My intern, Malcolm Prince, wrote: “Kaminski was smart enough, but he had to be motivated to work, and he had a difficult time with interpersonal relationships. ” The neurosurgeon, Dr. Dick Young, wrote: “Peter Kaminski impressed me with outstanding clinical abilities, but even more so, with a sincere and dedicated approach to his work. ” Dr. Brown asked me if I could appreciate his dilemma. He had to sign my evaluation and give me a final grade, but it was difficult for him to do so because of the conflicting reports.
He admitted he reviewed Dr. Marvin’s evaluation from Broadview and conceded Dr. Marvin’s remarks were impressive. He also admitted he had received a number of letters from parents who were pleased with my care of their children. One such letter from Carol March was “especially touching,” according to Brown. From the way Brown was handling the interview, I didn’t believe my evaluation was causing the kind of consternation he claimed. What Brown really seemed to be after was some input about his interns and residents from a student who came highly recommended by other members of the Peeds faculty.
Brown tipped his hand when he asked me why I thought Drs. Petrie and Prince made derogatory remarks about me. I told Brown Dr. Petrie was correct, and I didn’t always play ball with the rest of the team, especially when the rest of the team was Lynn Petrie and Malcolm Prince. I explained that Lynn was a Super Broad whose intelligence was limited by the length of a differential diagnosis. I told Brown that Lynn Petrie’s evaluations might be worth reading if she ever learned to treat her patients like kids instead of diseases, and other physicians like people instead of window dressing, On the subject of Malcolm Prince, I gave Brown almost everything he wanted to hear.
Resisting the urge to tell him Malcolm was cashing in on his uncle’s name, I simply told Brown that Malcolm was woefully out of his depth as an intern at Keystone. I also told Brown that, to Malcolm, being “motivated to work” meant the same as “blindly following. ” Brown seemed surprised when I told him Malcolm was right about my having trouble relating to at least one person during the Peeds rotation and snickered when I told him that person was Malcolm. He stopped snickering when I then told him the story of Kenny March, and how Malcolm didn’t want me to leave rounds to be with Carol March when she saw Kenny on a respirator in the 1.
C. U. for the first time. When I told Brown I slammed Malcolm against the wall in a vacant room, he looked directly me and said, “No kidding. ” It was obvious from Brown’s reaction he also had trouble with at least one interpersonal relationship in the Pediatrics Department at Keystone, and that relationship was with Malcolm Prince. After I shot my wad and provided Brown with all the ammunition he was looking for, he told me my evaluation would be taken under advisement and I would be hearing from him in the near future.
In the same breath, he asked me what my plans were after medical school. When he told me to look him up if I was ever interested in doing Peeds at Keystone, I knew I had pegged Brown right, and a Peeds evaluation, with a grade of “Honors,” was probably already in the mail. As I left Keystone, I felt good about things. I was sure of an “Honors” in Peeds and reasonably sure of an “Honors” in OB-GYN. More importantly, I knew I had earned the coveted distinctions in both disciplines.
Trealized I had gone above and beyond the call of duty to nail down the high grades, but as they say in North Philly, “All is fair in love, war, and basketball games. ” On the way home, I recalled Freud’s famous “Thermostat Theory,” and wondered if things were going too well in my life. I wondered if my thermostat was about to be swung in the opposite direction by some catastrascope of equal but opposite proportions. As I walked into our apartment complex, I stared at our mailbox, and detected what I was sure would be the equal but opposite force that would bring my life back to “Ground Zero.
Appearing larger than life through the window of our mailbox was a letter from the National Board of Medical Examiners. For some unknown reason that, to this day, still remains a mystery to me, I quickly removed the letter from the mailbox and rushed it to our apartment as though it contained some Top Secret information. I stared at the envelope until my primeval instincts were at their boiling point and about to vaporize through every pore in my body. In a final unconscious gesture, I ripped the envelope open, leaving only the thin computer card that contained my scores intact.
With my heart pounding, I stared at the Pass / Fail box in the upper righthand corner of the card, and was mesmerized by the single letter that told the entire story of my most recent National Board exam. I was too numb to interpret what I was looking at, but from the broad smile that had worked its way onto my face, I could only conclude my thermostat was still functioning properly, and I passed the boards. When Lori got home after school, I told her the good news about the boards and my coups in Peeds and OB-GYN. Lori’s response was an unemotional, “Congratulations! To say I was let down is an understatement.
