Crisis

Drysdale’s office was two floors above the pathology department. The walls were decorated with examples of schizophrenic art and a small print of Edvard Munch’s, The Scream. Drysdale, a sallow-skinned man with dark hair and heavy-rimmed spectacles, which made him look like an East European student, invited Bannerman to sit. ‘What can I do for you Ian?’ he asked.

‘I think I may need help,’ said Bannerman awkwardly.

Drysdale considered making some comment about ‘not thinking he would see the day’ but thought better of it, seeing the troubled look on Bannerman’s face. Tell me about it,’ he said.

Bannerman told him about his experience with the emergency section. ‘My hands were actually shaking,’ he said. ‘And then I had a nightmare about it last night.’

Drysdale nodded and said, Tell me.’

Bannerman related all that he could remember about the dream and then asked, ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

Drysdale made a sign with his hands that indicated resignation but not approval. ‘You should give it up,’ he said.

Bannerman ignored the comment.

‘What else should I know?’ asked Drysdale.

‘Sometimes I’m sick after doing post-mortems.’

Drysdale nodded. He had started making notes. ‘How old are you Ian?’

‘I’ll be thirty-eight next birthday.’

‘How do you feel about that?’

‘Rotten.’

‘Me too,’ said Drysdale. ‘I’ll be thirty-nine. Any other problems?’

‘Insomnia.’

‘You waken up at three in the morning and feel wide awake. You can’t get back to sleep for about an hour. This happens every second night on average?’

‘How did you know that?’

‘Sheer bloody brilliance,’ said Drysdale. ‘But apart from that, I recognized the symptoms. They’re textbook. It’s depression not insomnia.’

‘So you think I’m clinically depressed,’ said Bannerman.

‘A little,’ replied Drysdale, ‘but the main problem is stress.’

‘Stella thinks it’s a mid-life crisis,’ said Bannerman.

‘She’s right,’ said Drysdale, ‘but there’s another factor involved and I’m not quite sure what it is. I’ll have to have a think about it.’

‘What do I do about it in the meantime?’ asked Bannerman.

‘I can suggest pills but you know as well as I do they’ll just dull your senses so you won’t feel so stressed. That’s probably not such a good idea in our line of work. How about booze in the evening?’

‘I think I’ve used up that option,’ said Bannerman.

‘Me too,’ said Drysdale. ‘How about a break? A holiday might be just what you need.’

‘Stella suggested that. I’m considering going climbing in Scotland.’

‘In January!’ exclaimed Drysdale. ‘You’re sicker than I thought!’

To each his own, Doctor,’ said Bannerman with a smile. He got up to go.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,’ said Drysdale, ‘but keep in touch. I don’t think it’s anything serious and Stella’s probably right about it being fear of forty but if you should begin to feel worse give me a call, any time, day or night.’

Bannerman thanked Drysdale and promised to buy him a drink in the near future. He returned to the Pathology Department where Olive had left a package on his desk. It was marked ‘On Her Majesty’s Service’ and had come from the Medical Research Council by special delivery. He opened it and found three microscope slides and a covering letter. The letter was from the coordinator of the MRC’s Survey on Degenerative Brain Disease, Dr Hugh Milne. It asked if he would mind examining them and reporting his findings as quickly as possible. There was also a message to say that Stella had phoned; it was nothing important but he was to be reminded that he couldn’t call her back because she would be in theatre all afternoon.

Bannerman took the slides to his personal microscope and removed the dust cover. He clipped the first to the stage and adjusted the tungsten light before focusing on the stained section of the brain. There had been a marked lack of details with the package and no indication about the source of the material, save for the fact that they were brain sections. There was an air of anticipation about him as he scanned around to find the clearest fields. It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for — unequivocal evidence of degenerative disease.

It was so obvious that Bannerman was puzzled to the point of feeling mildly annoyed that he had been asked for his opinion on something so clear-cut. He had rarely seen spongioform areas so well marked. This was the kind of slide that could be used for illustrating text books. The second and third slides were almost identical to the first. ‘What on earth are they playing at?’ he muttered as he removed the last slide and turned off the lamp. He asked Olive to get him the MRC coordinator on the phone.

‘Dr Bannerman? Good of you to call,’ said Milne after a short wait. ‘I take it you received the slides?’

‘I’ve just had a look,’ said Bannerman.

‘What do you think?’

‘I think I’ve just looked at three perfectly prepared brain sections from the same patient. He or she would be in their mid to late seventies and has just died of Creutzfeld Jakob Disease.’

‘You’d be wrong,’ said the coordinator.

‘What?’ exclaimed Bannerman.

‘What would you say if I told you that each of the slides came from a different patient, all were under thirty and none had been ill for longer than three weeks?’

‘I’d say there had been a mix-up in the slides,’ said Bannerman.

‘We are assured that there has been no mix-up.’

‘I find that incredible,’ said Bannerman.

‘Suppose I was to add that the three dead patients worked with infected sheep?’

‘What?’ exclaimed Bannerman. ‘You’re not suggesting that they died of Scrapie by any chance?’

‘I wish I wasn’t. Can we meet to discuss this further?’

‘When?’ asked Bannerman.

‘I think it had better be as soon as possible,’ said the coordinator.

‘Why me?’ ventured Bannerman.

‘Your reputation, Doctor. Your work on degenerative brain disease is second to none and right now we need the best we’ve got. I’ll explain more when I see you. Would tomorrow at eleven be a possibility?’

Bannerman checked his diary before saying that it would.

‘Did you see about taking time off?’ asked Stella when Bannerman saw her later.

Bannerman brushed the question aside and told her about the call from the MRC. ‘I saw the slides Stella! They were classic Creutzfeld Jakob but Milne said they came from three men who had been working with Scrapie infected sheep!’

‘You mean the men died of Scrapie not Creutzfeld Jakob?’ exclaimed Stella.

‘That’s what Milne seemed to be saying.’

‘But that can’t happen surely? Scrapie is a disease of sheep. It can’t pass to man. There’s a what-do-you-call-it?’

‘A species barrier,’ said Bannerman. ‘Last year cows, this year people …’

‘What was that?’ asked Stella.

‘I was just thinking that last year Scrapie was shown to have passed from sheep to cows through the food chain

‘You’re not seriously suggesting that it could do the same to humans?’

‘Up until today I would have said that there was no chance of that at all,’ replied Bannerman.

‘Then what do you think is going on?’

‘My initial reaction is to think that some kind of mistake has been made, some kind of mix-up in the path lab,