wrestling squads—wrote in her yearbook, “You know, it’s really terrible going with someone who is by far more athletic than I…. But, you know, I think I like you more because I have to compete with you. It isn’t fair, you being so darned talented….”
Short, who went on to become a lieutenant in the Peoria Police Department, dated Debora for two years. They attended the proms together, posed for silly pictures that appeared in the yearbook, and were expected to stay together after high school. It would be fair to say that Greg Short was totally in love with Debora. He declared his devotion over and over in his yearbook “love letter.”
Debora was the covaledictorian of Peoria High School in 1969. She and the other valedictorian, Scott Russell—now assistant superintendent of the Peoria School District—had perfect grade-point averages. Debora had never had less than an A in her life. She had scored close to a perfect 800 on both sections of the Scholastic Aptitude Test. She was headed for the University of Illinois.
Most of the scribbled messages in Debora’s copy of The Crest referred to her intelligence: “To the girl who never studied in history but always managed an ‘A’”; “You really are too smart for your pants….”; “All the luck at college, but you don’t need luck too much”; “To the laziest chemist in the class. For being so smart, you don’t look it or act it. Go easy on the profs next year—you’re so smart.”
Debora did excel at the University of Illinois, but her grade-point average was no longer unblemished. She received her first B in college. Greg Short remembered how that affected her. “She perceived it as an abject failure…. She was very, very, disturbed by that. She was the smartest person I ever knew.”
Debora continued to date Greg for the first quarter of college, but then the romance faded. “He wasn’t nearly as smart as I was,” she would say many years later. “He was just going to a community college or some small college—we drifted apart.” The last time Greg talked to Debora was in 1971; she had moved on to a new phase of her life and he didn’t fit in.
Debora was a natural at chemistry and had set her sights on becoming a chemical engineer. She had never had any particular pull toward medicine. “My mind works the way an engineer’s does,” she would explain. “But after I started in engineering, they told me there was a glut of engineers and I should consider another major. I chose chemistry—pre-med—and I graduated in three years.”
Medical school is a challenge to the most dedicated, the most motivated students. Debora became a physician by default. Medicine had never been a passion or even a goal for her. She applied to the University of Chicago and the University of Kansas medical schools. Her grasp of chemistry was phenomenal, of course, but her scores were lower in other areas. “I didn’t do that well on the medical aptitude tests,” she would say later. “But I was accepted at both. I chose the University of Kansas Medical School.”
KU is in Lawrence, midway between Kansas City and Topeka on the Kansas Turnpike with its medical school in Kansas City. It is the home of the famous Jayhawks basketball team, whose all-time star was Wilt Chamberlain, but Debora had little interest in the sport. She began medical school in the fall of 1972. She had picked KU because her parents were living in the Kansas City area. Bob Jones’s rise through the ranks at Roman Meal necessitated regular transfers; for the moment, Debora’s parents lived close to her.
She had chosen medicine, but Debora’s heart was not really in it. When she was asked later, “Which profession did you love?” she answered immediately, “Oh—engineering! My mind is very mathematical, very organized.” But she had decided to become a doctor. In the first of a number of coincidences that would lace her complicated life, one of her team of four medical
Short, who went on to become a lieutenant in the Peoria Police Department, dated Debora for two years. They attended the proms together, posed for silly pictures that appeared in the yearbook, and were expected to stay together after high school. It would be fair to say that Greg Short was totally in love with Debora. He declared his devotion over and over in his yearbook “love letter.”
Debora was the covaledictorian of Peoria High School in 1969. She and the other valedictorian, Scott Russell—now assistant superintendent of the Peoria School District—had perfect grade-point averages. Debora had never had less than an A in her life. She had scored close to a perfect 800 on both sections of the Scholastic Aptitude Test. She was headed for the University of Illinois.
Most of the scribbled messages in Debora’s copy of The Crest referred to her intelligence: “To the girl who never studied in history but always managed an ‘A’”; “You really are too smart for your pants….”; “All the luck at college, but you don’t need luck too much”; “To the laziest chemist in the class. For being so smart, you don’t look it or act it. Go easy on the profs next year—you’re so smart.”
Debora did excel at the University of Illinois, but her grade-point average was no longer unblemished. She received her first B in college. Greg Short remembered how that affected her. “She perceived it as an abject failure…. She was very, very, disturbed by that. She was the smartest person I ever knew.”
Debora continued to date Greg for the first quarter of college, but then the romance faded. “He wasn’t nearly as smart as I was,” she would say many years later. “He was just going to a community college or some small college—we drifted apart.” The last time Greg talked to Debora was in 1971; she had moved on to a new phase of her life and he didn’t fit in.
Debora was a natural at chemistry and had set her sights on becoming a chemical engineer. She had never had any particular pull toward medicine. “My mind works the way an engineer’s does,” she would explain. “But after I started in engineering, they told me there was a glut of engineers and I should consider another major. I chose chemistry—pre-med—and I graduated in three years.”
Medical school is a challenge to the most dedicated, the most motivated students. Debora became a physician by default. Medicine had never been a passion or even a goal for her. She applied to the University of Chicago and the University of Kansas medical schools. Her grasp of chemistry was phenomenal, of course, but her scores were lower in other areas. “I didn’t do that well on the medical aptitude tests,” she would say later. “But I was accepted at both. I chose the University of Kansas Medical School.”
KU is in Lawrence, midway between Kansas City and Topeka on the Kansas Turnpike with its medical school in Kansas City. It is the home of the famous Jayhawks basketball team, whose all-time star was Wilt Chamberlain, but Debora had little interest in the sport. She began medical school in the fall of 1972. She had picked KU because her parents were living in the Kansas City area. Bob Jones’s rise through the ranks at Roman Meal necessitated regular transfers; for the moment, Debora’s parents lived close to her.
She had chosen medicine, but Debora’s heart was not really in it. When she was asked later, “Which profession did you love?” she answered immediately, “Oh—engineering! My mind is very mathematical, very organized.” But she had decided to become a doctor. In the first of a number of coincidences that would lace her complicated life, one of her team of four medical
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