Читать книгу Life is an Adventure - R. J. Manion - Страница 10

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A fact which impressed me in those years was the importance of steady work and common sense rather than brilliancy. Throughout my life since then I have been fortified in the conclusion that it is much more important for a young man to be a worker, even though not brilliant, than to be brilliant and not a worker. As one looks back at some companions who attended lectures, and follows the records of their lives, one is strengthened in this belief because the facts show that the steady plodders have gone further than have some of those brilliant lads of other days. “The gods sell all things for labour.”

One of the plodding type comes particularly to my mind. He was not a brilliant student, though he was blessed with more than his share of what we call “common sense,” but which might better be called “uncommon sense.” His health was not good, for he was troubled with a painful condition of the eyes which prevented him from studying for weeks at a time. Yet, because he attended to his duties conscientiously and consistently, and because he loved his work, he has risen to real heights in his profession, while men who were companions of us both and who seemed to learn their lessons always with the greatest ease, but who depended rather on quick mental qualities than on steady work, have lagged far behind him. Recently I visited my plodding friend for a week-end in an institution in the United States, where he has made an outstanding reputation for himself in the treatment of tuberculosis. He is still the same quiet, retiring, modest student that he was in earlier days, but his research work in this institution, and the inspiration which he has given to his assistants, have led to a number of advances in the treatment of this “white plague” scourge of humanity. Two of these advances may be of interest.

Through careful observation he and his assistants noted that consumptives who, in the early stages of the disease, were suffering very great inconvenience through intestinal infection, leading to colic and diarrhoea, were much more greatly benefited by cod-liver oil when it was given in orange juice. At first they could not believe the evidence, as at that time the vitamins contained in orange juice were unknown, vitamins not having been discovered in our student days. However, by a series of experiments on different groups of patients, it was found that the first observation was correct; that those who were given cod-liver oil in orange juice were rapidly relieved in their symptoms; and as a result all patients who required it were given this “Cod-Liver Oil Cocktail” with almost complete elimination of these troublesome symptoms. To-day tomato juice has been substituted for orange juice, as it contains the same vitamins and is very much cheaper. This advance in the treatment of a troublesome symptom has been adopted all over the world as a result of the conscientious work of a student who in college was not at all brilliant.

One of his assistants was performing some experiments upon rabbits, large numbers of which, as well as guinea-pigs, are kept at the institution for this type of work. After inoculating the rabbits with the germ of tuberculosis, X-ray photographs are taken of their lungs for the purpose of learning the progress of the disease. But due to the fact that the rabbit breathes very rapidly, the quick up-and-down movement of the chest prevented these X-ray photographs from being of very much use. One of my friend’s Jewish students, inspired by the example of his chief, studied the possibility of the removal of this difficulty, and one day suggested two changes in the procedure which have revolutionized the X-ray photographic work. In the first place, he held the rabbit up by the ears, which action permitted the intestines and other abdominal organs (because of the soft, elastic belly muscles of the rabbit) to descend well out of the way of the X-ray pictures that were being taken of the little animal’s chest. Secondly, he pinched the nostrils of the rabbit for a moment, preventing it from breathing at all; then he gradually removed the pressure from the nostrils, and the rabbit slowly drew in a deep breath, when, just at the moment of deepest inspiration, the X-ray photograph was snapped. As a result of this simple procedure clear photographs were developed which have given a real impetus to work of this kind. I am hoping that some day my friend may have the good fortune for humanity (and himself) of producing through his research work a cure for this malady, which has been for centuries such a scourge to mankind.

My own work in college was apparently somewhat spasmodic, though the irregularity was more apparent than real. I found myself able to pick quickly the salient points out of almost any subject, throwing aside irrelevant matters. By means of this ability one was able to synopsize text-books so that one could, with a minimum of effort, learn the important features of the subject. As I always believed that anything worth doing was worth doing well, I worked when I worked and played when I played, in the superlative of each. Since most of my friends saw me only in my play-time, those who knew me not too well were of the impression that I was a loiterer. As a matter of fact, my practice was to work systematically and regularly, giving four nights per week to hard work, planning my tasks thoroughly and synopsizing my subjects carefully, so that long before the examinations were due my efforts were limited to my synopses (throwing aside almost entirely the text-books), until at examination time there was clearly in my mind the important aspects of almost every subject that we were studying. Still having three nights a week for theatres, calls on fellow-students, and other things, many of my casual acquaintances, seeing me chumming with the more free-and-easy group of students, came to the conclusion that I would likely fail in my examinations. As a matter of fact I was usually at the top of the honours list.

