breath, the shape of the lips, the movement of the jaw, and tactile
vibrations of the voice box to synthesize an understanding of speech.
From time to time I encounter the Dowdys around our neighborhood,
and while I find their communication ability a marvel, it is their capacity
for transit that I find a miracle. I observe that short jaunts around our
local streets do not necessitate Leonard’s use of a blind person’s cane, so
comprehensive is his knowledge of every curb and obstacle. I follow them
one day to investigate the technique, and it’s like a mortal-combat three-
legged race of Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Coming to an intersection near
our houses, I see their united pause, with motionless hyperacuity, as a
1970s Thunderbird slops along. We are only a block from Rainbow
Boulevard, a city thoroughfare heaving with trucks and cars, and I wonder
how they perceive which cars are harmlessly traveling north and south,
and which vehicles are threateningly barreling east and west here on 41st
Street. When the coast is clear, with no vehicle in sight, the speed-walking
race commences, hand-in-hand in synchronized gait to the other side, feet
knowingly raised at the opposite curb. They silently slow to a gentle pace,
safely back on the crumbling sidewalk.
As my third year of medical school commences, my rotations bring me
to the Harry S. Truman Veterans Administration Hospital, and it’s been a
few months since I’ve seen the Dowdys. Now that my Psychiatry rotation
has brought me back to the University hospital, I am hopeful that I see
them soon.
On call tonight for ER admissions for Psych patients, my chief resident
and I are hastened downstairs for a patient who is suffering from a life-
threatening manic episode. She has been awake for three days, is hoarse
and out of her mind. I have cared for a few patients in the grip of mania,
but I am a bit frightened by this emaciated patient in a padded cell, free of
furniture and loose objects.
My face at the window of the room, I stare at a woman who is pacing in
a frenzy, gesticulating with a tiny nub of a cigarette. It’s not lit, but she
uses the prop as a pointing device, a baton, and as a writing instrument.
Ignoring me, but addressing an invisible throng, she gives an impassioned
plea about the meaning of the upside-down cross. She takes her minuscule
cigarette, flips it around, and uses the remaining ground-up tobacco
remnants and draws an inverted cross on the padded wall dozens of times,
marcin
(Marcin)
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