A Case of Arthur-itis

My name is Doctor Edgar B. Shallows, Jr. but most people call me Ed. I'm a second-year resident, in other words, two years out of medical school, at Cornwall Medical Center in Boston.

We're down in what used to be called the Combat Zone, where hookers and drug dealers once prowled the streets, slummers snuck into the peep shows and sex shops, and guns were as plentiful as cotton candy. You could practically set your watch by the wailing of police sirens. Now it's mostly high-rise luxury condos and equally high-end stores where of us can afford to shop.

I’m an ER doc, and we’re adrenaline junkies. Our hospital specializes in major trauma cases like gunshot wounds and highway fatalities. We're trained to spring into action with our lifesaving drugs, clamps and defibrillators, yards and yards of thread and bandages, and IV lines that can barrel in the big-gun meds to jumpstart hearts or knock out the patients with gruesome injuries.

Most of the time, though, we get sprained ankles and upset tummies, maybe a broken arm. Definitely painful injuries but not hard to treat. Often the hours stretch on like a barren desert, so we sit under bright flickering fluorescent lights, drinking cold coffee that tastes like formaldehyde, eating stale donuts, and shooting the breeze with the cops and paramedics.

Then there are the crazies who come in screeching about spiders in their sheets or thinking they're Jesus Christ or Napoleon. Mostly they want a listening ear and a nice warm bed on the taxpayers’ dime.

One night I pulled the lucky card. An ambulance brought in a feverish guy with tangled gray hair, dressed in a plastic suit of armor like the kind you’d wear for Halloween. In one gnarled fist he clutched a plastic sword that he kept waving around. 

I ducked as he brandished it in my face and shouted, "Yield! Yield, foul knave or I shall slay thee!" 

When I tried to put my stethoscope on his chest, he whacked my head none too gently. "Unhand me, foul knave, or my trusty Excalibur shall stint not till it pierce thy brainpan."

Well, my brainpan felt plenty pierced, thank you very much. Matilda Eckers, MD, the chief resident, remarked, “Looks like you’ve hit the jackpot tonight, Dr. Shallows.”

I turned to young Ned Potts, our fourth-year med student, who moved like a sleepwalker. "Hold this patient down so I can take his vitals." 

The patient had a fever so high it nearly broke the thermometer, and a runaway heart rate of 160. FUO- fever of unknown origin. I had to get fluids and antiobiotics into him STAT.

Jane Myers, the ER nurse, already had a bag of saline for the IV line. We piggybacked ampicillin for the infection.

“Thanks, Nurse," I said. She smiled. We worked like a fine-tuned machine.

"Keep holding him down, Dr. Potts."

Ned mumbled, "Okay, Dr. Shallows."

I turned to our patient. "You'll feel a pinch when the needle goes in."

The man tried to hit me with his sword again, fuming, "Ye shall not vanquish me with but a pinprick, dastardly demon."

"Ah, but I shall, sir," I said, getting into the spirit of things. I taped the needle to his arm and Jane Myers primed the IV pump to get it going.

I leaned over our patient. "What is your name, sir?"

He frowned. "Dost not recognize me?"

"Er, no, I dost not."

"I am Arthur Pendragon, King of Britain, Sovereign of the Roundtable and all of Camelot!"

I cleared my throat. "Sure, can you tell me when you first felt ill?"

"All my life, knave. The burden of kingship hath cost my very heart's blood." He shifted restlessly. “Since the day I drew my mighty sword Excalibur from the stone, I have toiled tirelessly for my people.”

I asked if I might admire his mighty weapon, and read the words, “Pendragon Dreams, Limited” stamped on the hilt. I whistled. It had mighty powers indeed.

I had never been a huge fan of King Arthur but I knew Monty Python. "Are you - I mean, Art thou seeking the Holy Grail?"

His watery eyes went wide. "Why yes, knave. Hast thou beheld such a wonder with thine own eyes?"

”Why yes, I believe it has been found at this very font of healing."

.My patient leaped up, wild-eyed and shouting, "Then keep me not from my quest. Unhand me at once!"

"Whoa, whoa, hold thy horses! Thy comfort is our first concern."

Ned Potts woke up enough to say, "You're picking up the lingo pretty good, Dr. Shallows."

"Why thank you. I mean, I thank thee. Stay by this good sir's side whilst I fetch said Grail."

I hurried to the drug closet. Haldol should do the trick. Then I found a metal bowl and filled it with cold water.

Bearing my prizes, I returned to my patient. He gasped when I presented the holy vessel to him on bended knee.

 "The Grail," he breathed. "Ah, my heart's desire. I can tell good Sir Lancelot to go chase his tail. I, Arthur, have found the Grail." He drank the water and smiled.

I turned to Ned Potts. "Page, bring me the instrument of injection."

“Huh?”

“The Haldol," I hissed. "Hurry!"

He brought me the loaded syringe. I lowered the sovereign's trousers just enough to scrub a needle site and injected the medication into his left buttock.

He muttered, "Courage, man, ye have suffered far worse at the hands of the Black Knight."

“Then I honor thy courage,” I said, buttoning him back up.

"Wow, you're good, Doctor," said Ned, wide awake now. I inclined my head modestly, and helped the weary king get settled beneath a blanket. 

“Well hast thou served me, knave.” He raised his magic sword and tapped my shoulder. “For thy wondrous service, I dub thee Sir -" he paused and peered at my hospital badge.

"Edgar," I supplied. "Edgar Shallows."

“Sir Edgar of Shallows. Arise and take thy place at my Round Table." He fell asleep and everyone ribbed me for the rest of the night. 

“Yes, Sir Edgar, I shall fetch the clamps at once."

"Wouldst Sir Edgar care to start an IV on my patient?"

I shrugged, unperturbed. "Worst case of Arthur-itis I've ever seen.”