March 8, 2019
(The New Yorker) – My father’s spirits sagged. He was a physician and a scientist, who had spent decades pursuing the secrets of blood: how it flows, pools, clots, conducts intracellular conversations with itself. Too frail for what had been a daily commute into Manhattan, he was still running his laboratory in absentia. He kept up a voluminous correspondence, which meant many hours speaking into his beloved treadle-activated Dictaphone. He wanted to find a new treatment for stroke, wanted to fly to South Africa and test out his compounds on cheerful, doomed baboons, wanted to win the Nobel Prize and wear his tuxedo to accept the check from the King of Sweden.