Dinner with the President

“We had dinner at a restaurant,” Keith said. “Just me, the President, the First Lady, and Dr. Lee.”

Keith was my newest patient, and I needed to study his medical chart carefully.

He had acute respiratory distress, night fevers, and frequent complaints about his kidneys. Dr. Lee’s treatment had been little more than short-term symptom management, and that bothered me. Still, it wasn’t a serious problem. I was a professional, an experienced physician. I knew more than two thousand drug formulations, along with their brand names and the pharmaceutical companies that manufactured them. Every year I asked Bob to buy me the latest drug reference so I could keep up with newly released medications.

“All right, Keith. Unbutton your shirt.”

He took so long to respond that I had to repeat myself, louder this time.

“I’m sorry, Doc. I was still thinking about the President.”

“You’re always thinking about him. You’re always trying to tell me about him.”

Keith unbuttoned his shirt all the way.

“Keith, you don’t have to undo every button. Just the top two.”

“Oh… right. Sorry, Doc.”

Keith was always apologizing. Sorry for this, sorry for that. I had no idea what he thought he’d done wrong. But I was a professional. More often than not, simply listening to a patient’s complaints could speed up their recovery, however ridiculous or bizarre those complaints might seem.

“So,” I asked, suppressing a grin as I said the words the President, “what did you have for dinner with… our President?”

“You’re laughing, Doc.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“All right, Keith. I am. I’m sorry.”

“You’re always apologizing too, Doc.”

I finished listening to his heartbeat. Nothing unusual. The rhythm was steady, the beats striking my ears so forcefully through the stethoscope that they actually hurt.

“Now open your mouth as wide as you can.”

Keith opened it extraordinarily wide. A foul smell drifted out.

“Stick out your tongue and say, ‘Ahhh.'”

He did as I instructed. I shone my penlight into his mouth—the stench nearly made me gag. One upper molar and two lower molars were badly decayed. His tongue looked pale and shriveled.

I paused to think. Typhoid, perhaps. But my mind kept drifting toward one of those strange diseases that had been appearing lately—something like COVID-19, bird flu, or anthrax.

Keith mumbled something unintelligible and pointed into his mouth.

“Just a moment, Keith. I’m thinking.”

He nodded.

Diagnosing an illness and deciding on the proper medication was no simple task. It required precision and patience. He should have understood that.

“All right. You can close your mouth now.”

“Thank you, Doc. What’s wrong with me?”

“I don’t know yet. Now lie down.”

I pressed the left side of his abdomen.

“Does it hurt here?”

“No, Doc. That part feels fine.”

My hand moved to the center of his abdomen. I pressed gently at first, then a little higher, this time applying more pressure.

“Y-yes… that really hurts, Doc.”

I returned to my desk and thought for a moment.

Lab tests? I didn’t think so.

A vaccine? Unnecessary.

I wrote him a prescription, including the medications Dr. Lee had already prescribed, along with vitamins and an appetite stimulant. Good Lord, Keith—you looked painfully thin.

“Come here.”

Keith hopped off the examination table like a little boy.

“What is it, Doc? Am I all right?”

“Sit down.”

I was a Harvard-trained cardiologist, yet ever since I set foot in this hospital, I’d been expected to do everything. And by hospital, I mean Chicago’s finest—with facilities that were anything but. It was Christmas Eve. Every other doctor was celebrating with family. Everyone except me, of course, faithfully tending to my patients—and to my two junior residents in the emergency room. In another hour I would be performing an appendectomy. After that, I had rounds in the tuberculosis ward. And somehow, in every case, I ended up playing psychiatrist.

“What are you writing, Doc?”

“Your prescription.”

“I’m not getting an injection?”

“No. There’s nothing to inject. Could you keep quiet for a moment? You wouldn’t want me to write the wrong prescription, would you?”

“I’m sorry, Doc.”

“You still haven’t told me about your dinner with the President.”

