My faith had been rewarded in this world, even before my death: a rare occurrence. The day came. I was led to the crossroads amidst a grand parade, still ignorant of my fate. I was brought before the pit that was to be devoted. A sacrifice was to be made, the duke said, the philosopher behind him. How naïve I was not to question that statement further. I allowed myself to be mollified by the presence of several oxen. The duke praised my devotion and my piety before the gathered crowd. I must confess, I bloated with pride, and to see the looks on my friends’ faces who had so recently abandoned me to what they thought was a death sentence, ah, it was very nearly worth what came next. They gagged my mouth and bound my arms and legs. As I was thrown into the pit, the duke proclaimed the necessity of what had to be done, and explained the findings of the diviners. It was little consolation to me. Cold, loose earth fell on top of me, shoveled in from above. My muffled screams did nothing. His father, George, was a wealthy man who insisted that his son had to be treated by ‘the best’. So their family physician had inquired with his colleagues and they had agreed that he ought to come to Nashville to have me treat his son.Here, I must confess, the politics of being at a university medical center came into play. I had been ‘requested’ — read ‘commanded’ — by the Chief of Medicine, to handle the Adams family as diplomatically as possible. It seems that they were hoping to tap Mr. Adams for a large donation and my treatment of his son was considered to be a great opening for the moneygrubbers (pardon me: ‘University Development’ staff) to use. So I was going to do what I could, within reason, not simply to treat the son, but to satisfy the father.My process starts easily enough, the same as it has for hundreds of years, truth be told. I took young Phillip into one of the rooms and took several vials of his blood. Actually, I didn’t draw the blood; my nurse/phlebotomist.
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