One recalls very well indeed (with perhaps a little pardonable pride), that many of the nurses whom one met, and even sometimes flirted with, were greatly worried about my results in the final examinations. They apparently had good reason for their worries, because at times some clinician seemed so dull that one deserted his clinic to hobnob with nurses in other wards, forcing them to the conclusion that one was neglecting duties. Consequently, toward the time of examinations a number of them pleaded with me to give at least enough attention to my work to get my degree. Knowing that I was really, in my working hours, giving intense application to my studies, and feeling quite sure of getting into the honour class in my final examinations, I derived a good deal of fun in letting them conclude that I was likely to have great difficulty. When the final results were published in the morning papers, showing—very much to my own surprise and much more to theirs—that I had carried off the gold medal, fifteen or twenty letters were delivered to me at my rooming place by special delivery early in the morning, letters of congratulation and apology from these kind, good women who had offered me so much sisterly advice in the hope that I would forswear my wayward ways long enough to get my examinations. I experienced a great boyish thrill out of these letters—boyish, for I was the youngest member of my year.

This is not told with any intention of boasting, but for the purpose of emphasizing to any young man who may read these pages that systematic study and conscientious work are of first importance. In my own case my well-planned system of study, faithfully carried out four nights a week, was most important to me in its ultimate results; for one was assuredly wiser to take off three nights a week (enjoying the theatre or visiting friends, and coming back refreshed) than were some fellow-students who worked six or seven nights, thus giving little time to the brain for its needed rest.

I have mentioned that some of the clinicians were dull, and that consequently one often felt like dodging their bedside lectures. On the other hand, some of them were fascinating, one particularly recurring to my memory—an English surgeon who insisted on being called “Mr.” He was not only an expert surgeon, but he was perhaps the best-informed man on general topics on our staff. In the midst of his lectures at the bedside of a patient while he was demonstrating the symptoms of the disease, he continually interjected information of all kinds on the most varied subjects, making his clinical lectures a continual delight.

“You mind your p’s and q’s, you chaps,” he said on one occasion. “Oh, by the way, do any of you fellows know the origin of 'p’s and q’s?”

Of course none of us did.

“Well, you know,” in his delightful English accent, “in the pubs in England the customers would buy a pint or a quart of ale, and the barmaid often kept a blackboard on which she jotted down so many 'p’s’ for pints or so many 'q’s’ for quarts against each of the customers; and so she would sometimes tell them to remember their p’s and q’s.”

On another occasion he asked one of us to close a near-by window as he uncovered the patient, suggesting that the patient might catch cold from the draught.

“Oh, by the way, can any of you chaps tell me why this patient might lie on the verandah in the open air and not catch cold, yet if I leave that window open he is liable to have an inflammation of one kind or another?” We rarely attempted to answer his questions, so he continued: “Well, the reason is, of course, that the draught hits this man perhaps on the chest and later a congestion of the pleura occurs and he has a pleurisy; or it strikes one of his knees and an inflammation occurs giving rise to an arthritis of the knee; or perhaps it impinges on the side of his face and an inflammation of the facial nerve gives him a facial paralysis.”

A witty Irishman who was in the class said on this occasion: “But, Mr. Cameron, how is it that when I get wet feet I get a cold in the head?”

“Oh, that is simply because your head is weak,” was the quick reply. It was some time before the Irishman cross-questioned this surgeon again.

Needless to say Mr. Cameron was always surrounded by a delighted and interested group of students; other lecturers please copy!

Another of our professors who possessed the affection of the students to a marked degree was also a surgeon—“Old Luke” we called him. He was an exceedingly clever and able teacher—perhaps in his day the neatest and quickest surgeon on the staff—but he resented very much what he called “the new-fangled ideas” that were being proposed, and which long since have been accepted as part of surgical technique. These proposals included the wearing of rubber gloves and linen cap and mask. Up to about that time a surgeon preparing for an important operation scrubbed his hands for five minutes under running water, and then operated with his bare hands. It is obvious that gloves which may be boiled or dry-sterilized can be made much more germ-proof (aseptic) than the hands with any amount of scrubbing; and as thin rubber gloves do not interfere with the tactile sense to any great extent, a vogue required that all surgeons should wear them. This is so much the custom at the present day that if a surgeon attempted any serious operation without gloves it would be thought almost criminal. As to cap and mask, these are worn for the purpose of preventing any dust from the hair or any saliva from the breath infecting the wound. Their use is now considered almost as essential as the wearing of gloves, though at that time these new styles were just coming into fashion. Old Luke thought them merely silly ideas of untrained men, though before he died he adopted them.

