a profoundly severe problem was about to confront him. Dr. Jack Conley would never make it to the Chapel that night. He would never chat with his childhood friend. On this night, Dr. Jack Conley’s life would change …. forever.

Chapter 3

Memorial Hospital stretched for at least one-mile down Parkside Avenue. Rather than a hospital, it would more appropriately have been identified as a medical center. Every disease imaginable could and was treated here. There were buildings dedicated to psychiatry, where the criminally insane of Brooklyn were brought and safely locked up. Other buildings were dedicated to the diagnosis and treatment of tuberculosis and pulmonary disorders of many etiologies. The city morgue could also be found among these buildings. It was continually active and never empty. However, the heart and soul of Memorial was the physical combination of the A, B, and C buildings.

The A building hosted every variety of outpatient clinics, where the poor of the city could receive treatment for a multitude of disorders. It also housed the pediatric department, which Dr. Jack Conley avoided as much as he possibly could. He did not like to interact with sick and often dying children. It was difficult if not impossible for him to see children suffer and frequently die of diseases which had wretched names like leukemia. Yet, some dedicated doctors and nurses provided the care that was necessary to palliate the suffering and at