Lasciate Ogne Speranza, Voi Ch'Intrate

By J. Lawrence Scholer | Friday, April 21, 2006

Originally published February 7, 2004.

I am sure that it will distress many of my readers to learn that I recently suffered a severe head trauma. Many of you have probably wondered about my whereabouts for the past few months. After editing the august pages of The Dartmouth Review, I was overcome by a general malaise—the cynical among us will characterize it as neurasthenia. No, I was gripped with a fatigue so severe that I was hardly able to carry out basic life functions and obviously unable to continue my frequent contributions.

A full recovery to this most recent blow to my constitution is expected. The skull was not fractured, nor did I suffer a concussion. The only evidence of my injuries is a few stitches on my forehead and extensive facial bruising. My solitary recuperation has found me the time to reflect on the causes of my injury. Surprisingly, this is not the story of misguided steps or slippery and icy surfaces, but one of five errant youths—all seniors at the College—with a predilection for injury, often to the head.

On the evening of my injury, Editor-in-Chief Ryan Gorsche and Executive Editor Stefan Beck accompanied me to the emergency room. As I awaited medical attention, each regaled me with tales of their trips to the ER, which have been numerous, and we considered the visits of those whom we know. They exhorted me not to worry. My accident was not due to any clumsiness or neglect on my part. Quite simply, I was due.

Soon I was escorted out of the ER and given the necessary medical attention. The procedures were painless, and I got on well with my physicians, with whom I chatted while they sewed my skin and subcutaneous tissues. The only painful moment came at the end of the procedure when a doctor was squeezing out the blood that had gathered in the wound. During our conversation I made a rather insulting comment which, for the most part, criticized his decision to study the life sciences as opposed to the humanities. When I realized that my comment may have been somewhat sharp—although justified—I felt the pain intensify. “Now you’re squeezing much harder,” I said. “I know,” he replied coldly.

Unfortunately, my clothes were ruined. The head bleeds profusely, and the doctors had positioned me such that all the blood from my head ran through my hair and down my neck. As a result, the collar and back of my shirt were drenched in crimson. As the doctor finished the procedure, he informed me that my hair was filled “with guts.” Then, he informed me that I would not be able to wash my hair for some time. I sat up and looked about, regaining my bearings. I looked at the blood-drenched gurney and curtly told the doctor that he should have been a Union surgeon at Antietam.

Thus, my visit to the ER is the most recent in a series of similar incidents. It is a trend that will only be broken by graduation, although that attainment is often in doubt. What follows is a warning. As Plutarch writes, “Young people would take greater pleasure in hearing good playing, if first they were set to hear bad, so, in the same manner, it seems to me likely enough that we shall be all the more zealous and emulous to read, observe, and imitate the better lives, if we are not left in ignorance of the blameworthy and the bad.” So learn from my example and the ones that follow.

Mr. Gorsche, as I have mentioned, is no stranger to the ER. One evening last year, he and TDR Mixologist G. Rollo Begley, who will be discussed later, were carousing in Mr. Begley’s residence. Gorsche threw a harmless object at Begley; Begley responded by pinning Gorsche to a piece of furniture and punching his face below the eye. Blood began to pour from the wound, and it was generally agreed that Gorsche ought to seek medical treatment. Gorsche consented, but only after posing for photographs as blood streamed down his face.

While this was his only injury that required immediate medical attention, Gorsche has known previous misfortunes. During the sophomore year, his voice on my answering machine woke me. In his rather lengthy and loud message, he informed me he had been attacked, bitten, and bloodied. I leaped from bed, nearly turning an ankle, and rushed to his assistance. He had also summoned Mr. Begley, who, living far off-campus, had walked a considerable distance in the cold. Mr. Gorsche was not terribly bloody, but he had been beaten and bitten. We contacted the proper authorities and Gorsche told his story: He had been returning home when, unawares, a body emerged from the cemetery, pinned Gorsche to the snow, beat him, and then bit his face. The perpetrator has not yet been apprehended, but the day following the incident Gorsche and I, due to our vigilantism, cornered the suspect in a bathroom only to have him escape. We did record his license plate number. He lives in Brookline, MA.