As a matter of fact he had a higher percentage of first-intention surgical recoveries than many of his competitors despite his not wearing, in their early adoption, these helps toward asepsis. Probably the reason for such good results was that he operated very rapidly, knew his anatomy perfectly, was a splendid wielder of the scalpel, and had a gentleness often possessed by large men—in other words, he counteracted his lack of gloves, cap and mask by his exquisite surgery. Those were the days when it was considered master surgery to remove an appendix through a one-inch abdominal wound, and no one could do it more perfectly than Old Luke. To-day no good surgeon would remove an appendix without making a sufficiently large opening to explore the other organs in the neighbourhood, in order not to leave something behind more troublesome to the patient than the appendix, so that small abdominal wounds are not now subjects of pride among surgeons. A long wound heals just as securely and rapidly as does a short one, and is, generally speaking, much more useful to both the surgeon and the patient. After all, the abdomen is not for public exposure—or should not be!

Other professors there were who possessed the confidence and esteem of the students, not only because of their outstanding ability as teachers and practitioners, but because they had never forgotten their own youth, and therefore understood our occasional erratic tendencies, and accepted them good-naturedly. One of these, who was at that time among the youngest yet ablest of all the surgeons on the staff, has in the past few years, after having become one of Canada’s most distinguished surgeons, filled one of the highest public positions in the gift of His Majesty; and, though he came from an Ontario farm, I venture to assert that no one of the old school aristocracy of England could fill the position with more grace, courtesy and distinction than does this brilliant Canadian, Herbert A. Bruce. He is one of the few teachers of that time who still remain with us, and it is the wish of every student who ever saw his graceful and skilful surgical technique, or who ever listened to his splendid lectures, that he continue long as an inspiration to other Canadian youngsters from our hinterlands.

The personal touch of a professor who sincerely desires to develop his students is an inspiration of the first order to young men. At Toronto we were blessed among our teachers with some of the ablest men in the profession, men who took a fatherly interest in the students whom they met, and an affectionate pride in the accomplishments of any of them. In return for this, these masters received the loyalty and confidence of the young men who studied under them. As the years have passed, one of my greatest delights has been the opportunity of renewing acquaintance with some of these early teachers, whose busy professional lives were interrupted by their lectures and demonstrations in the college of which they formed a part.

It would, of course, be an exaggeration to state that all our instructors were either outstandingly able, or particularly popular with us. There are always professors who think and act as if dealing with children—not with young men and women, as in the case of teachers in a university. One such recurs to my mind. He was a splendid lecturer, but insisted on treating us as if we were in the lower grades of a public school, and we resented his martinetlike attitude. On one occasion, when the majority shouted a boisterous welcome to him on his entry to the lecture-room, he heatedly stated that if such unseemly behaviour occurred again he would leave the room. On his next teaching period the uproar much exceeded that of the previous day. True to his word he left the room, and sent a message that until the class apologized he would lecture no more. As it was our final year, and he was a professor in a most important subject, at the class meetings which followed some pleaded for an apology. I led the opposition; and, although for some ten days no professor appeared, at length he returned without any apology, claiming (quite insincerely) that he had learned that a few juniors had been in the classroom on the day of the occurrence and had been responsible for the disturbance. As he had climbed down off his dictatorial eminence, we received him quietly, and no more trouble ensued. It was probably a wholesome lesson to him, and useful to the students who followed us.

I have not gone into details of the interesting years when we studied anatomy on the human subject in the dissecting-room, neither have I dealt with the other interesting laboratory work in chemistry and biology, nor have I elaborated the fascinating work of our last two college years, studying at the bedside where symptoms and signs were demonstrated upon the patients themselves. On one occasion we visited a smallpox hospital under the eye of the Medical Health Officer of Toronto, himself a brilliant speaker and exceedingly learned professor of physiology, who faced severe criticism by going contrary to general opinion in permitting us as students to examine at first hand this highly-contagious disease, without (fortunately for his reputation and our health) any of us developing it thereafter. Since then, I believe, it has become a regular custom to visit these cases.