I think my answer surprised him as much as it did me. Until then, I hadn’t realized how much I wanted to be friends with Dr. Philips. I was a generally likable person, though sometimes I exasperated people with my tendency to overhelp. But I hated that Dr. Philips disliked me—and I was determined to fix it.
“Why?” He frowned, a bit of his facade slipping.
“You’re brilliant,” I said, much to my own chagrin. “And medicine fascinates me. I would love to know what you know, and I believe you might enjoy learning from me, too.”
We sat in silence for a moment as we regarded one another. In the operating room, he was the master of his domain, commandingeveryone’s obedience. But he wasn’t as intimidating sitting at his desk in his small office. Here, he was just a person with a quest for answers. The same as me.
“I will admit I’ve been impressed with your knowledge,” he said as if the words felt like gravel on his teeth.
I tried not to look pleased at his statement, knowing it was difficult for him to say. Instead, I looked down at my hands, clasped before my white nurse’s uniform.
“Your recommendation for Private Edmund probably saved his life, and it’s prompted me to do more research on the topic.” He crossed his arms as he studied me, much like Gray did, as if I was a puzzle to him. “Where did you learn of sulfonamide treatment?”
I couldn’t admit the truth, but I didn’t want to lie, so I simply said, “I read about it.”
“Do you enjoy reading about diseases?”
“I’ve spent much of my life fascinated with medicine and have studied it for years.”
For the first time since I met him, he didn’t scowl at me. But neither did he soften and smile.
“Are you researching digestive diseases for a patient ... or yourself?”
It took him a long time to answer. Dr. Zechariah Philips was always in control—always. To have a disease he didn’t understand or couldn’t master was probably eating him alive.
Would he admit his weakness to me? Someone he had determined to dislike from the start?
“Perhaps I have read something about the disease that would be helpful,” I offered gently.
“The patient is complaining of digestive issues,” he began, not admitting it was himself—but at least he would discuss it with me. “Pain, nausea, bloating, bowel disturbances, and vomiting on occasion.”
I nodded, thinking of a dozen possibilities, some recognized in 1941 and some yet to be discovered.
“Along with digestive complaints, the patient is also easily fatigued, has mouth ulcers, dermatitis, anemia, and complains of tingling in the hands and feet.” He stared at me, as if he had given me an unanswerable riddle.
A professor had once told me that if he couldn’t diagnose a disease within five minutes of examining a patient, he probably never would. I kept that in mind as one of the first possibilities presented itself to me. Celiac disease. It was an autoimmune disorder that developed when a patient ate the protein gluten, found in wheat, rye, and barley. But it would be impossible to diagnose for certain without blood tests and a biopsy of his colon that would look for things not yet discovered.
It was one possibility, though he might be suffering from something else entirely.
“If it is a complaint mostly of the digestive tract,” I said, finding the confident yet gentle tone I used to speak to patients in 2001, “my recommendation would be to do an elimination diet to see if a type of food is the culprit.”
“An elimination diet?” He scoffed. “How would food be affecting the neurological system or creating anemia?”
I hated his condescending tone and met it with a bit of my own attitude. “There are things science has yet to explain, but you might be surprised. Our organs and systems do not work independently of each other. The heart and brain are perfect examples. They need each other to function properly. The stomach and the neurological system work hand-in-hand as well. Nothing stands on its own.”
It was a discovery that some doctors were still struggling to accept in 2001, so I wasn’t certain Dr. Philips would accept it, either.
Instead of scoffing again, he just looked at me, though I could tell he was mulling over what I had just told him.
“Are you going to the dance at the Army and Navy Club?” Ineeded to change the subject so I didn’t inadvertently tell him something I shouldn’t. Already I had said more than I intended.
“A dance?” There was that sneer I was coming to expect. “Who has time for frivolity when there is so much work to be done?”
A sentiment I’d uttered many times myself.
“Too much work and not enough play and relaxation is not good for us,” I told him. “Believe me, I know it all too well.”
“Go. Dance with the officers and beguile them with your brilliance. I have real work to do.”
