PRACTICING MEDICINE
Hospitals have a specific smell that is indigenous to all of them, no matter how large or small the institution. It’s an aroma of antiseptic washes and dying people. The Navajos avoid these places of death, believing they trap the dead spirits of all those who have perished within the walls.
Andy Warhol and Fredrick Marsh had one thing in common: they both disliked hospitals immensely. Andy was afraid he would die in one, and for Fredrick it was a reminder of his sadistic dead father. The unforgettable aroma induced mental images of the sick and dying for both men.
The hospital register had one Andy Warhola in for routine cholecystectomy (gallbladder removal). He checked in the evening of February 20th and had the procedure February 21st of 1987. It was successful. Cholecystectomies in 1987 required a complete abdominal incision that would run the length of the abdomen. For Andy, who had already had a significant abdominal injury with scarring, the operation would take some additional healing time including a couple of days in the hospital. Andy told his doctor before he went under the anesthetic, “Dying is the most embarrassing thing that can happen to you, because someone has to take care of all the details.”
The night of February 22nd, a new doctor was practicing at Warhol’s hospital. He was a middle-aged physician who looked much older. His yellowing white jacket, embroidered in faded red thread, said Dr. Marsh, Extern.
Fredrick Marsh had never practiced medicine till that night. He had spent many days as a student suffering through clinical procedures. He understood hospital vernacular and settings, but was glad he had never been forced to make it his profession. Now for the first time in his life, he was excited about the prospect of practicing medicine, even if it was only for a few minutes.
Fredrick knew the night shift in hospitals changes at 11 pm. The staff arriving gets a briefing from the nurse regarding his or her patients, then checks vitals and goes and reads a book. That is the plan for most of the late-night staff. Working the graveyard shift is never fun. It is often done by the unmotivated or unlucky. Marsh understood if he was going to make a little unannounced visit to Mr. Warhola’s room—Andy’s real name—he should wait until the shift had changed and the vitals had been completed.
At 12:45 am, Fredrick Marsh slipped into Andy’s room, 707, and looked at his victim, peacefully sleeping. As Fredrick stood over him like an executioner who was pronouncing his final judgment, he quietly whispered: “Yes the great maestro, you always flew in with your entourage for your openings. Your adoring fans all oohed and aahed at your little white ghost of a figure. Yet you never ventured into the back room to see my work. It was all about Andy. Now it’s going to be about me. Good-bye, Mr. Warhol, your 15 seconds of fame are way over. My turn at art stardom.”
Marsh then slipped out of his pocket a small vial that contained potassium and injected it into the I.V. bag next to his patient. Then he opened the I.V. line wide open, which sent a flood of crystalline solution overloading Warhol’s cardiovascular system in a matter of minutes. Marsh knew the nursing staff would not check on Warhol for hours and by the time they did he would be in cardiac failure secondary to overhydration and dysrythmia. He would be dead. Piece of cake, thought Fredrick. A part of him wanted to wait till Andy’s death and take out his antique blade and follow the line of the original surgical opening the surgeon had made to remove the gallbladder, but he knew this was a fantasy, at least this time.