Watching this robotic figure with his eerie smiles and goofy grins, a few people began to ask if the President was brain-dead, or even alive at all. To reassure the nervous American public, unsettled by a falling stock market and by the news of armed insurrection in the Ukraine, the White House physicians began to release a series of regular reports on the President’s health. A team of specialists at the Walter Reed Hospital assured the nation that he enjoyed the robust physique and mental alertness of a man fifteen years his junior. Precise details of Reagan’s blood pressure, his white and red cell counts, pulse and respiration were broadcast on TV and had an immediately calming effect. On the following day the world’s stock markets showed a memorable lift, interest rates fell and Mr Gorbachev was able to announce that the Ukrainian separatists had moderated their demands.
Taking advantage of the unsuspected political asset represented by the President’s bodily functions, the White House staff decided to issue their medical bulletins on a weekly basis. Not only did Wall Street respond positively, but opinion polls showed a strong recovery by the Republican Party as a whole. By the time of the mid-term Congressional elections, the medical reports were issued daily, and successful Republican candidates swept to control of both House and Senate thanks to an eve-of-poll bulletin on the regularity of the Presidential bowels.
From then on the American public was treated to a continuous stream of information on the President’s health. Successive newscasts throughout the day would carry updates on the side-effects of a slight chill or the circulatory benefits of a dip in the White House pool. I well remember watching the news on Christmas Eve as my wife prepared our evening meal, and noticing that details of the President’s health occupied five of the six leading news items.
‘So his blood sugar is a little down,’ Susan remarked as she laid the festival table. ‘Good news for Quaker Oats and Pepsi.’
‘Really? Is there a connection, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Much more than you realise.’ She sat beside me on the sofa, peppermill in hand. ‘We’ll have to wait for his latest urinalysis. It could be crucial.’
‘Dear, what’s happening on the Pakistan border could be crucial. Gorbachev has threatened a pre-emptive strike against the rebel enclaves. The US has treaty obligations, theoretically a war could—’
‘Sh…’ Susan tapped my knee with the pepper-mill. ‘They’ve just run an Eysenck Personality Inventory — the old boy’s scored full marks on emotional resonance and ability to relate. Results corrected for age, whatever that means.’
‘It means he’s practically a basket case.’ I was about to change channels, hoping for some news of the world’s real troublespots, but a curious pattern had appeared along the bottom of the screen, some kind of Christmas decoration, I assumed, a line of stylised holly leaves. The rhythmic wave stabbed softly from left to right, accompanied by the soothing and nostalgic strains of ‘White Christmas’.
‘Good God…’ Susan whispered in awe. ‘It’s Ronnie’s pulse. Did you hear the announcer? “Transmitted live from the Heart of the Presidency”.’
This was only the beginning. During the next few weeks, thanks to the miracle of modern radio-telemetry, the nation’s TV screens became a scoreboard registering every detail of the President’s physical and mental functions. His brave, if tremulous, heartbeat drew its trace along the lower edge of the screen, while above it newscasters expanded on his daily physical routines, on the twenty-eight feet he had walked in the rose garden, the calorie count of his modest lunches, the results of his latest brain-scan, read-outs of his kidney, liver and lung function. In addition, there was a daunting sequence of personality and IQ tests, all designed to reassure the American public that the man at the helm of the free world was more than equal to the daunting tasks that faced him across the Oval Office desk.
For all practical purposes, as I tried to explain to Susan, the President was scarcely more than a corpse wired for sound. I and my colleagues at the paediatric clinic were well aware of the old man’s ordeal in submitting to this battery of tests. However, the White House staff knew that the American public was almost mesmerised by the spectacle of the President’s heartbeat. The trace now ran below all other programmes, accompanying sit-coms, basketball matches and old World War 2 movies. Uncannily, its quickening beat would sometimes match the audience’s own emotional responses, indicating that the President himself was watching the same war films, including those in which he had appeared.
