to pass National Board Examinations. Study nights lasted until midnight, and morning laboratory work was often demanding. I was the new Peon editor and asked for a volunteer to cover the demonstrations. John, the assistant editor, mentioned a rumor that some of the protesters were looking for a fight.
“And by the way,” he said, “I have an actual date, a little joy for a tired and sequestered med student.”
The remainder of the staff thought the editor should go and tell us all about it. I agreed to go, and my young wife, Jean, thought it might be interesting to break out of their workaholic routine.
My previous assignment covering a big campus event had been a disappointment. The noted author, Ken Kesey, of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest fame, had given a speech at the University Undergraduate Student Union. Unfortunately, instead of discussing his brilliant novel, he read from the I-Ching while stoned and incoherent. We left quickly when they spotted drugs freely circulated among the equally stoned students.
Demonstration night was clear, and the students tried out a few chants as if we were at a football game. Unlike the Student Union crowd, no one was drunk or stoned. The National Guard was lined up across the courtyard, looking out of place in full uniform, helmets, and rifles. Gail stepped up to lead a chant, “Hell no, we won’t go!” and the student mass wobbled forward like shaken jello. The soldiers held their ground.
Malcolm was at the front of the student body; he leaned left then right, urging his friends to stay cool. Dennis, now only ten yards from the taunting students, gripped his rifle and leaned toward his lieutenants and stated, “Be ready. We will not give way.”
Dr. Fleming peered out his elegant window as the students approached the guards. He felt intense unease. He knew in his negotiator’s gut that this was not going well. With each step forward by the students, the chance for violence escalated. He turned quickly to his wife and said, “This doesn’t look good. I’m going out!” She sighed and reminded him his only useful weapon was his voice. He put on his coat and headed out the door.
To Malcolm’s surprise, Gail and her three friends had brought ripe tomatoes to the demonstration. They stepped forward and yelled, “Pigs go home,” and threw the tomatoes into the faces of the tense, young troops.
Dennis leaned over to his lieutenant on the right and ordered, “Let ‘em have it!” The lieutenant released the tear gas canisters at the protesters just as Dr. Fleming crossed into the thin space separating the demonstrators and soldiers. Two quick breaths and the President collapsed.
The demonstrators and soldiers both came to a halt and fell silent. “Oh, no, not Dr. Fleming,” said Malcolm. Malcolm, Gail, and Dennis reached Dr. Fleming together; he was breathing heavily and coughing. Dennis waved for the medics who hurried forward with a stretcher and oxygen. Malcolm and Gail motioned for the demonstrators to back away, then for everyone to go home. Dennis’s two lieutenants moved the troops back.
The Ann Arbor News criticized the University administration for allowing the demonstration. The Michigan Daily criticized Dr. Fleming as being a weak supporter of the antiwar effort.
In 1968, no shots were fired, no student or soldier was injured, because one man, Dr. Robbin Fleming, a hero, stepped forward.
LUNAR NIGHTS
The site of the worst race riots during the sixties, Motown, the Motor City, home of the Lions and Tigers—Detroit was all these and more in 1970. Wide-spread illicit drug use, the sexual revolution, and the Vietnam War had unnerved the population. The city emergency room was often the only nocturnal safe haven for the injured, ill, and disoriented.
Ben was the surgical intern, and I was the medical intern assigned to staff the Detroit Wayne County Emergency Room. Wayne County Hospital was a 700-bed acute care hospital surrounded by a U-shaped, 2000-bed chronic psychiatric hospital. We reported for duty at 6 p.m. from Ann Arbor, home of the University of Michigan Medical School, to work a twelve-hour night shift. Bev, the head ER nurse, had warned us that tonight was a full-moon night and to expect the strange and unpredictable. Bev was a strong, wise, and practical nurse in her mid-forties who wore a slight frown or a thin smile depending on how chaotic things became and if we could control them. Her full moon superstition was shared by the entire ER staff, regardless of race, gender, or age. From her point of view, our job was to diagnose, treat, and comfort every patient who graced our doors no matter what circumstance had propelled them to us or what phase of the moon beamed 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