down on us.
Ben, on the other hand, was a former college football player, intelligent, good natured, obsessive, and religious. He had short brown hair, a wide smile, a certainty that everything could be ordered if understood, and a total disbelief in the lunar myth. This was the first ER rotation for both Ben and me.
When I arrived in the ER at 6 p.m., the examination rooms were full of sick patients. Moans of pain, retching, and screams of distress overlaid the purring of the cardiac monitors and the soft conversations of nurses and patients. I worked ninety minutes straight before Bev, a slight frown on her pale, long face, informed me that Ben was late, and Ben was never late. Ben was punctual and neat, his small work area always orderly. I was unable to resist moving Ben’s pen or file to the other side of the desk to enjoy his studied evaluation of the small permutation and changed space—then his careful movement of things back to their original order.
After 8 p.m. Ben appeared, looking more like a trauma patient than a physician. Ben slumped into his chair, spread his large arms and hands wide, and related his vexing tale.
“I was driving along I-96, on time to arrive at 5:45. I noticed a car pulled over on the shoulder of the road, a white rag tied to the door handle, flying in the wind. A young, good-looking woman stood beside the car and waved frantically for me to stop. I pulled over, got out of my car, and walked over. It was twilight, and the sun was fading as the huge full moon rose from the horizon. She told me the engine had made a loud knocking noise, then ground to a halt. She was upset, late for work, and asked if she popped the hood, would I take a look. Just as I leaned over the engine, two big guys appeared from the other side of the car, and one hit me with a bat and knocked me to the ground. They told me not to move, took my wallet, then hopped in the car with the girl and sped away. For a while I just laid on the gravel, my head hurting too much to move. Finally, I was spotted by a passing cop who pulled over, called an ambulance, and helped me up. I refused to go to the hospital, telling the medics I was headed here anyway. The cop said I was lucky I didn’t fight back, or they might have killed me. After the medics cleared me, the cop followed me here to be sure I made it. Man, who would have thought I’d receive a good Samaritan’s penalty. As the cop drove off, he pointed at the rising moon and shook his head.”
I examined Ben, who was bruised and battered, but neurologically intact. He washed up and changed into green surgical scrubs. As Ben entered the first surgical room, he turned to Bev and said, “Well, I’m glad I’ve got my lunar curse over early!” Bev sighed and frowned but didn’t reply.
After several steady hours of routine work—chest pains, the great flux, rashes, painful pee, and twisted ankles—traffic slowed, and Bev, Ben, and I collapsed in our steel back chairs to enjoy some strong coffee. The front desk secretary broke our quiet with a yell back, “Overdose en route. Arrival two minutes.”
Bev punched my shoulder and said, “That’s you, medicine man.”
All kinds of drugs were circulating in the seventies, but amphetamines, LSD, and PCP (angel dust) were common and difficult to manage because of extreme patient agitation. Heroin overdoses were confined to regular users, only later to reach into all classes with the explosion in pain prescriptions. Hallucinogenic drugs were especially common in young, well-educated kids looking for visions, insight, and “Hey man, something new and wild.”
The medics rolled in the gurney from the ambulance holding a raging, psychotic young woman restrained by arm and leg straps. Bev stepped up to accompany the medics to the exam room to place the cardiac monitor leads on her chest and to help the patient into her exam gown.
With a slight smile Bev said, “Give me just a minute, Dr. Armstrong, and this one is yours.” I walked to our cramped work area with one of the medics who explained to me that the woman’s roommate had related that they had shared LSD together, but the patient had taken an extra dose “to really get it on.” As he finished his brief history, a blood-curdling scream pierced the air, and the young woman appeared outside the exam room, eyes wide, mouth open, completely naked. Bev and one big medic were right behind her, arms outstretched. Just as their arms approached the wild woman she bolted down the hall, passing Ben, a medic, and me as if we were frozen ice statues. She rounded the hall corner at full sprint, passing the desk receptionist, security guard, and two medics, and raced out the ER door heading straight for the hospital lawn leading to busy I-96. Ben and I exchanged quick glances and took off after her. Ben reached the naked woman first about fifty yards from the busy expressway. He made a perfect ankle tackle, but struggled to keep her under control. She screamed, “Pigs, let me go! Ah ya, ya, ya! They’re coming after me! Look, look!” She pointed back at the hospital, then began beating Ben furiously with both fists. The moon above us was now full and bright.
Ben looked up at me and said, “I think this is a medical patient, Jack!” He lifted her up from the ground and onto my shoulder, quickly tying her ankles together with a phlebotomy tourniquet. She slowly turned her head to me, stared into my eyes and said, “Blue, the devil’s eyes are blue,” then spit on my forehead and kicked my back. The middle-aged Hispanic security guard finally arrived, draped a brown blanket over the struggling young woman, and we began our march back to the ER.
“Oh no, oh no. They’re coming for me. Help, help!” she screamed. I looked into her large, very-dilated brown eyes.
“Who is after you?” I asked.
“The panthers. The black, lean, hungry panthers. Oh, God, no, no, leave her alone!” she pleaded.
“Are they chasing you?”
“They’re chasing a small lamb and oh, oh, the lamb has turned to us and its face is my face! Save it!”
“Why are the black panthers after the lamb?”
“They want to catch her and tear her apart. Oh, no, no, they’re getting closer!”
“Imagine yourself as the lamb. Try to get inside her . . . Are you there?”
“I’m there. OK, but I’m so afraid!”
“Now roar. Roar like a lion, like you’re not afraid, but ready to fight back,” I paused while she roared into the night. “What happened?”
“They stopped! The panthers are backing away!”
“What’s your name, little lamb?”
“Sarah. Sarah Bentley. You’re a nice doctor, will you take me back to the hospital now?”
“That’s where we’re headed, Sarah Bentley. Are you a student?”
“Yeah, I’m a psych major at Wayne State. Oh, oh. . . they’re still looking at me, and their jaws are open and dripping blood. Oh, what have they killed? Help! Help me!”
“Roar, Sarah! Roar like your life depended on it.”
“Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”
“What’s happening?”
“They’re backing off. I think they might go looking for another lamb.”
“We’re almost back to the ER now. The nurse will give you a gown, and I’ll give you some medication to calm you down until the psychiatrist arrives.”
“Your voice is so calm. I think I’m getting sleepy already. I took the LSD to know what they were seeing.”
“Who was seeing?”
“The
