The Lobotomist's Wife(67)

“Is what true? That she was a failure? Yes. Surely you aren’t going to pretend you didn’t know that at the time. Anyway, that was a prefrontal lobotomy. You know very well that I have long stopped recommending those.” The tendons in his neck began to strain.

“I do. It’s just . . . he said that you knew she didn’t need—” She stopped herself. He was not reacting well already. Could she really push this conversation even more?

“Didn’t need what?” he spat.

“My study at the hospital was of four hundred patients who have had mostly transorbital lobotomies. And, frankly, I was stunned by the results.”

“Stunned?”

“Robert, do you realize that only twenty percent of the people we’ve lobotomized have even been able to leave the hospital?” Robert looked momentarily surprised, but he quickly replaced his expression with one of confident conviction.

“Well, leaving isn’t the whole of it. The quality of life is improved. Your staff’s ability to care for them is vastly easier.”

“I know.” She took a deep breath. How could she present this in a way that Robert wouldn’t find incendiary? “But what was considered a good result among this group was Albert Burdell. And Regina Brooks—do you remember her? The dancer? She became so obsessed with food after her lobotomy that she has become obese. She can hardly move.”

“Oh, please, Ruth, you are being hysterical about nothing. Just occasional unfortunate side effects. The point is that they are not a threat to themselves or others anymore. Right?”

Ruth couldn’t believe that he wasn’t the slightest bit unnerved by what she was saying. “Benny Green? Does that name ring a bell? He was a soldier. Had nightmares, extreme anxiety. Remember him?”

“Vaguely. You do know that at this point I have performed lobotomies on thousands of people, do you not?” Thousands? Was it really that many?

“Still, you treated Benny for quite a while so I thought you might remember him. I went to visit with him. Found him in his room, painting the wall with his own excrement.” Ruth looked at Robert desperately and watched as he rolled his eyes.

“Good Lord, Ruth, you’re being a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know, am I?” Her eyes filled with tears. “I went to see Estelle Lennox. Her husband said she locked herself in the bathroom with a knife. A knife, Robert.”

“Yes, I’ve spoken with her husband in the past. Need I remind you that Estelle went from a hallucinatory hysteric to a married woman with children? Thanks to us. We have given so many people such a gift. Can you really not see that?”

“Here is what I see. At my hospital, it was the best we had to offer—”

“Is.”

“Years ago. But now, I am compelled to cease the use of lobotomy at Emeraldine. And I believe we need to help move the entire medical community away from it as well.”

“I see,” he said tightly. “Well, I am certain that your college degree has you well equipped to make such an evaluation.”

“Then help me understand, Robert. Let’s do this together. Have you seen the early work on chlorpromazine? They’re saying it is as effective as lobotomy—but clearly less extreme.”

“My procedure is not extreme! And it doesn’t need to be given repeatedly. It provides permanent improvement all at once, and forever.”

“But does it? I know your motivations are good, but it’s time to look for new solutions. The tides are shifting in our professional community. And it scares me that you don’t seem to be moving with them.”

“In the past few years, I have been welcomed as a hero in more than twenty-three states and twice as many hospitals. It seems to me like you are the one not seeing the direction of change. Yes, there have been some bad outcomes. Because humans are imperfect beings!”

“All I want is the best for my patients. What am I supposed to do when I see so many failing to thrive after this procedure that was supposed to save them?”

He stood up, pushing his chair back violently. “You are supposed to trust that I, Robert Apter, am a competent enough clinician, an accomplished enough neurologist, to properly treat and diagnose my patients. You are supposed to support me and my procedure, the one I invented that established your hospital and remade the course of treatment across this whole country. You are supposed to believe in me as my wife, stop questioning me about things you can’t possibly understand, and know your goddamned role!”

Ruth sat still in her chair, stunned, wounded, scared. She had been bullied like this in the past, but never by Robert. The little girl inside her might have had to take it from her father, but she would not take it from her husband. She stood to face him.

“My role, Robert, is to run my hospital. And in that role, I no longer feel comfortable with lobotomy. Can’t we put our heads together and look for new options? I’m sure that we can pioneer something incredible.”

“Pioneer something incredible? You really don’t get it, do you? I don’t need to pioneer anything—I am the inventor of the ten-minute lobotomy, the miracle cure! I am in demand all over the country. I have months-long waiting lists for private patients. Do what you want at Emeraldine; your little hospital is of no consequence to me or my success.” Robert turned abruptly and marched out the front door, slamming it behind him.