Dr. Harvey and the Ballistic Glasses

It was the winter of 1970, in the time before duty hours limitations, and Dr. Harvey made his way to Osler 3 for professor's rounds. In accordance with the tradition of the day, the housestaff and students were all standing in our starched whites in the classroom just off the ward, circling the bed of the patient who would be presented to the professor that day. I delivered a crisp, four-minute account of my patient's history, hoping to waste no words on irrelevancies in spite of little sleep for the past several nights. After the patient was examined and her bed wheeled from the conference room, Dr. Harvey peered closely at her chest x-ray on the view box and-at long last-sat down. His sitting was a relief to us all, since no one (from the chief resident, to the senior resident, to the junior assistant residents, to the interns, to the students) dared to sit before he did.

We pulled chairs into a rough circle and listened to Dr. Harvey conduct his discussion of the case. Drawing upon his extraordinary knowledge of clinical medicine, he spun a refined differential diagnosis out at great length, like a glistening silken thread from a cocoon. In the background, a steam vent hissed as the radiator opened maximally to warm the room for the patient, which transported us all to a warmer clime. I remember only a gentle sense of comfort and fading consciousness, but awakened suddenly, snapping my head up from a nodded-off position. My glasses, which must have been slowly slipping down the bridge of my oily nose, popped off and dropped towards the floor. Hoping to rescue the situation, I grabbed at the spectacles in midair with my right hand. To my surprise, the hand was numb with sleep, had lost its prehensile qualities, and was only able to bat the glasses into a grand, ballistic arc, full across the diameter of the circle, straight at Dr. Harvey. Well into the closing chapter of his discussion, he faltered not a second, but snatched the incoming glasses from the air, folded them, and tucked them into the pocket of his long, white coat. I sat bolt upright for the remainder of the rounds, blinded by my extreme nearsightedness and humiliated, wondering whether my internship was over.

At the end of rounds, the great man departed without a word to me, compounding my concern. Before the chief resident left the room, he approached and handed me my glasses, saying, Dr. Harvey says not to worry. He knows that falling asleep just means that you're doing your job. I don't remember anything about the case. I do remember feeling forgiven.