Dr. Curling, certainly not one for mushy-gushy compliments, harrumphed

Jonas, my chronically-depressed and suicidal med school patient, with muscular dystrophy and a gift for the game of chess, made a weak attempt at ending it all by throwing himself in front of a car in the hospital parking lot. Dr. Curling, my sharp-tongued supervisor, was surprisingly encouraging. Part II

Jonas’s elbows were covered in bandages but he was going to be fine.

As my sage-like supervisor — the ageless Dr. Curling — predicted, he’d be waiting for me in the hospital’s sunroom to play another game of chess.

This time — after Jonas’s most recent suicide attempt jumping in front of a car while on a walk through the hospital’s grounds — Larry the orderly, the hospital’s suicide watchdog, was back at his side to prevent any more such attempts, but neither Larry nor Jonas was pleased with this development. And Jonas, in the terrible mood that he was, wasn’t even excited to beat me in 14 moves utilizing a chess formation called the French Defense.

“You’re a terrible chess player, a terrible medical student, and the only thing you’re good at is smelling slightly less offensive than this waste-of-a-zygote Larry,” Jonas grumbled as he knocked over my king.

Jonas returned to staring out the window and fiercely ignored my attempts to engage him. I didn’t feel particularly good about my prospects as a fledgling psychiatrist either at the moment, as I wished Jonas a good day and trudged down the hallway towards Dr. Curling’s office.

“Don’t look like such a sad moron,” Dr. Curling laughed loudly as he slapped his hand down on the table. “He didn’t even need stitches! That was a horrible excuse for a suicide attempt and no one is going to even remember it in another 24 hours. And don’t worry, it’s not like you let your patient escape like I did back when I was a psychiatry resident.”

I raised my eyebrows as I took the bait and let Dr. Curling have the opening he was looking for to tell one of his teaching-moment stories.

“Yep, that’s right — if you had let suicidal Jonas with his muscular dystrophy escape, we’d have a problem, but you’re clear. Not like the dressing down I got for letting my patient Jerry escape. I was a chief resident at McLean Hospital back in 1968 and Jerry was a high school track star who had come in with bipolar disorder. He was manic as could be and was furious at us for giving him Lithium, Thorazine, and anything else we could to slow him down. Jerry had dreams of running the 100-meter dash in the Olympics, and even though he was manic and a bit grandiose, the kid was fast. Trust me, I know fast — I used to run sprints for the Catholic Boys Academy back when I was in high school. Anyways, Jerry wasn’t willing to talk to us at all, except regarding his track and field career, so finally I decided to meet him where he was and we set up a race.”

Dr. Curling proceeded to describe how the entire unit of patients, doctors, and staff lined up outside the famed Boston psychiatric hospital that had treated rock and roll stars, famous athletes, and numerous relatives of JFK. Jerry and a much younger Dr. Curling were wearing running shorts and track cleats and a fake gun was even obtained by the head nurse to start the race.

“He annihilated me,” Dr. Curling said, shaking his head at the memory. “He was at the finish line before I hit the halfway mark around the field. And it wasn’t even because I was slow or out of shape,” he added defensively. “Jerry was fast. And I wanted a rematch but we all agreed that I needed a head start — and even so Jerry beat me. So the third time we raced, Jerry suggested a longer run which I agreed to, as I saw that my sprinting days were over. Jerry benevolently gave me a 250-meter head start for a 1000-meter run and we got ready for our run.

“I finished first, but it wasn’t because I was faster,” Dr. Curling boomed as he slammed his hand down hard enough on the desk to crack a less well-made piece of furniture. “I was so fixated on beating him that I didn’t even notice how Jerry took off in the opposite direction and made it through the front gate before I even knew what had happened!”

“So what happened to him?” I asked as he held me with the cliffhanger.

“Our version of Larry was an orderly named Sven and he was some sort of Viking who tackled Jerry a second after he ran past the security station at the hospital’s entrance. I think Sven’s seven-foot frame was what broke Jerry’s collarbone, but I still took the blame. But you know what the moral of the story is?” He asked with a provocative grin.

“Always be careful which patients you let out of the hospital wards because they may attempt suicide or try to escape and get injured instead?” I offered what seemed like a pretty black-and-white med-school answer.

“Not at all!” He slammed his hand down once more. “It’s to always push yourself to meet your patients where they’re at and to realize that sometimes bad stuff happens — but it isn’t because you’re a bad doctor and certainly not because you’re a bad person. No nun at Catholic Boys Academy could successfully make me feel like a nobody and no one else will either. If you have a good heart and it’s in the right place, then you won’t end up wasting your brains working as a radiologist in Arkansas.”

I smiled. It was a candid story told by a sometimes caustic but always dedicated doctor who was trying to give me encouragement after all.

“Dr. Curling,” I said, “I want to thank you. I’m looking forward to a few years down the road when I’ll be a psychiatrist in Jerusalem. And what I’ve learned from you is to meet my patients where they are, whether it’s over a Talmud in the city or a cup of Turkish coffee in the Judean Hills.”

Dr. Curling, certainly not one for mushy-gushy compliments, harumphed, slammed his hand down on the table, and pointed to the office door as he bellowed, “Time to get moving and go beat Jonas in a game of chess for once in your life!”

It was time for a new strategy but I was ready. So was Jonas when I walked out to find him as usual in the sunroom staring out the window with Larry by his side.

“You really want to lose today,” he smirked.

“Not as much as I want you to win, Jonas.”

Identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients, their families, and all other parties.

Jacob L. Freedman is a psychiatrist and business consultant based in Israel. When he’s not busy with his patients, Dr. Freedman can be found learning Torah in the Old City or hiking the hills outside of Jerusalem. Dr. Freedman can be reached most easily through his website www.drjacoblfreedman.com

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 816)