The Privilege and the Pain

He stood at the lectern. He was in his 50s, a department chairman, talking to medical students at a quarterly pre-dinner lecture. He looked the part. As he listened to his introduction by the Master of Ceremonies, he held a book: He lifted it, then set it down, lifted it, then set it down.

He started his talk, a factual kind of narrative, easy to listen to. He was talking about the year he had served as a physician in Vietnam. He'd written a book.

He recalled the day he was called up, an intern at the time; he had phoned the 1-800 number to understand what it meant. Then he recalled the helicopters, the sandbag wall, the number codes—how many litter wounded, how many walking wounded, how many dead. He talked on, transporting us and himself into the reality. Sensations of receiving the torn and dismembered bodies of marines. boys. Boy after boy after boy. Day after night after day. He paused and lowered his gaze.

From the fires of hell he dropped us self-consciously back into our auditorium. Was he crying? He continued, but his thought sequence seemed to stutter. More pictures, sensations. Another pause. He adjusted his glasses; his voice hesitated … he recalled a 17-year-old with a triple amputation.

Take some questions. The audience rallied. Gentle buoying questions full of respect, care: awed students covering our collective …