My cousin Steve's wedding a few months ago was a lavish affair, and when his sister-in-law Lynnie cornered me by the bar at the end of the reception we were both somewhat the worse for a few glasses of champagne.
So I hear you take care of AIDS patients, she said, sipping a refill. But I don't get it. I keep reading that there's nothing to do for them. So what do you actually do? Hold their hands? How can you stand it?
In my slightly woozy condition, it seemed that a smile, a shrug, and a quick escape to the powder room was the best way to handle that one. But if it hadn't been so late, and the music hadn't been so loud, and the champagne hadn't been so potent, I would have told Lynnie about Beatrice Kaye.
Last year Ms. Kaye was admitted to the AIDS floor of the hospital where I work, during one of my months as the supervising attending physician on that ward. Every morning during these months I meet with the interns and residents on the ward, to examine new patients admitted the day before and to talk over any problems that have come up with the others. Tradition labels these morning meetings rounds, although we spend most of the time sitting around a table rather than walking around a big ward from one bed to the next.
