(Below are two vignettes written by Ron which all the men patients
will remember. I wonder if the women patients got "The Talk"? Chuck Felton)
THE TALK
1953: Several days after I'd been admitted to Cresson I, along with
a dozen other newcomers, were taken by wheelchair to the solarium, a bright room with many windows. A row of leather-cushioned
chairs with chrome handles faced a bank of elevators. Orderlies and nurses parked our chairs in an arc in the center
of which sat a large black leather chair, a piece of furniture whose appearance declared its importance above all others.
After a few minutes a heavy set man, wearing a wrinkled suit, lumbered in and introduced himself as Dr. Trechsler. It
was some time before I could take my eyes off his enormous bulbous nose. In appearance, at least, he reminded me of
W.C.Fields.
After introducing himself he removed a battered paperback book from his pocket, written by someone
named Boogie or Bugie, on the theories of tuberculosis. After he'd finished reading he then recited the sanatorium rules
which he must have done hundreds of times. When he finished his recitation he sighed and settled heavily into his chair.
Having collected his thoughts he leaned forward again as if he were about to impart a state secret to his troops.
"Now you men have got to do everything you can to preserve your strength." His gaze swept
across our faces as we anxiously awaited his next pronouncement. He seemed to be sending a signal to my older companions,
avoiding my gaze as if what he was about to say wasn't quite right for my tender 17-year-old ears.
"You will of course feel randy from time to time, as your health improves. But you must
practice self-restraint," he said, weilding a manilla folder. Trechsler cleared his throat and dropped his voice a bit.
"I must advise you to sleep with your hands above the blankets at all times. The reason for this, in case you weren't
aware of it, is that during self-abuse the average man expends an amount of energy equivalent to that required to walk nine
miles at a normal pace.
Trechsler paused, giving us time to absord his message. I wondered how he knew this.
He hadn't cited any medical study. Maybe it was in Boogie, or Bugie. Had he somehow managed to measure the amount
of energy expended whenever he himself indulged in self-abuse? He certainly didn't appear to be the sort of person who
had ever walked nine miles in his entire life.
On that note of intimacy he completed his talk and asked for questions. There being none,
he rose from his chair with some effort and left the solarium looking almost dejected.
The men seated around me had no doubt been too busy trying to absorb Trechsler's last bit of
information to think of any questions. Those seated nearest me gave one another knowing glances and smiles. This
brief period of levity was interrupted by the squeaks caused by crepe-soled shoes sliding along a highly polished linoleum
floor. A phalanx of orderlies and nurses entered the solarium, sought out their individual charges and wheeled us back
to our beds.
TAKE YOUR MEDICINE
Twice a week a muscular nurse with close-cropped gray hair appeared in ward V-W, pushing before
her a stainless steel cart. She'd stand in the doorway for a moment, allowing us to take in the breath of her figure.
With carefully gloved hands she'd reach into a tray atop the cart and remove a syringe, holding it aloft for all to see.
Then she'd give the plunger a good push and from where I lay I could see drops of fluid arc through the sunlight.
"All right, boys," she would shout, "Get 'em off!"
Sixteen men of all ages, some with very red faces, rolled over onto their stomachs and lowered
their pajama bottoms. Not to worry if they weren't low enough, Mrs. Mix would yank them down to get a better fix on
her meaty targets.
Pop! Pop! Pop! She marched up and down the aisle, proficiently injecting us with streptomyacin,
one butt after another, barely pausing to catch her breath. She must have done all sixteen men in two to three minutes.
"Thank you, gentlemen," she'd say when she'd finished her task.
She then rolled her tumbril into the next ward where another group of trembling victims awaited
her. After she'd gone we sheepishly turned over on our backs and quickly hauled up our pajama bottoms. Inevitably,
there was a scramble for the locker room and a long-awaited smoke.
Now and then little beads of blood would form on someone's buttocks and as he strolled away we
could see the small stains on his pajamas.
