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The House of God: The Classic Novel of Life and Death in an American Hospital Paperback – December 15, 1980
- Print length432 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherDell Books
- Publication dateDecember 15, 1980
- Dimensions4.5 x 1.25 x 7 inches
- ISBN-100440133688
- ISBN-13978-0440133681
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Editorial Reviews
Review
"Bawdy blistering... this is Catch-22 with stethoscopes." --Cosmopolitan.
"Does for the practice of medicine what Catch-22 and M*A *S *H did for the practice of warfare." -- The Newark Star-Ledger
"Wildly funny... frightening... outrageous, moving... a story of modern medicine rarely, if, ever told." -- The Houston Chronicle
From the Publisher
Now a classic! The hilarious novel of the healing arts that reveals everything your doctor never wanted you to know. Six eager interns -- they saw themselves as modern saviors-to-be. they came from the top of their medical school class to the bottom of the hospital staff to serve a year in the time-honored tradition, racing to answer the flash of on-duty call lights and nubile nurses. But only the Fat Man --the calm, all-knowing resident -- could sustain them in their struggle to survive, to stay sane, to love-and even to be doctors when their harrowing year was done.
"Does for the practice of medicine what Catch-22 and M*A *S *H did for the practice of warfare." -- The Newark Star-Ledger
"Wildly funny... frightening... outrageous, moving... a story of modern medicine rarely, if, ever told." -- The Houston Chronicle
From the Inside Flap
From the Back Cover
"Bawdy blistering... this is Catch-22 with stethoscopes." --Cosmopolitan.
"Does for the practice of medicine what Catch-22 and M*A *S *H did for the practice of warfare." -- The Newark Star-Ledger
"Wildly funny... frightening... outrageous, moving... a story of modern medicine rarely, if, ever told." -- The Houston Chronicle
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Except for her sunglasses, Berry is naked. Even now, on vacation in France with my internship year barely warm in its grave, I can't see her bodily imperfections. I love her breasts, the way they change when she lies flat, on her stomach, on her back, and then when she stands, and walks. And dances. Oh, how I love her breasts when she dances. Cooper's ligaments suspend the breasts. Cooper's Droopers, if they stretch. And her pubis, symphasis pubis, the bone under the skin being the real force shaping her Mound of Venus. She has sparse black hair. In the sun, she sweats, the glisten making her tan more erotic. In spite of my medical eyes, in spite of having just spent a year among diseased bodies, it is all I can do to sit calmly and record. The day feels smooth, warm, pebbled with the nostalgia of a sigh. It is so still that a match flame stands upright, invisible in the clear hot air. The green of the grass, the lime-white walls of our rented farm-house, the orange stucco roof edging the August blue sky--it is all too perfect for this world. There is no need to think. There is time for all things. There is no result, there is only process. Berry is trying to teach me to love as once I did love, before the deadening by the year.
I struggle to rest and cannot. Like a missile my mind homes to my hospital, the House of God, and I think of how I and the other interns handled sex. Without love, amidst the gomers and the old ones dying and the dying young, we had savaged the women of the House. From the most tender nursing-school novitiate through the hard-eyed head nurses of the Emergency Room, and even, in pidgin Spanish, to the bangled and whistling Hispanic ones in Housekeeping and Maintenance--we had savaged them for our needs. I think back to the Runt, who had moved from two-dimensional magazine sex into a spine-tingling sexual adventure with a voracious nurse named Angel--Angel, who never ever did, the whole long year, to anyone's knowledge, string together a complete sentence made of real words. And I know now that the sex in the House of God had been sad and sick and cynical and sick, for like all our doings in the House, it had been done without love, for all of us had become deaf to the murmurs of love.
"Come back, Roy. Don't drift off there, now."
