The View from the Vue Read Online Free

medical school. We had a series of weekly lecture-demonstrations at which the professors would describe the manifestations of the different psychiatric diseases, and would then interview illustrative cases before us. It looked very easy.
    The doctor sat in a chair opposite the patient, a picture of calm assurance, asking question after question, and appearing not in the least disturbed when the patient gave a seemingly inappropriate answer. When that happened, the professor usually picked up on something the patient had said and quickly changed the direction of his inquiry, but he was never at a loss for something to say. He maintained, at all time, an attitude that bespoke thorough command of the situation; he was totally unflappable. I thought that psych was going to be a breeze.
    When the third year came around, I was assigned to spend six weeks on the psychiatry service. I was in a group of eight medical students assigned to Dr. Samuel Rothstein. Dr. Rothstein was a large, handsome man in his mid-forties whose eyes exuded kindness and understanding. On the first morning, he took us to the ward, selected a patient, and began to talk with him. The patient was a hopeless schizophrenic and, in response to Dr. Rothstein’s quiet but firm probing, told us all about the astonishing collection of disembodied voices and peculiar creatures which lived within the distorted confines of his mind. The performance sent shivers along the vertebral columns of the uninitiated, but there seemed to be no reason for trepidation or anxiety. It still looked very easy.
    After Dr. Rothstein had dismissed the patient, he answered our questions. Then he told us he thought we were ready to try a psychiatric interview on our own. He handed each of us apiece of paper. Mine bore the name Robert Jackson. Dr. Rothstein told us that after we had interviewed and examined our patients, he’d discuss their problems with us. Buoyed by eagerness and enthusiasm, I went off in search of Mr. Jackson.
    The ward nurse told me that Mr. Jackson usually hung out “over there.” She pointed to the end of a long corridor. I thanked her and strutted away, chin high.
    As I made my way along the corridor, I began to notice the figures alongside me. They were men of all ages, sizes, and shapes; all in the same general state of disrepair. Some were sitting or lying motionless; others rocked to and fro; and still others paced. A middle-aged man, wearing a hospital bathrobe and badly in need of a shave, came forward and clutched at my spotless white coat. As he did, I pulled away by reflex.
    Suddenly I realized I was all by myself, and that I was not only going to have to interview one of these patients, but also perform a physical examination. All my confidence emulsified and floated out the nearest window, between the bars. My pace slowed perceptibly, and I almost tripped over an old man who was stretched out across the hallway.
    I had no sooner recovered myself than he grabbed my pants leg and wouldn’t let go. After I had pulled away, I went on past another fellow who was masturbating onto the immobile, staring schizophrenic next to him; and then I passed a codger who was holding his little paper bag of personal belongings in his left hand, while he used his right hand to direct his stream of urine against the wall. By the time I reached the end of the hallway, I was shaking. I saw a young man sitting there, staring out the window. In a voice about two octaves higher than my usual, I asked, “Mr. Jackson?”
    Mr. Jackson turned very slowly, and then took about thirty seconds to glare at me. He was about twenty-five years old, and he had long, straight black hair, and the most angry, hating, hostile eyes I have ever seen. Going up another octave, I explained that I was Dr. Karp, and that I had come to interview him.
    Silently he motioned me to sit down in the chair next to him. I thanked him, sat down, and gave my folder of papers a professional shuffle.
    My mind was