Years would pass, but people of the land of white walls and beeping machines, also known as the best medical center and hospital in the country, would remember that day. Two events that transpired in a swift sequence were described hundreds of times; and when the story was retold, more and more ostentatious details were added to it.
The first event took place at quarter to ten in the morning, when the staff of the hospital saw something that none of them could imagine even in a state of drunk giddiness. Like a large terrifying mountain lion, Dr. John Crispin Thorington was seen rushing through the corridors, swirling his wide strong body and trying to pull his arms out of the sleeves of his black cashmere coat, his blue scarf flailing in the air. He was running so fast that some saw just a blur. At some point in a giant leap – some say it was three foot high, but that surely seems an exaggeration – he jumped over a machine two nurses were pushing across his path.
Some also state that they heard him swearing and muttering – but that would, of course, be completely impossible. No one has ever seen the Sun of Modern Neurosurgery – as he was called; behind his back obviously – to lose his composure thusly; and especially no one has ever heard him succumb to emotions enough to use profanities.
Nonetheless, a nurse from the gynaecological ward swore on her tits that she heard him snarling through his even, white teeth, “She’s fucking going to kill me! Late for the bloody ultrasound! Fucking traffic!” This account, as enticing as this story sounds, could never be proven true or false.
The second event seems to be even less probable – but this time several members of the personnel bore witness to the following, and were more than eager to confirm, retell, and exaggerate.
Dr. Thorington was seen stepping out of the ultrasound room, pale and trembling, his blue eyes widened, a mobile in his shaking hand. After a tone, he was heard to rasp into his phone, “Dwalinson, get your arse right here…” The mobile fell out of his hand on the floor, the booming voice of the world renown gynaecologist Dr. Graham Dwalinson still heard in it.
The Sun of Modern Neurosurgery then caught an arm of a nurse rushing by – and the nurse would many times after describe the mad gleam in Thorington’s eyes -and the surgeon breathed out, “Do you have a fag?”
The nurse didn’t – and regrets it till the present day. As always do those listening to this story. Everyone still wants to know whether Thorington would have lit up his cigarette right there in the middle of the pristine ward. Since he sure as hell had no idea where he was, his mouth slightly open in stupour, icy blue eyes blinking rapidly.
What the Sun and his best friend were talking about is unknown, but people saw Dwalinson arriving and shaking Thorington by his shoulders. The two doctors proceeded to whisper in hushed feverish tones. Occasionally Thorington would raise his voice, but Dwalinson would press his scary arse hand, the size of a plate in an American diner, into Thorington’s shoulder again; and would murmur something comforting to his friend.
Only one phrase was heard fully in this dialogue, and it was when in an – unbecoming the King of Anterior Temporal Lobectomy – dramatic gesture Thorington flailed his hands, unofficially coined the Treasure of the Contemporary Medical Science, and hollered, “But three, Dwalinson! Three boys! What am I going to do?!”
Some say that after that he pressed his hands to his face – but that sounds absurd.
Dr. John Crispin Thorington would surely never lose his composure thusly!