Berry. Finishing our lunch, we are almost to the hearts of our artichokes. They grow to enormous size in this part of France. I had trimmed and boiled the artichokes, and Berry had made the vinaigrette. The food here is exquisite. Often we eat in the sun-dappled garden of our restaurant, under the lattice of branches. The starched white linen, delicate crystal, and fresh red rose in the silver vase are almost too perfect for this life. In the corner, our waiter attends, napkin over his arm. His hand trembles. He suffers from a senile tremor, the tremor of a gomer, of all the gomers of the year. As I come to the last leaves of the artichoke, their purple surpassing their edible green, and throw them toward the garbage heap for the farmer's chickens and glass-eyed gomer of a dog, I think about a gomer eating an artichoke. Impossible, unless it were pureed and squirted down the feeding tube. I remove the thistly hairs, green abundant, covering the mound of choke, and come to the heart, and I think back to eating in the House of God, and to the one best at eating, best at medicine, my resident, the Fat Man. The Fat Man shoveling onions and Hebrew National hot dogs and raspberry ice cream into his mouth all at once at the ten-o'clock supper. The Fat Man, with his LAWS OF THE HOUSE and his approach to medicine that at first I thought was sick but that gradually I learned to be the way it was. I see us--hot, sweaty, Iwo Jima-heroic--hovered over a gomer:
"They're hurting us," the Fat Man would say.
"They've got me on my knees," I'd reply.
"I'd commit suicide, but I don't want to make the bastards happy."
And we'd put our arms around each other and cry. My fat genius, always with me when I needed him, but where is he as I need him now? In Hollywood, in Gastroenterology, in bowel runs--as he always put it--"through the colons of the stars." I know now that it was his zany laughter and his caring, and that of the two policemen of the Emergency Room--the two policemen, my Saviors, who seemed to know everything and who almost seemed to know it in advance--that had gotten me through the year. And despite the Fat Man and the policemen, what had happened in the House of God had been fierce, and I had been hurt, bad. For before the House of God, I had loved old people. Now they were no longer old people, they were gomers, and I did not, I could not love them anymore. I struggle to rest, and cannot, and I struggle to love, and I cannot for I'm all bleached out, like a man's shirt washed too many times.
"Since you drift off there so much, maybe you'd rather be back there after all," says Berry sarcastically.
"Love, it's been a bad year."
I sip my wine. I've been drunk much of the time we've been here. I've been drunk in the cafes on market day as the clamor ebbs in the market and flows in the bars. I've been drunk while swimming in our river, at noon the temperature of water, air, and body all the same, so that I can't tell where body ends and water begins and it's a melding of the universe, with the river curling round our bodies, cool and warm rushes intermingling in lost patterns, filling all times and all depths. I swim against the current, looking upstream where the winding riverpath rests in a cradle of willow, rushes, poplar, shadow, and that great master of shadow, the sun. Drunk, I lie in the sun on the towel, watching with blossoming arousal the erotic ballet of the Englishwomen changing into and out of swimsuits, glimpsing an edge of breast, a wisp of pubic hair, as so often I had glimpsed edges and wisps of nurses, as they changed into and out of their costumes before my eyes, in the House. Sometimes, drunk, I ruminate on the state of my liver, and think of all the cirrhotics I have watched turn yellow and die. They either bleed out, raving, coughing up and drowning in blood from ruptured esophageal veins, or, in coma, they slip away, slip blissfully away down the yellow-brick ammonia-scented road to oblivion. Sweating, I tingle, and Berry becomes more beautiful than ever. This wine makes me feel like I'm bathed in amnion, breathless, fed by the motherbloodflow in the umbilical vein, fetal, slippery and tumbling over and over in the warmth of the beating womb, warm amnion, warmnion. Alcohol helped in the House of God, and I think of my best friend, Chuck, the black intern from Memphis, who never was without a pint of Jack Daniel's in his black bag for those extra-bitter times when he was hurt extra bad by the gomers or the slurping House academics, like the Chief Resident or the Chief of Medicine himself, who were always looking at Chuck as illiterate and underprivileged when in fact he was literate and privileged and a better doc than anyone else in the whole place. And in my drunkenness I think that what happened to Chuck in the House was too sad, for he had been happy and funny and now he was sad and glum, broken by them and going around with the same half-angry, half-crushed look in his eyes that I'd noticed Nixon had had yesterday on our French TV, as he stood on the steps of the helicopter on the White House lawn after his resignation, giving a pathetically inappropriate V-for-defeat sign before the doors closed over him, the Filipinos rolled in the red carpet, and Jerry Ford, looking more flabbergasted then awed, put his arm around his wife and walked slowly back to the presidency. The gomers, these gomers . . .