“Well, Doc, the President ordered for me. He asked if I liked steak. I told him I loved steak. You know me, Doc. I like all kinds of food.”

“So what did you have?”

“Tuna steak.”

“You ate tuna steak?”

“The President had tuna steak too. It was delicious, Doc. You should try it.”

“The President doesn’t eat steak. He’s a vegetarian, just like I am.”

“No, Doc. The President ate tuna steak. He said it was the best tuna steak in Chicago. I loved the sauce. So did the President.”

“You’re mistaken, Keith. The President doesn’t eat meat. Neither does his wife or their three children. He has raised his family to live a healthy lifestyle. You know, meat is full of parasites. Parasites are the source of disease. I learned that at Harvard.”

“But fish isn’t meat, Doc. The President ate tuna steak. He finished the whole thing and almost ordered another one before he realized all the reporters were watching him.”

“Aha! Clever, Keith. But not clever enough. Do you have any proof that the President ate steak? You said there were reporters there. Can you show me the news story?”

“No, Doc. I don’t have the newspaper.”

“So you admit that I’m right and you’re wrong.”

“You’re right, Doc. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

“You’re always apologizing, Keith.”

I tore the prescription from my pad and handed it to Keith. He stared at it for what felt like forever.

“You don’t need to study it. Just give it to the pharmacist and pick up your medicine.”

“All right, Doc.”

Keith walked toward the door, then paused at the threshold. He said something I didn’t really need to hear.

“Thank you, Doc.”

“I hope you feel better soon.”

“Thank you, Doc.”

Keith really was a remarkable patient. Whenever I treated someone like him, I always played along with their fantasies. But agreeing that the President had eaten steak? That was impossible. I knew my childhood friend far too well. Keith’s obsession with meeting the President was probably what had made him ill in the first place. Hmm… I should probably note that in his medical chart.

I stood and looked at myself in the mirror, admiring my reflection in the white coat that fit so tightly it chafed my underarms. I should have been wearing Dr. Allan’s coat. He was about my size.

Dr. Lee came in with Bob while I was straightening my desk. I liked Dr. Lee. She was an intelligent woman, though I had to admit she wasn’t quite as good as I was at diagnosing illnesses or prescribing treatment.

“So, was Keith your last patient, Joe?” she asked.

“I still have a surgery and a few ward rounds to do, Doc.”

“Keeping busy, aren’t you?”

“That’s how it goes. Oh, and I gave Keith the best prescription possible. He should be well again in a few days.”

“You’re remarkable, Joe. Now, may I have my coat back?”

“Of course, Doc.”

I struggled out of the coat and handed it to her.

“May I ask you something?”

“Certainly.”

“Is it true the President likes tuna steak?”

“The President loves tuna steak, Joe. How did you know? Ah… Keith must have told you. Bob?”

I watched Bob hand a newspaper to Dr. Lee, who opened it to the front page and showed it to me. There was a photograph of Dr. Lee, Keith, the President, the First Lady, and Bob standing beside them.

I asked for the paper. Bob handed it to me. Unfortunately, I couldn’t read a single word. But if you could, this is what the headline said:

PRESIDENT DONATES US$200,000 TO CHICAGO PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL

“You were the one who was supposed to have dinner with the President, Joe. But that night you kept kicking the bed and hurting yourself. Bob had to restrain you. You remember, don’t you?”

“I remember, Doc. I’m sorry.”

“Now go back to your room. Bob will take you.”

“Okay, Doc.”

Bob gently took my arm—much more gently than he usually did. I was just about to leave when I remembered something.

“Dr. Lee?”

“Yes, Joe?” She smiled like an angel.

“Thank you for getting rid of the demons in my room.”

“You’re welcome, Joe.”

I looked at Dr. Lee one last time that night. I liked the number 89 on my shirt. Dr. Lee had told me the demons would never come back as long as that 89 stayed pinned to it.