I called my mother and told her that, as a surprise for her, I had finished my exams early so I could come home and have a longer vacation. I packed my clothes and, without thinking, gathered up my books. Arthur, quite distressed, accompanied me to Grand Central Station, which was then the terminus of the New York Central Railroad line that connected with Buffalo.
In my leaden gut, I knew I had crossed some sort of awful Rubicon. I had walked out in the middle of an important Columbia University final exam. No one does that! Not even, I imagined, Allen Ginsberg, howling at Moloch. He was expelled from Columbia twice—but not, I think, for walking out of final exams. An irredeemable transgression…and I had done it.
7
“Son, You Are Going
to Be Blind Tomorrow”
The long, strange train ride I describe at the front of this book ensued, each mile taking me further from myself, further into a country I did not recognize, a place I had never sought.
And, yet, I was in fact going home. When I arrived at the Buffalo station, Sue was there, waiting to pick me up. I don’t remember what we said. In a few minutes, we arrived at my house.
My mother came to the door and gave me a big hug. Before I could remove my coat, my sisters Brenda and Ruth, then six and fourteen years old, attacked me. Brenda jumped into my arms; Ruth gave me a bear hug. Even Joel got in on the action, running down the stairs to welcome me with a big embrace. Brenda had been in the middle of a piano lesson, while Ruth and Joel had happily interrupted doing their homework. On previous visits, I would scoop Brenda into my arms, open my suitcase, and place her in it, the others laughing uproariously. Not this time.
After the hugs, I was able, largely from memory, to place my luggage out of the way by the door and hang up my coat. Entering the kitchen, I quickly sat down, and my mother placed a glass of milk in front of me. When I reached for it, my hand went wide and missed. Her voice tight, she expressed concern, and I could no longer maintain the pretense. It was simply too tiring. I told her everything that had happened and said that we needed to see Dr. Mortson again as soon as possible.
Dr. Mortson was considered the best in Buffalo, so back to him we went. He had a temperate nature and spoke in an even, reassuring voice. All along he had told me to “muddle through” and continue with the corticosteroid drops. It was finally becoming clear to both of us that his therapy had been gradually poisoning my eyes. Now he decided to consult with other specialists.
As a result, I was admitted to Meyer Memorial Hospital in Buffalo, where I stayed until a different kind of doctor was sent to my room. A psychiatrist. Even in my vulnerable state, I knew this was an act of desperation by Dr. Mortson. I more or less threw the psychiatrist out of my room and left the hospital.
After further urging, Dr. Mortson consulted with a Dr. Walter King, who then examined me. It was from him that my family and I first heard my condition diagnosed as “glaucoma.” We soon learned a great deal about this insidious disease, often stealthy at its onset, that causes abnormally high pressure within the eyeball. That pressure, if not properly diagnosed and treated, may lead to damage of the optic nerve.
The dangerous extent of my glaucoma was most likely caused by the very eye drops Dr. Mortson had been prescribing—corticosteroids, directly to my eyes. Corticosteroids are widely and properly used as anti-inflammatories to treat a variety of disorders, such as dermatitis, arthritis, asthma, and allergies. In people with a “predisposition,” however, application of corticosteroids to the eyes may lead to glaucoma. At the very least, when corticosteroids are administered topically to the eyes, the pressure inside the eyeball should be closely monitored and the lenses examined periodically for cataracts. All this was common knowledge at the time. Yet Dr. Mortson did neither.
As a result, I now had a new and far more serious problem. I was told that, given the advanced state of my glaucoma, I had a choice of only three locations for evaluation and treatment: Boston, San Francisco, and Detroit. As the only recommended surgeon available soon was Dr. Sol Sugar, at Detroit Sinai Hospital, we arranged to see him at the earliest opportunity.
Unfortunately, my father Carl’s junk business had slipped into decline, and despite my mother’s remarks to the contrary, I knew that the possibility of a return to penury loomed. Moreover, my health insurance through the family’s plan had expired once I turned nineteen. There was no choice but to proceed anyway.
Since the November election, I had eagerly anticipated traveling to Washington for the JFK inaugural events, but I now realized that was not going to happen, any more than I would be returning to Columbia on time to start my next semester—if I was even allowed to after skipping out on exams. In only a few short weeks, my world