"Damnit, everything makes you think of those gomers," says Berry.
"I hadn't realized that I'd been thinking out loud."
"You never realize it, but these days, you always do. Nixon, gomers, forget about the gomers. There aren't any gomers here."
I know she's wrong. One lazy and succulent day, I am walking by myself from the graveyard at the top of the village, down the catnapping winding road overlooking the chateau, the church, the prehistoric caves, the square, and far below, the river valley, the child's-toy poplars and Roman bridge indicating the road, and the creator of all this, the spawn of the glacier, our river. I have never taken this path before, this path along this ridge. I am beginning to relax, to know what I knew before: the peace, the rainbow of perfections of doing nothing. The country is so lush that the birds can't eat all the ripe blackberries. I stop and pick some. Juicy grit in my mouth. My sandals slap the asphalt. I watch the flowers compete in color and shape, enticing the rape by the bees. For the first time in more than a year I am at peace, and nothing in the whole world is effort, and all, for me, is natural, whole, and sound.
I turn a corner and see a large building, like an asylum or a hospital, with the word "Hospice" over the door. My skin prickles, the little hairs on the back of my neck rise, my teeth set on edge. And there, sure enough, I see them. They have been set out in the sun, in a little orchard. The white of their hair, scattered among the green of the orchard, makes them look like dandelions in a field, gossamers awaiting their final breeze. Gomers. I stare at them. I recognize the signs. I make diagnoses. As I walk past them, their eyes seem to follow me, as if somewhere in their dementia they are trying to wave, or say bonjour, or show some other vestige of humanness. But they neither wave nor say bonjour, nor show any other vestige. Healthy, tan, sweaty, drunk, full of blackberries, laughing inside and fearing the cruelty of that laughter, I feel grand. I always feel grand when I see a gomer. I love these gomers now.
"Well, there may be gomers in France, but you don't have to take care of them."
She goes back to her artichoke, and the vinaigrette accumulates on her chin. She doesn't wipe it...
Product details
- Publisher : Dell Books; 40108th edition (December 15, 1980)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 432 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0440133688
- ISBN-13 : 978-0440133681
- Item Weight : 7.2 ounces
- Dimensions : 4.5 x 1.25 x 7 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #1,352,167 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #1,863 in Medical Fiction (Books)
- #10,145 in Humorous Fiction
- #14,649 in Contemporary Literature & Fiction
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Samuel Shem (pen name of Stephen Bergman) is a novelist, playwright, and, for three decades, a member of the Harvard Medical School faculty. His novels include The House of God, Fine, and Mount Misery. He is coauthor with his wife, Janet Surrey, of the hit Off-Broadway play Bill W. and Dr. Bob, the story of the founding of Alcoholics Anonymous (winner of the 2007 Performing Arts Award of the National Council on Alcoholism and Drug Dependence), and We Have to Talk: Healing Dialogues between Women and Men. Editors Carol Donley and Martin Kohn are cofounders of the Center for Literature, Medicine, and Biomedical Humanities at Hiram College. Since 1990 the Center has brought humanities and the health care professions together in mutually enriching interactions, including interdisciplinary courses, summer symposia, and the Literature and Medicine book series from The Kent State University Press. The first three anthologies in the series grew out of courses in the Biomedical Humanities program at Hiram. Then the series expanded to include original writing and edited collections by physicians, nurses, humanities scholars, and artists. The books in the series are designed to serve as resources and texts for health care education as well as for the general public.
