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him, and I let his disclosure pass without comment. In late years I was often astounded at the diversity of evaluations placed upon him - and again I am not referring to public recognition, or at least to public recognition alone: Not only the diversity of evaluation but the diversity of bases for evaluation. And this among doctors, too, in spite of my persistent notion that all patients should claim equal care and attention from the profession. For this reason I often recalled Alby and felt that he would have been prepared to [?revisit?] the ^'moral' disruptions which certainly seemed to threaten the souls of the doctors and of which the doctors were evidently unconscious. Some of the descriptions operated, not negatively but affirmatively, and some [crossed out: poor] God-forsaken creature was exalted by something about the disease or condition, the the number one patient in the hospital. One of the most picturesque of these was Mrs. X, who came to the clinic because of dim vision. It turned out that she saw dimly because she was suffering from such a catastrophic anemia that her life itself was dim. And the cause of the anemia was not long in making its appearance - in fact, the admitting nurse could have established the diagnosis. Mrs. X had, in fact, one of the largest fibroid tumors ever seen in our hospital, and still she accepted her existence as a kind of loose [?cortex?] ^'of which' around that great pumpkin and came for medical attention only when she thought she needed glasses and ought to get them cheaper through the clinic! Well, the gynecology service was galvanized into the most passionate participation. Blood donors were called for and typed; the two most famous surgeons worked together to remove the tumor; every complication was foreseen and forestalled. As the intern on the service I struggled night and day for the life of Mrs. X, who certainly didn't know the difference and without whom the world wouldn't have been much the worse. Finally, around the end of the first post-operative week, I was working in the interns' laboratory one evening when I became aware that someone was standing in the doorway. Turning around I saw Mr. X, the unworthy husband of our First Lady. Thinking that he wanted our assurance as to how his wife was recovering, I overflowed with