What I had in a mind was more of the “Oh, joy! Oh, rapture! ” variety of response, followed by Lori exposing a naked shoulder and pleading, “Take me, I’m yours! ” I could only surmise Lori’s thinking was pre-occupied, and rather than comment on her underwhelming response to my accomplishments, I suggested we go out for dinner to celebrate. I thought I would surprise Lori and take her to the Pub Tiki where we had one of our first celebrations in Philadelphia. When we got into center city, I was the one who was surprised.
The Pub Tiki had apparently been closed for quite some time, and even my need for a little nostalgia wasn’t about to reopen its doors in time for pre-dinner drinks and appetizers. We settled for a quiet dinner at a small restaurant in Chinatown, with me doing most of the talking and Lori doing her best to simulate interest. I tried to get Lori to open up about what was bothering her, but she continued to insist nothing was wrong. She admitted having a difficult time getting used to the long hours I was spending at the hospital and my being away from home nights when I was on call.
I didn’t know what to say to Lori, but I knew telling her things would start getting better in forty years or so wasn’t what she needed to hear. On the following morning, I started my third rotation of the year, Surgery at Baptist Hospital. Baptist had a good reputation because it was a “students’ hospital,” where medical students were given all the responsibility they could handle. The hospital had a particularly good reputation in Surgery, mainly because of Dr. Stanley Rundgren who was thought by many to be the finest general surgeon in Philadelphia, as well as an acknowledged leader in the field of medical education.
When I arrived at Baptist for orientation, the first person I saw was Nickie Moretti who couldn’t wait to tell me he and I would be partners for the first three weeks of the rotation on none other than Dr. Rundgren’s service. I hadn’t seen Nickie since the beginning of the summer, and he assured me he hadn’t gotten any prettier since the last time I saw him. He did admit, however, he was starting to feel tired since he opted not to take any summer vacation. By working straight through the third and fourth years without any vacation, he hoped to finish at Keystone three months ahead of time and take a long vacation before graduation.
As Nickie and I started talking about our wives, Dr. Rundgren walked into the classroom to give our group its orientation. At first glance, the man was the picture of success. Just a shade under six feet tall, Rundgren was a lean man in his fifties. A dark tan made his silver hair all the more impressive, and his Brooks Brothers suit and silk necktie looked like they were created with Rundgren in mind. Dr. Rundgren told us we could expect to work hard at Baptist, but our efforts would yield high dividends. He instructed us to refer to the team assignments and then proceeded to tell each team where to eport. When Dr. Rundgren came to Team 4, he told Nickie and me he would have the pleasure of working with both of us for the first three weeks of the rotation, along with our first-year resident, Dr. Fabrizio, and our senior resident, Dr. Krebs. When Dr. Rundgren said, “Dr. Krebs,” Nickie and I just looked at each other.
Nickie raised his hand, and somewhat sheepishly, inquired if he understood Dr. Rundgren to say the Team 4 resident was “Dr. Krebs. ” Dr. Rundgren reaffirmed the Team 4 surgical resident was indeed “Dr. Krebs – Dr. K. Karl Krebs. An initial wave of panic overcame both of us, but after considering the situation for a few seconds, Moretti and I looked at each other, and shaking our heads back and forth, simultaneously said. “No way! ” It was true Karl K. Krebs, a. k. a. K. K. K. , was awarded a B. S. degree from King’s College in 1970, and M. D. degree from Keystone in 1974. Although it was possible in a temporal sense, the possibility our senior surgical resident, Dr. K. Karl Krebs, was the same Karl K. Krebs we knew at King’s seemed remote.
As we made our way up to the fifth floor where Drs. Fabrizio and Krebs were waiting for us, Nickie and I thought of every reason why their Krebs and our Krebs couldn’t be the same. Although the reasons sounded good, both Nickie and I probably realized all along their Krebs and our Krebs was the same Krebs. Approaching the fifth-floor nurse’s station, we beheld Dr. K. Karl Krebs. At the moment I saw his face, promised myself I would never question Freud’s Thermostat Theory again. Karl K. Krebs, the mental midget from King’s College and Dr. K. Karl Krebs, the surgical resident at Baptist Hospital, were one and the same. As my heart migrated