Though Begley has sent one of us to the hospital, he too has been unfortunate. His injury, however, was the most minor. During our sophomore summer, Begley was arranging furniture, and he dropped a bed onto his exposed big toe. The toenail splintered, and he was wracked with pain. This was no mere stubbed toe—the grotesquerie of the injury necessitated a hospital visit. There, the emergency staff had the onerous task of removing the mangled nail from the pustulating toe.

Mr. Beck is a frequent emergency room visitor. His more recent visit as a patient came last spring when he became severely ill. Tired of on-campus food offerings, he decided to provide for himself, a decision that would seal his doom. The damage was done after a meal of rotten fruits, washed down with beers. The result was appendicitis, which warranted the immediate removal of the vestigial organ. Mr. Beck, like Gorsche and I, has suffered from a head wound. One summer he was riding his bike home one evening, when a bat flew into his face. Beck lost his balance and he fell, his head striking the curb. He was fortunate: there was no fracture or damage to the brain. A quick visit to the emergency room for stitches proved the extent of his treatment.

John Buckholz does not write for the Review, although he often graces us with his presence. Should he choose to write, he would be welcomed—not as much for the perspective that he would bring, but for his experience with injury. Last spring, Mr. Buckholz chanced that he might visit a fellow classmate who resided in an off-campus apartment. He knocked at the door, and then realized that he, in fact, had no desire to see this person. In an effort to escape before the door was answered, he turned and ran. A steep flight of steps came unexpectedly, and he tumbled down them headlong. The bottom found him prostrate, moaning, and broken of arm. Unlike the rest of us, Buckholz decided that his injury did not require immediate medical attention, and he returned home. In the morning, he discovered that he was in great pain and unable to move the fractured limb.

The idea that one does not need medical attention is common after serious trauma. After my head broke my fall, I was decidedly against seeking a doctor’s care. It was quickly revealed to me that I was bleeding and that the wound was not superficial. I did not protest too much and accepted my fate, although resignedly for I realized that my Martin Luther King, Jr. weekend was ruined. But, delayed medical attention, while it does have its merits, is usually a disappointment. Mr. Buckholz believed that, because he had stoically endured his fracture for a night, he would establish himself at the hospital as tough. He was outdone, for a man in the emergency room with him had endured a stab wound to the foot, administered by his wife, for five days.

I look upon my injury with both disgust and delight. I am disgusted because it was easily preventable. For twenty-two years I have traversed stairs without incident, only to have my perfect record rendered meaningless by one misplaced step. I am delighted because I now hope that my trip to the emergency room is behind me. For the past three-and-a-half years, I have been shadowed by that hell-hound. My injury was a selfish one—now that I have been injured, the list has grown smaller. I can only encourage Harry Camp, Alston Ramsay, and Ryan Samuels to take care.

I have no explanation for this predilection. It is not intelligence—no matter how dim we may be, far stupider people avoid such injuries during their lives. Perhaps it is a matter of worldview. By injuring ourselves so, we are subconsciously reenacting a time when higher education was for the privileged, when life was more leisurely, when Plutarch was read for moral guidance, and when beers were neither bitter, nor watered down. But, such psychological thinking gets us nowhere. We are all alive and have made, for the most part, successful recoveries. There’s much merit in avoiding the fate of Mr. Trent-Garby:

The other men had rushed to the window, fearing the worst. “No,” cried Oover. “That’s all right. Saves time!” and he raised himself on to the window-box. It splintered under his weight. He leapt heavily but well, followed by some up-rooted geraniums. Squaring his shoulders, he threw back his head, and doubled down the slope.

There was a violent jostle between the remaining men. The MacQuern cannily got out of it, and rushed downstairs. He emerged at the front-door just after Marraby touched ground. The Baronet’s left ankle had twisted under him. His face was drawn with pain as he hopped down the High on his right foot, fingering his ticket for the concert. Next leapt Lord Sayes. And last of all leapt Mr. Trent-Garby, who, catching his foot in the ruined flower-box, fell headlong, and was, I regret to say, killed. Lord Sayes passed Sir John in a few paces. The MacQuern overtook Mr. Oover at St. Mary’s and outstripped him in Radcliffe Square. The Duke came in an easy first.

Youth, youth!

Lasciate Ogne Speranza, Voi Ch'Intrate

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