meant weighty troubles for Frances, because the food and utensils had to be brought from the East 60’s to West 168th Street every day. Johnny was, I imagine, the first patient Medical Center has ever had who was not allowed to eat from its own kitchens. What a scandalized commotion the nurses made!
Johnny’s own comment after Putnam’s visit was revealing. “Of course operate. The bump is poisoning my nerves.” He went on: “The bump will open twice more.” And as it turned out he was dead right.
So I drove him to Neurological again for what we thought would be a stay of a day or two. He stayed five weeks.
The operation was scheduled for the afternoon. Early that morning the bump spontaneously opened of itself, as Gerson had stubbornly predicted it would, and Mount, summoned by Johnny himself who realized exactly what was happening, did the evacuation right in his room, because there was no time to move him. Mount called me at about eleven in the morning, his voice fairly choked with joy, saying that he had successfully drained an abscess that went five centimeters into the brain beyond the table of the skull, and had got out a full cup of pus and fluid.
Now Johnny recovered with great leaps. He regained his confidence about chess, studied hard, greeted friends, loafed, teased the nurses, yawned and stretched and laughed. He passed another exam, which was a real one and which had to be done in a stipulated time, although he was interrupted over and over. His temperature was taken and the wound had to be dressed once, the telephone kept ringing and scrub women cleaned up his room, while he was actually at work against time.
“My goodness, Father! How can anybody be expected to pass an exam under such circumstances!” His voice was testy, but also pleased.
He was massively bandaged and every few hours, under the most elaborate procedure, he had to have a penicillin drip as the pear-shaped sac in the brain slowly closed with healthy granulation tissue, but otherwise he was more comfortable than at any other period during his illness. That horrible, ferocious bump was altogether gone. It had disappeared. Mount had sucked it out completely. Johnny’s skull would be as smooth and normal as mine, except for the scars of the original incision which the hair would cover. Then next year—so we thought—when any further last remnants of the dead tumor had gone, we would put in a plate and all would be well forevermore.
Doctor after doctor came in to see Johnny, and expressed their free amazement. Miller, one of our old friends, told us that when he heard that Johnny was in hospital again, his first thought was of complete surprise that he was still living, second that he must be in a coma and had been brought in for final palliative measures. And there Johnny was, sitting up in bed stoutly and arguing about the possibility of ionizing lithium hydride!
Then, after some days, the pathologist’s report came in and we learned that the discharged matter showed no infection— the pus was sterile. The cultures showed n o growth at all. Of course sterile abscesses are not unknown by any means; the tumor might have been cut off from its blood supply and the resulting necrotic tissue would be sterile. Even so, the sterility of the abscess seemed to be a tremendous confirmation of the Gerson theory that the tumor was, at least in part, indeed dead, and was emptying itself out as liquid. Gerson himself was dancing with delight. We kept recalling the puncture Mount had made two months before, when the bump had been immovably rigid. What a change since then! Finally came the day when Mount announced that Johnny’s eyes were normal—with no papilledema at all—and that he considered the tumor to have been “arrested.”
My sister was with Johnny and me when he got this news that the eyes were normal. I never knew till this moment just how anguishing was the strain that he strove so hard to conceal. He jumped bolt
Johnny’s own comment after Putnam’s visit was revealing. “Of course operate. The bump is poisoning my nerves.” He went on: “The bump will open twice more.” And as it turned out he was dead right.
So I drove him to Neurological again for what we thought would be a stay of a day or two. He stayed five weeks.
The operation was scheduled for the afternoon. Early that morning the bump spontaneously opened of itself, as Gerson had stubbornly predicted it would, and Mount, summoned by Johnny himself who realized exactly what was happening, did the evacuation right in his room, because there was no time to move him. Mount called me at about eleven in the morning, his voice fairly choked with joy, saying that he had successfully drained an abscess that went five centimeters into the brain beyond the table of the skull, and had got out a full cup of pus and fluid.
Now Johnny recovered with great leaps. He regained his confidence about chess, studied hard, greeted friends, loafed, teased the nurses, yawned and stretched and laughed. He passed another exam, which was a real one and which had to be done in a stipulated time, although he was interrupted over and over. His temperature was taken and the wound had to be dressed once, the telephone kept ringing and scrub women cleaned up his room, while he was actually at work against time.
“My goodness, Father! How can anybody be expected to pass an exam under such circumstances!” His voice was testy, but also pleased.
He was massively bandaged and every few hours, under the most elaborate procedure, he had to have a penicillin drip as the pear-shaped sac in the brain slowly closed with healthy granulation tissue, but otherwise he was more comfortable than at any other period during his illness. That horrible, ferocious bump was altogether gone. It had disappeared. Mount had sucked it out completely. Johnny’s skull would be as smooth and normal as mine, except for the scars of the original incision which the hair would cover. Then next year—so we thought—when any further last remnants of the dead tumor had gone, we would put in a plate and all would be well forevermore.
Doctor after doctor came in to see Johnny, and expressed their free amazement. Miller, one of our old friends, told us that when he heard that Johnny was in hospital again, his first thought was of complete surprise that he was still living, second that he must be in a coma and had been brought in for final palliative measures. And there Johnny was, sitting up in bed stoutly and arguing about the possibility of ionizing lithium hydride!
Then, after some days, the pathologist’s report came in and we learned that the discharged matter showed no infection— the pus was sterile. The cultures showed n o growth at all. Of course sterile abscesses are not unknown by any means; the tumor might have been cut off from its blood supply and the resulting necrotic tissue would be sterile. Even so, the sterility of the abscess seemed to be a tremendous confirmation of the Gerson theory that the tumor was, at least in part, indeed dead, and was emptying itself out as liquid. Gerson himself was dancing with delight. We kept recalling the puncture Mount had made two months before, when the bump had been immovably rigid. What a change since then! Finally came the day when Mount announced that Johnny’s eyes were normal—with no papilledema at all—and that he considered the tumor to have been “arrested.”
My sister was with Johnny and me when he got this news that the eyes were normal. I never knew till this moment just how anguishing was the strain that he strove so hard to conceal. He jumped bolt
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