Second, I was being painted as a devil in the media, and that reflected poorly on the entire profession. It was the “one bad apple” syndrome. Because of that, an endless stream of editorials appeared in newspapers and magazines about how the medical profession was out of control and about how the ethics and morals of all physicians must be called into question. More than one congressman suggested that something be done if the profession couldn’t police itself. The state medical board really had no choice. They would only be able to salvage their reputations by destroying one of their own.
The board met in Russet Chamber, an oak-paneled room on the top floor of the oldest building on the medical school’s campus. It was named after Dr. Bernard Russet, the founder of the school, and it had first served as his office almost a hundred years ago. It was a marvelously large rectangular room, probably more than two thousand square feet, all carpeted in a maroon flower pattern. Above, the ceiling was paneled in dark wood as well, and three massive, brooding chandeliers hung low. A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf with a sliding ladder masked the entire far wall. In front of it, on a platform, was an enormous oblong table behind which the seven members of the board sat as I entered the room. Set back from their table was a much smaller and lower table and chair for me.
“Come in, Sidney,” said Werber Sinclair, a thoracic surgeon and chairman of the all-male board, in a voice as deep and cold as an Arctic wind. He stood up from where he sat at the center of the table, raising his bloated walruslike frame, and motioned me in. He was the board’s daunting and commanding focus and the reason I was there. Sadly, Sinclair used to be a friend.
“Good morning,” I said, probably giving away with those two words exactly how tired I was. Tired wasn’t even the word. Exhausted. Consumed. Drained. To top it off, I’d contracted a nasty cold and my eyes were red and runny. I was ready to give up. That’s why I showed up today. I didn’t have to. I could have stayed away. But they would have ruled on me anyway. And in absence I was really doomed. If only I didn’t care. That’s the problem. I cared intensely. Having my license revoked was about the worst thing I could imagine. Everything I’d worked for would be lost. It was not an exaggeration to say it was a punishment worse than death, but I almost didn’t care. So I agreed to the meeting, but on my terms. It would have to be late at night and kept strictly secret. I didn’t want a circus.
Six other physicians, all of whom I knew, joined Sinclair. They fanned out from him in groups of three and looked upon me, some sternly, others with sympathetic expressions.
“This has been a long time coming, Sidney,” said Sinclair. “I wish you hadn’t avoided us. It would have been much easier. Now things have progressed far beyond what they might have.”
“That’s right,” said Ted Schotter, an OB/GYN and a rather moderate voice on the board who sat on the far right. “I honest to God wish you had come to us, Sidney. This makes it awfully hard on us. Do you think we want to do this? It makes me sick to be here.”
“I’d rather not be here as well,” I said, trying to sound conciliatory.
“That’s all water under the bridge now,” said Sinclair. “Let’s get on with it. I hereby call this meeting of the state medical board to order. Is there a move to dispense with other business and move directly to the matter before us?”
“So moved,” said Peter Cogan, the surgeon directly to Sinclair’s left. Cogan was widely known as the chairman in waiting. He was little more than a yes man to Sinclair, but everyone knew he would shake things up once he had his own term. Until then, though, he was content to let Sinclair run the show.
“All in favor?” asked Sinclair.
Everyone said “Aye” at the same time.
“All right then,” said Sinclair, who cleared his throat and opened a folder in front of him. “We’d like to keep this as orderly as possible. And we don’t have any intention of dragging this out. We’ll start with a brief statement from the board that will outline our position. We’ll give you an opportunity to respond, and we’ll have some questions. Then, depending on how the board is disposed, we may take action. Do you have any objections or questions?”
“No,” I said, holding myself back from being sarcastic. I could hear the train whistle already.
“Very well,” said Sinclair. “I’ll start with this statement. The state medical board has chosen to enter into official inquiry into actions taken by Sidney Bernstein, M.D., arising out of his undertaking a surgical procedure that has not been approved or sanctioned by any federal or state medical governing body. The procedure, publicly admitted to by Dr. Bernstein, involved the transplantation of a brain. This procedure has not undergone standard, necessary, and natural testing. The procedure was conducted in private, without any overseeing authority, without proper scheduling. In addition, Dr. Bernstein apparently attempted to keep the procedure a secret and, in so doing, may have modified certain medical records and enlisted the aid of certain innocent third parties to assist him in his secret activity. Furthermore, the mental stability of Dr. Bernstein must be called into question. A medical procedure of such importance should not be performed in a vacuum. And some question whether it should be conducted at all, especially in light of any dubious improvement in quality of life or longevity. This board, as authorized and enabled by the state, demands access to all records surrounding the surgery, including the names of all physicians participating in the procedure. As a result of this matter, the state medical board shall consider revoking Dr. Bernstein’s medical and surgical licenses for a period of time to be determined.”
