world.
During the 1790s, a Dr Matthaeus Goldsmith had been so moved by the plight of the expectant mothers he had come across in the inner-city slums he founded a 'Lying-in' hospital, a hospital for pregnant women, seeking to safely deliver them of their offspring and see that they and their children left in as fit and nutritious condition as could be afforded. The first child, one Patrick Michael Joseph O'Leary, was safely delivered on 27th March 1798 and the hospital went from strength to strength from then on. The two hundredth anniversary of the opening of the building was to be celebrated in the following spring and Luke Conway had the responsibility to see the institution up to and past that landmark date.
He was aware that slack discipline had crept into the hospital over the last few years and now threatened its standards and reputation. So he'd had to swallow his pride and accept the strict government guidelines on new consultant appointments. When the vacant position in the public sector had been advertised in the medical press only one suitably qualified candidate, Dean Lynch, had applied. And Luke Conway had snapped him up before he could change his mind. He was beginning to regret it.
He picked up the Daily Post and read again the minute-by-minute breakdown of the previous day's events. Fortunately all the newspaper reports had painted the hospital in a favourable light with not the slightest hint of the conflict that had surrounded the emergency birth.
Luke Conway stood up and walked slowly to the window at the back of his office and looked out. It's time to get this house in order, he thought as he watched the traffic below. It's time to rattle a few cages.
1.45 pm
Dean Lynch's whole body shook.
He sat at the desk in his consulting room, empty apart from himself, the outside corridors quiet during lunch hour. He looked again at his hands and tried to steady their agitated tremble. He could feel drops of sweat forming on his forehead and he wiped the sleeve of his white coat across it. Slowly, unsteadily, he stood up and went back to the mirror above the hand washbasin in the corner. He opened his mouth wide again and shone the light from a pen torch inside and stared wild eyed at the view reflected in the mirror.
There was no mistaking what he saw.
This was the third time in the past half-hour he had inspected his throat and he still could not believe what he had discovered. But it made so much sense. The sore throats, the rawness in his mouth, the lack of improvement from penicillin. He had been self-medicating for what he thought was a straightforward throat infection. But he had a very different type of infection altogether, one that would never clear with antibiotics and one which had disastrous medical implications.
Dean Lynch had oral and pharyngeal thrush.
The first time he looked he could barely make out the white plaques, but as the torch lit up all areas of his mouth and throat there was no mistaking the patches of white, cheesy-looking material formed in wavy layers along the inside of his cheeks and back of throat.
Thrush.
Candida albicans.
Monilia.
The three medical terms for the same type of yeast infection sprang at him and rushed through his brain like express trains, whooshing and hissing, rocking his head from side to side. He sat down again, trying to control his agitation and trembling.
He knew only too well the implications of someone like himself developing thrush. His immune system must be compromised in some way. The part of his body's defence system that fought and controlled infections wasn't working. Thrush infections just did not develop inside the mouth in healthy males. While there might be a few simple and uncomplicated reasons in certain situations, Dean Lynch knew only too well they did not apply in his case.
Dean Lynch knew he had AIDS.
It was just after two o'clock and the afternoon's outpatients would soon be starting.
Outside he could hear
During the 1790s, a Dr Matthaeus Goldsmith had been so moved by the plight of the expectant mothers he had come across in the inner-city slums he founded a 'Lying-in' hospital, a hospital for pregnant women, seeking to safely deliver them of their offspring and see that they and their children left in as fit and nutritious condition as could be afforded. The first child, one Patrick Michael Joseph O'Leary, was safely delivered on 27th March 1798 and the hospital went from strength to strength from then on. The two hundredth anniversary of the opening of the building was to be celebrated in the following spring and Luke Conway had the responsibility to see the institution up to and past that landmark date.
He was aware that slack discipline had crept into the hospital over the last few years and now threatened its standards and reputation. So he'd had to swallow his pride and accept the strict government guidelines on new consultant appointments. When the vacant position in the public sector had been advertised in the medical press only one suitably qualified candidate, Dean Lynch, had applied. And Luke Conway had snapped him up before he could change his mind. He was beginning to regret it.
He picked up the Daily Post and read again the minute-by-minute breakdown of the previous day's events. Fortunately all the newspaper reports had painted the hospital in a favourable light with not the slightest hint of the conflict that had surrounded the emergency birth.
Luke Conway stood up and walked slowly to the window at the back of his office and looked out. It's time to get this house in order, he thought as he watched the traffic below. It's time to rattle a few cages.
1.45 pm
Dean Lynch's whole body shook.
He sat at the desk in his consulting room, empty apart from himself, the outside corridors quiet during lunch hour. He looked again at his hands and tried to steady their agitated tremble. He could feel drops of sweat forming on his forehead and he wiped the sleeve of his white coat across it. Slowly, unsteadily, he stood up and went back to the mirror above the hand washbasin in the corner. He opened his mouth wide again and shone the light from a pen torch inside and stared wild eyed at the view reflected in the mirror.
There was no mistaking what he saw.
This was the third time in the past half-hour he had inspected his throat and he still could not believe what he had discovered. But it made so much sense. The sore throats, the rawness in his mouth, the lack of improvement from penicillin. He had been self-medicating for what he thought was a straightforward throat infection. But he had a very different type of infection altogether, one that would never clear with antibiotics and one which had disastrous medical implications.
Dean Lynch had oral and pharyngeal thrush.
The first time he looked he could barely make out the white plaques, but as the torch lit up all areas of his mouth and throat there was no mistaking the patches of white, cheesy-looking material formed in wavy layers along the inside of his cheeks and back of throat.
Thrush.
Candida albicans.
Monilia.
The three medical terms for the same type of yeast infection sprang at him and rushed through his brain like express trains, whooshing and hissing, rocking his head from side to side. He sat down again, trying to control his agitation and trembling.
He knew only too well the implications of someone like himself developing thrush. His immune system must be compromised in some way. The part of his body's defence system that fought and controlled infections wasn't working. Thrush infections just did not develop inside the mouth in healthy males. While there might be a few simple and uncomplicated reasons in certain situations, Dean Lynch knew only too well they did not apply in his case.
Dean Lynch knew he had AIDS.
It was just after two o'clock and the afternoon's outpatients would soon be starting.
Outside he could hear
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