We moved to Minneapolis with all our belongings in the smallest U-Haul trailer available. There was a hurricane blasting through the city the day we arrived. We had to dodge falling trees, to find alternate routes of travel, and finally the incredible wind and driving torrents of rain beat us. We were afraid, which drove us very reserved and independent people to walk up to the door of a humble little house and knock on the door to ask for help for the night. People are good. We happened to knock on exactly the right door. It was home to a pleasant young couple who happened to be co-religionists of ours, and they invited us in without demurrer. They put us up for the night, told us how to find temporary quarters in the university dorms, and got us in touch with the local bishop. He found us a house to rent, and maybe (who knows) caused the storm to move on to torment the unfortunates in Coon Rapids.
The house was in a run-down area on the west bank of the Mississippi River. It was spring, and the weather changed over to delightful and welcoming. We settled in after making a trip to a garage sale to rebuy the things that neighbors stole from us as we were moving in. I said the area was run-down; that is a euphemism. That year, Minneapolis had its worst winter in a hundred years—more snow, lower temperatures, fiercer winds, longer cold spells, lower highs and lower lows. The university and the hospital were directly across the river which was reachable by a mile walk down river to a low rail bridge. Most days when I left home, I had to crawl across the bridge to avoid being blown off into the river. I wore mukluks and an Alaskan parka every day for eight weeks. Our children sat on the old tall radiators in the front room for warmth and stamped on cockroaches for exercise and fun.
I learned a great deal, saw a great deal, and became aware that not all doctors adhere to the Hippocratic Oath with enthusiasm. One cardiac surgeon left a patient on the table for an aortic valve operation for hours while he gave a speech in Chicago. The surgery should never have been scheduled according to several of his colleagues on the faculty who preferred not to be named. She died from being on the bypass machine for too long. A study was done over several years using a machine to freeze the lining of the stomach of patients with severe gastric bleeding that could not be controlled by nonsurgical means. The results of nonexperimental surgery were excellent in Minnesota and all over the country. The results of the experimental procedures as reported were lies. How do I know that? Because my assignment—and I was set-up—was to report on the ten-year results of the program at monthly Grand Rounds for Surgery held in the medical school auditorium. State and city surgeons and internists, having heard that the subject was to be presented, attended, filling the auditorium beyond fire safety capacity.
When I say I was set up, I mean my efforts to find raw data were futile and obstructed at every step. The named surgeons on the many reports seemed to have developed amnesia, misplaced the data, or were too busy to accommodate a “thing” as interns were called; secretaries gave me the run-around, etc., etc. I appealed to the surgeon who gave me the assignment, and he simply smiled enigmatically and told me that I would be all right, just report your findings.
I felt like a fool, but I stood before that packed audience of men and women whose average IQs were genius level and whose years of experience dwarfed mine.
I said simply and humbly, “I could get no data whatsoever. It is either lost to follow-up, or was withheld.”
And I sat down. I needn’t have worried about myself. A firestorm of invective began to hurl across and around the auditorium. There were scientists who provided evidence that the procedure was not only no good, but bogus. The authors’ responses were essentially, “how dare you?” The community of surgeons unanimously demanded that the data be produced forthwith, or they would send a letter of censure to the state. One surgeon even offered condolences for the poor sucker who had been inveigled into being the presenter.
Like all the other interns and residents, I wrote papers and had a professor take credit with my name appearing at the end of a long list. I learned how to write an academic paper, how to evaluate data and evidence, and the difference between the truth and otherwise. I had already learned that from my father, who, despite other shortcomings, was always exactly and assiduously honest.
Maybe this kind of thing shocks you. Maybe you think such things are better left unsaid. My question this time, is what do you think? And will this turn you towards or away from me as a fiction writer because I am not meek about exposes, although I do change the names and places to protect the guilty.