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Top reviews
Top reviews from the United States
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I recommend this book to anyone who enjoys reading!
The House of God is a book written, as the author would put it, from deep within the author's cardiac muscles and hits you straight in the sigmoid colon. Many have compared the book to Catch-22, and they are right to do so. Both are about people essential, much respected professions, the impossibility of their lives and the cynical ways they cope with the pressures of their occupation. Both are also, about redemption, growth, and love. Both had me laugh uncontrollably and sometimes shed a tear, and both are a must read for any person that believes that humanity is the most hideous and terrible infliction that has been borne upon the universe and at the same time, the most exalted.
I don't use the term "love" on inanimate objects often, but I loved this book.
So a quick synopsis - but you will find many of them already everywhere:
Dr. Roy Basch, a new intern fresh off the BMS ("Best Medical School" - a thinly veiled referenced to Harvard Medical) is off to intern at the "House of God" (again, a thinly veiled reference to Beth Israel). Eager and naive at first he quickly realizes that hospital patients fall into two broad categories: Gomers - elderly patients that refuse to die and are kept alive for monetary purposes (HOUSE LAW NO 1: GOMERS DON'T DIE) and the dying young: younger patients who have their whole lives ahead of them that unexpectedly contract something horrible and die.
There to guide him through the conflicts and dilemmas of medical practice (and occasionally non-practice and mal-practice) is the book's unexpected hero: The Fat Man. Some would call him an anti-hero, a combination of a cynic and a humanitarian, The Fat Man has a very Dr. House air about him and is certainly one of my favorite characters of all time.
The theme of the book is the conflict between death and life, love and hate: it is dotted with a variety of sexual exploits, where Dr. Basch and some of his friends escape to to avoid thinking about death, constantly. Raunchy in their depiction, they contrast the constant stench of people dying with the interns' attempt at living.
All in all - the book deserves a place of honor in my book case. I only hope that the authors' other work is as sublime; Catch-22 was a one off in Heller's work. I am eager to find out if this is a one-off in Shem's.
It seems that the same causes generate the same effects: constant brushes with disease and death; excruciatingly long work hours with the day job sometimes followed by the emergency night before the next day's job; the necessity for a mental shield against burn-out from both these sources naturally causes cynicism and a form of alienation very acutely described by the author.
My younger brother once told me on a Wednesday morning he was already working overtime for the week (more than 40h of work in just over two days). He was in Paris' public hospital system, therefore without all this layer of medicine for money that also exudes from the house of God.
Doctors' suicides? This is too raw a topic for me to mention here.
By far most of the testimonies from doctors I know support the case.
How does what I know of the medical cursus in France match this testimony? As it turns out the title "House of God" is explicitly a direct translation of "L'Hôtel Dieu", the first and oldest hospital in the world, which is in Paris right next to Notre Dame.
Did I enjoy reading this book? YES, at multiple levels - it is well written, fun to read and does give a very interesting perspective on this poorly known underworld. It did jive with what I know of the milieu, but I don't think it is necessary to know anything of it to enjoy the read.
Let's just say that I read it on the recommendation by two very different doctors who don't know each other, one German and one New Englander.
Not for the faint of heart, but if you like cringing dark humor and a walk on the wild side you should enjoy House of God.
Top reviews from other countries
Many people may say this is far fetched and fiction, let me assure you as someone who spent their life working in health, it is absolutory true. It is written by a real doctor (not his real name though).
The story follows the author through his intern year and covers the trials and tribulations that he and his colleagues encounter.
The book pushed me through every emotion from cracking up with laughter to tears. I could put a real name to every single character in the story (they all have 'nick names' in the book).
Obviously not everybody will appreciate this book but it will certainly appeal to doctors, nurses and others that have worked in the hospital system.
My favorite book of all time. This is about the eight copy I have bought as every time I loan it out it doesn't come back!