Following graduation from Pacific Union College, Harold returned to Loma Linda and immersed himself in the medical course. Now Harold decided to focus his energies unreservedly on academic pursuits. He stopped playing in the orchestra, dropped any attempt to maintain active courtship with anyone, and fantasized about becoming a well-trained specialist in internal medicine.
Still, something about Daisy Bagwell continued to engage his thoughts. There was a mysterious bounce in her personality that set her apart from all the other young women in his life. Although he learned she'd been an orphan, she didn't seem to feel sorry for herself. Even though he had no time to pursue an active courtship with her, he didn't want their budding friendship to wither away. So, he picked up pen and paper and wrote her a letter telling her about his new experiences in medical school. In a few days, a reply showed up in his mailbox. He quickly replied to her reply and a pattern of correspondence developed.
At first, their letters weren't particularly romantic—just filled with the latest news and information about the general conditions of their work and study. Daisy shared interesting or humorous little stories about her experiences caring for patients, and Harold wrote about the rigors of the medical course. Daisy candidly expressed her faith. In one such letter she wrote about how God had seen her through difficult times as a child and youth and how she believed that the future was in His hands.
In time, her neatly written, “Sincerely, Daisy” closing changed to a new and exciting expression of affection: “With love.”
Even with this inspiring addition to their correspondence, Harold had other, more pressing issues to face. As the son of a medical school professor, he'd not only been exposed to the rigors of studying medicine, but also had heard many stories of students who'd tried and failed to do exactly what he was trying to do. Some barely passed the course.
In college Harold had carried only a B average. So he tried now to make up in diligence what he lacked in fundamental aptitude. He determined to please his father by leading his class in physiological chemistry, a subject in which he had a particular interest. But he also realized that he was competing against those who were smarter than he, a fact that made his efforts doubly exhausting.
Harold began a regimented day starting at 5:30 a.m., applied a lot of self-discipline, and studied intensively for many hours daily. He transformed the Shryock guestroom into his own, personal study. The result? His grades climbed.
In his quest to excel Harold, began neglecting exercise and recreation. He hadn't realized yet that every person has a limit of tolerance beyond which his body and his brain rebel. After several months in medical school he began to experience some mysterious symptoms. He couldn't sleep. He suffered from frequent headaches. He had difficulty concentrating on what he read. His energy, endurance, and ambition dropped to zero.
“Sounds like you might have an intestinal parasitic infection or maybe an endocrine disturbance,” his doctor stated, reaching for a notepad. “I'll prescribe some powerful anti-parasite drugs. Should help.”
They didn't.
“You might have chronic appendicitis,” someone else suggested. Trouble was, nobody knew exactly what chronic appendicitis might be. Dr. Will George, the sanitarium surgeon, hadn't even heard of it, but other physicians pressed him to do an exploratory surgery, during which he removed Harold's perfectly healthy appendix.
Harold's condition continued to decline.
Over the coming months, Harold endured many tests, yet his physicians could not determine the cause of his symptoms. No one in Loma Linda had even considered the concept that the young medical student had simply exceeded his endurance. The various remedies they prescribed, including the surgery, didn't enable Harold to resume his medical studies and, after a few months, he was forced to do something he'd never imagined he'd do. He dropped out of medical school.
As weeks turned into months, Harold began to hope that he'd be able to resume schoolwork by joining the next freshman class. But there was more melancholy fear hiding in Harold's heart: Daisy. Why would she want to cultivate a friendship with someone with a doubtful future? With trembling hands, he wrote to her, pouring out the details of his condition without holding back the shadows that darkened his future. When he sent the letter, he figured their courtship had ended.
To his utter surprise and amazement, she wrote back. Even though he considered himself to be an invalid and told her so, Daisy continued to fan the slow-burning flames of their friendship.
Now that he was no longer in medical school and couldn’t work, Harold had time to write longer letters to his distant pen pal. Daisy responded in kind, her messages always filled with words of encouragement. Her optimism seemed endless. After a year had elapsed, even his comment that he “might not be able to resume the medical course” hadn't discouraged her.
Because of her sympathetic interest, the future author and dean of the School of Medicine concluded that Daisy's feelings were truly genuine and her personal values were far from superficial.
To be continued…