Sinclair looked at me with a rather satisfied look. “That’s it,” he said. “I told you it was brief. This seems rather cut and dried. It’s not as if we are in a position to investigate anything. It’s all a matter of public record at this point. You may now respond.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I haven’t prepared any written remarks. I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect here today, but I had a pretty good idea. I’m not going to try to defend myself. I don’t dispute the facts. But I don’t think I’ve done anything that needs defending against. And I won’t give you the names of any people who might have helped me. What I’ve done is nothing more than what has been going on for thousands of years. Man’s attempt to understand and heal the human body predates any governing bodies or licensing boards. More to the point, I challenge the authority of this board. I don’t recognize your authority over me. You have no powers of enforcement. I know that the public platform upon which you make your pronouncements carries significant weight. You could very well succeed in publicly humiliating me and, in effect, destroying my practice and career. Other countries will embrace my research, though I have no wish to leave. But I’ve found a certain peace with that now. And let’s be clear. Nothing you can do will take away from this historic accomplishment. Howard Lavery lives. He thinks. He reasons. He communicates. He’s able to both receive and give love. His quality of life is significantly improved over what it was prior to the transplant. And his prognosis is the same or perhaps even better than patients who have suffered a severe stroke or spinal injury. He’s far more than just one of thousands of paraplegics in the nation. He’s an inspiration. And he can move his arm. By any measure, this is the most important advance in modern medical science in our lifetime. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Instead of punishing me you should be attaching yourself to this bandwagon and leading the way.”
“That’s a very nice speech,” said Sinclair. “But I am not swayed. Are any of you?” he asked, looking to his right and left. “Rules are rules, Sidney. Without them we would have chaos. We can’t have renegade surgeons running off and conducting hideous experiments on their own without anyone knowing.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? That’s a ridiculous question. Because it goes against everything we stand for. And because the public just won’t stand for it. Are you going to sit there and say that anything goes, no matter what?”
“No,” I said. “If you
had someone out there attaching animal limbs to a human, then I could understand your rancor. Human cloning should be prohibited as well, especially if it’s for the purpose of organ harvesting. Human experiments with drugs and serums might fall into that category as well. But not in this case. I’ve harmed no one. I haven’t violated the Hippocratic oath. As I see it, your statement does nothing but reveal your underlying jealousy and public ass-kissing.”
Sinclair didn’t like that. His eyes grew wide and he trembled. “I see no reason for personal insults!”
“How do you think I feel?” I said, laying it all out, not minding anymore what I said or how I came across. “This meeting is insulting to me.”
“Wait a minute,” said Schotter. “I’m sure we can conduct ourselves in a manner that will leave personal feelings aside. We’re all reasonable men. We can get through this. Now, if I can ask a question?”
“Go ahead,” said Sinclair with a dismissive wave.
“Sidney, I wish you could see things from our perspective,” said Schotter. “I wish we had a way out of this. I really do. I think I speak for a lot of us when I say that we admire what you’ve done. It’s miraculous, really. I remember when I heard about it and saw you on television. I was floored. I envy you. I respect you a hell of a lot, Sidney. You know that. Honestly, what are we to do? There’s already a bill being drafted in Washington to address things. We have to do something. Surely you can agree with that.”
“Yes,” I said. “I do agree with that. You definitely should do something. You should embrace my work. That’s what you should do. You should find a symbolic way to take me into your arms and make me one of your own. If you try to stand in the way of this you will be seen as trying to prevent the natural march of medical advances. Face it: It’s happened and we can’t pretend it didn’t. I’ve transplanted a brain. A healthy, functioning brain.”
Then I turned my attention to the one person on the board I thought I could reach. Hank Knutson, a ruddy-faced ear, nose, and throat physician and a longtime friend and fraternity brother. We’d gone through medical school together. We had everything in common.
“Hank,” I said to him, and I saw him flinch. He had probably expected me to talk directly to him.
“Hi, Sidney,” he said, sounding almost as tired as me. “How have you been?”
I smiled. “About as good as can be expected, I guess. All things considered. But can I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” he said.
“Why do you want to put me down when you and everyone else in this room know that, eventually, what I’ve done will forever be remembered, will mark a turning point in all our careers, and will be rewarded? What will the world say about a licensing body that censures someone likely to win medical prizes? How will you be judged? You’ll be seen as reactionaries. You’ll have eroded any public and moral authority that you’ve accumulated.”
“I don’t doubt it, Sidney,” said Knutson. “One day, brain transplants may be an everyday occurrence. We’ll live for hundreds of years. But that’s not today. You might be ahead of your time, Sidney. You always have been. I’ve never hoped to keep up with you. And I kind of expected something like this from you. But we have to act. There’s very little choice. I wish there was a way out. And face it, Sidney, it’s not like you’ve been available. We’ve tried numerous times to get you here. You’ve ignored our calls. And now, out of the blue, you contact us and set a time and demand absolute secrecy. Your actions don’t exactly breed trust. Me? I can handle it. I’ve known you too long. But the others? You haven’t shown them anything.”
I looked at Sinclair and asked, “Do you consider this a trial?”
“Of sorts,” he said.
“Then I’d like to enter some evidence.”
“Whatever,” he said.
