THOMAS BERESFORD, M.D.
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Johnson, the neurosurgeon, looked more upset than I had ever seen him. He sat at a table in the hospital cafeteria, smoking. An empty cigarette pack was folded in half and jammed into an ashtray along with several butts smoked down to the filters. It was 10:30 in the morning. He wore his surgical greens. His right shoe, blood stained and with electric-conductor soles, tapped nervously against a table leg.
Neurosurgeons live a hard life, I thought. I stood in line with my tray, doughnut and coffee. A squadron of nurses from the medical floors was ahead of me. No
BERESFORD T. Brains. Ann Intern Med. 1981;94:273–274. doi: https://doi.org/10.7326/0003-4819-94-2-273
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Published: Ann Intern Med. 1981;94(2):273-274.
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Print ISSN: 0003-4819 | Online ISSN: 1539-3704
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