The Letters of Franklin K. Lane, Personal and PoliticalLane, Franklin K.
History
The Letters of Franklin K. Lane, Personal and Political
Lane, Franklin K.
United States -- Politics and government -- 1913-1921; World War, 1914-1918 -- United States
Dr. Mayo told me to come over at two o'clock and register. ... I
stood in line and was duly registered, telling name, and other
such facts, non-medical. Then a special guide took me to Dr. Mayo,
who had already heard my story at the hotel but who, wished it in
writing. Accordingly, I was presented to a group of the staff and
one man assigned as my escort. I answered him a thousand
questions, touching my physical life for fifty-six years. Then to
the tonsil man, who saw a distinct "focus," now there, a focus in
the tonsils! Nose and ears without focus or focii or focuses. Down
an elevator, through a labyrinth of halls, down an inclined plane,
up a flight of steps, two turns to the left and then a group of
the grumpiest girls I ever saw or heard or felt. They were good
looking, too, but they didn't care to win favor with mere males.
They had a higher purpose, no doubt. They openly sneered at my
doctor escort. They lifted their eyebrows at my good-looking young
son, and they told me precisely where to sit down. I was not
spoken to further. My ear was punched and blood was taken in tubes
and on slides by young ladies who did not care how much of my
blood they spilled or extracted. They were so business-like, so
mechanical, so dehumanized, these young ladies with microscopes!
One said cryptically "57," another said "53." I was full of
curiosity but I did not ask a question. They tapped me as if I
were a spring--a fountain filled with blood--and gave me neither
information, gaiety or entertainment in exchange. Each one I am
convinced has by this life of near-crime, which she pursues for a
living, become capable of actual murder.
Thus has my first day gone. It is cold here--slushy underfoot,
snow dirty, sky dark. How different from a place we know!
There are one hundred and fifty physicians and surgeons in the
clinic, and Heaven knows how many hundred employees. No hospitals
are owned and run by the Mayos; all these are private, outside
affairs. The side tracks are filled with private cars of the
wealthy. Scores of residences, large, small, fine, and shabby are
little hospitals. The town has grown 5,000 in five years, all on
account of the Mayos, these two sons of a great country doctor who
without a college education have gathered the world's talent to
them.
I am tomorrow to be medically examined further, to the revealing
of my terrible past, my perturbed present, and pacific future. The
result of which necromancy I shall duly report. I am afraid that
they will not find that an operation will do good, if so I shall
truly despair. And if they decide for the knife, I shall go to the
guillotine like the gayest Marquis of the ancient regime. Yes, I
should do better for I have my chance, and he, poor chap, had
none.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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