That’s when I stood up and started the long walk toward the back of the room and out the door. “Please follow me, gentlemen.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” roared Sinclair, banging his gavel. “This meeting is not over. Bernstein? Bernstein!”
“You’ve consented to an exhibit,” I said. “But I can’t bring it here. I’m prepared to bring you to the evidence.”
A small air-conditioned bus was waiting outside Russet Hall to transport the board.
“What kind of prank is this?” asked Sinclair. “I’m warning you.”
“Save the warnings,” I said as they boarded the bus and we started off. I was taking the board to see Howard in person. Of course, it wasn’t my idea.
Catherine and Neil were waiting for us when we arrived. They ushered the board into Howard’s room, where he was alert and ready.
The board was quiet in a reverential way, and they took small steps toward him.
“This is Howard Lavery,” I said. “And this is his wife Catherine and son Neil. Tomorrow we’ll be taking him home. It’s been a long recovery. To be honest, we’ve been in hiding. Away from the public. Away from the media. Away from you. And as you can see, he’s alive. Hank, you get the first question.”
Every member of the board was staring at him in obvious amazement. Even Sinclair. It was a pleasure to catch them speechless. I suddenly didn’t feel so tired anymore.
“Question?” said Knutson. “What do you mean a question? From me? To the patient?”
“His name is Howard,” I said. “It was his idea for you to come here this evening. And yes, a question for him.”
“I wouldn’t know what to ask.”
“What do you usually ask your patients?” I said, helping him along.
“I ask them how they’re feeling.”
“I feel fine,” said Howard. Several of the board members gasped.
“Say hello,” said Knutson.
“Hello,” answered Howard. “Polly want a cracker?”
Catherine and Neil chuckled.
Knutson scratched the back of his neck and said, “Can we get you anything?”
“No, but thanks for asking,” said Howard. “Going home is the best medicine.”
“Show them how you move your arm, Howard,” I said, then added to the physicians, “Watch carefully.”
They all moved in closer as Howard said, “No problem,” and successfully wiggled his arm. His hand moved a little, too.
“He can’t do much else with his arm,” I said. “But he has feeling from the shoulder all the way down. It’s a localized improvement. He also has some sensation in his eyes, but it’s nothing that will bring sight. Something akin to reanastamosis, but it falls far short of that. He can’t open his eyelids. But he can detect light. Let me show you.”
I held up a flashlight and said, “Howard, let me know when you think I’m shining a light in your eyes.” But I didn’t do it. And he was silent. After a long while I finally turned the beam on his face and Howard said, “That’s it.”
By now, the members of the board were fully aware of the magnitude of what I’d accomplished. They were inspecting Howard and the technology surrounding him. I heard one of them say, “Amazing.”
This is exactly what Howard had intended. He was sure that once they saw him in person they would be swayed from taking action against me. He called it “deflection.” He said to me, “Get them thinking of me instead of you. That’s the only way.” He was almost right.
I and just about everyone else was startled when Sinclair’s voice suddenly throttled out. “Making a mockery of this body will not help you, Dr. Bernstein. This proves nothing. How do we know that this person is your brain transplant patient? It could be an elaborate trick. He could be an actor you’ve hired. How do we know there’s not someone behind that wall operating that computer voice?”
I said, “I welcome you to come closer and—”
“I can see just fine from here,” said Sinclair. “But none of that matters. All we can concern ourselves with at this moment is your transgression. We’ll be leaving immediately.”
* * * *
The state medical board, by a vot
e of four to three, suspended my license and stripped me of everything I had ever worked for. Everything I represented. Everything for which I yearned. They took it all away.
Howard’s response to the news was to call the board an unflattering name and say to me, “Don’t worry. You’re still my doctor. Don’t you owe me a bill?”
26: Howard Lavery
It was a long journey, but now I am home.
Only a few days ago it seemed I would never find my way back. They had safely hidden me away in a warehouse. And another one was on deck. Besides, going home was fraught with uncertainty. Dr. Bernstein and my wife were worried about protecting me. But from what? From people? From the media? They were wrong. What I had in mind was a full-blown television interview. Cameras in the room. Famous reporter by my bed. I’d entertain any question. My quiet body and computer voice might not make for very compelling TV, but it would, in a single blast, stop this game of hide-and-seek. It would be the beginning of the end. Most important, it would focus the story more on me and less on Dr. Bernstein. Dave Hueger’s article seemed to help, but only to a point.
Unfortunately, the doctor was growing progressively fractured. He was always on his best behavior when he was with me, generally courteous and gentle. He spoke in low tones and was comforting in my presence. While his world was swirling around him, I remained its calm center. My room was the one place he could find sanctuary, as if I were a strong sedative. He was with me often, lingering in my room, talking with me, checking me, conducting tests. Sometimes I think he sat in the room without saying anything, just content to be near me.
But outside my influence he was unpredictable, as I learned from Catherine. While running about in the real world Dr. Bernstein was caustic and gloomy. He lashed out at those around him and seemed to be descending into something from which it would be impossible for him to extricate himself. He was losing everything that had brought meaning to his life.
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