FOREWORD
Many times in the 60-odd years of our marriage, my wife has asked me a question She usually asks the question at about 11:30 p.m., after we have waved goodnight to the last of our guests of the evening, and have turned off the porch light. The question is this: "Haven’t I asked you not to start telling one of your damned stories just when everyone is getting ready to leave?"
I usually answer, weakly, that a remark by one of our guests reminded me of the story, and I felt compelled to tell it. Sue usually responds, "Well, in the future try to suppress your compulsion. Besides, they probably have heard you tell the same story before. Many times. And so have I."
These "damned stories" are narrations of incidents that have occurred during my early years and the 50-plus years as a physician specializing in orthopaedic surgery. The people in these stories are real, and the events actually happened. If you think you may have heard one or more of them before, get in line behind Sue.
I have changed the names of some of the people mentioned to avoid embarrassing them. Anyone reading this book will be able to tell which of the characters might be embarrassed to see his or her name mentioned. Then, you can be sure the real name has not been used.
For the title of this group of essays, I borrowed an expression made during a discourse by a clever young man named Dr. Alex Rosenstein. I use it with his kind permission.
Lord knows, the next-to-last thing (or even the last thing) this planet needs is another book by a doctor about "patients I have known" or "cancers I have cured." But my wife needs her sleep. Next time I feel compelled to tell one of these stories, I’ll hand my guest the book, point out the pages and have him or her read it at home─his or her home, not mine.
NO STOOL, NO SCHOOL
Every medical school has at least one faculty member who is a legend. In our case, it was Dr. Charles Hendee Smith. The name itself tells you something, doesn’t it? You know that anyone with a name like that has to be slender, six-three and ramrod straight. If a Hollywood casting director was to pick someone to play the part, the character would have thick hair as silvery as a brand new quarter, with a mustache to match. Even as a kid, he would never have been “Charlie,” “Chuck,” or “Smitty.” If he played ball his teammates would have yelled, “Throw ‘er here, Charles Hendee Smith.”
Charles Hendee Smith was our Professor of Pediatrics. Every day he took the subway to Bellevue Hospital in New York City where he taught and saw patients in the clinic. He probably looked distinguished even while hanging on to a subway strap.
Dr. Smith taught us the practical side of medicine. One of his lectures was: “How to pack your medical bag.” He convinced us (at least most of us) that the little black bag was reserved for the tools of our trade. The pastrami on rye we had brought along for lunch did not belong alongside our ophthalmoscope and stethoscope.
He also taught us that the cough of croup starts at eight o’clock in the evening ¾you could set your watch on it. He illustrated his point with a story: “A woman called me one evening and asked me to hurry to her home because her young child had croup. I looked at my watch and I told that woman, ‘Mother, it is seven-thirty. Your child cannot have croup.’ The child’s mother said, ‘Dr. Smith, I know croup when I hear it. Besides, it’s eight o’clock, not seven-thirty.’ And she was right. My watch had stopped!”
Of course, there was nothing mystical about croup starting at eight o’clock. A child with bronchitis would be put to bed at six. It took about two hours for the mucous secretions to collect in the child’s breathing passages. By eight, the frightening, suffocating cough of croup began.
Charles Hendee Smith’s aphorisms made his lectures memorable. Some were simple. He championed breast feeding with: “The breast is best.” Even today, more than fifty years later, I remember that sugar contains “twenty calories to the teaspoon. Twenty’s plenty.” Others were more involved. One that never failed to stimulate post-lecture discussion among the students each year was: “No stool, no school.”
On the day Dr. Smith gave our class his “No stool, no school” lecture, the hall was filled. Dr. Smith stood at a podium in the center of the semicircular amphitheater where rows of seats rose steeply from floor level. When Charles Hendee Smith lectured, his chin pointed toward the sky as he addressed his remarks to the top row. Most of us believed he was lecturing directly to God.
Dr. Smith said, “Every child should be taught bowel regularity from the earliest age. Without a clean lower intestinal tract, the child is sluggish and cannot think clearly. No child should be sent off to school before he or she has had a bowel movement. Remember the axiom: ‘ No stool, no school’.”
As most of us frantically scribbled the nuggets of wisdom in our notebooks, Stuart Brooks from a seat high up in the back row, waved his hand. Brooks was one of the brighter members of our class. Eventually he would become a psychiatrist.
Dr. Smith nodded in recognition.
Brooks said, “Dr. Smith, aren’t you putting too much emphasis on bowel movements? Don’t you think this might lead to an anal fixation?”
All eyes gazed up toward Brooks. Charles Hendee Smith glared at him in silence for a few seconds. Then he raised himself to his full height and blew through his magnificent mustache―his way of showing annoyance. “Young man,” he thundered, “Did you have a bowel movement this morning before you came to class?”
Brooks flicked a glance to either side, then answered in a voice barely above a whisper. “No sir.”
“That is obvious,” said Charles Hendee Smith, jabbing the air with a bony index finger. “Because if you had, you would not be talking such utter nonsense!”
What a nice way of telling Brooks that he was full of shit!
Many times in the 60-odd years of our marriage, my wife has asked me a question She usually asks the question at about 11:30 p.m., after we have waved goodnight to the last of our guests of the evening, and have turned off the porch light. The question is this: "Haven’t I asked you not to start telling one of your damned stories just when everyone is getting ready to leave?"
I usually answer, weakly, that a remark by one of our guests reminded me of the story, and I felt compelled to tell it. Sue usually responds, "Well, in the future try to suppress your compulsion. Besides, they probably have heard you tell the same story before. Many times. And so have I."
These "damned stories" are narrations of incidents that have occurred during my early years and the 50-plus years as a physician specializing in orthopaedic surgery. The people in these stories are real, and the events actually happened. If you think you may have heard one or more of them before, get in line behind Sue.
I have changed the names of some of the people mentioned to avoid embarrassing them. Anyone reading this book will be able to tell which of the characters might be embarrassed to see his or her name mentioned. Then, you can be sure the real name has not been used.
For the title of this group of essays, I borrowed an expression made during a discourse by a clever young man named Dr. Alex Rosenstein. I use it with his kind permission.
Lord knows, the next-to-last thing (or even the last thing) this planet needs is another book by a doctor about "patients I have known" or "cancers I have cured." But my wife needs her sleep. Next time I feel compelled to tell one of these stories, I’ll hand my guest the book, point out the pages and have him or her read it at home─his or her home, not mine.
NO STOOL, NO SCHOOL
Every medical school has at least one faculty member who is a legend. In our case, it was Dr. Charles Hendee Smith. The name itself tells you something, doesn’t it? You know that anyone with a name like that has to be slender, six-three and ramrod straight. If a Hollywood casting director was to pick someone to play the part, the character would have thick hair as silvery as a brand new quarter, with a mustache to match. Even as a kid, he would never have been “Charlie,” “Chuck,” or “Smitty.” If he played ball his teammates would have yelled, “Throw ‘er here, Charles Hendee Smith.”
Charles Hendee Smith was our Professor of Pediatrics. Every day he took the subway to Bellevue Hospital in New York City where he taught and saw patients in the clinic. He probably looked distinguished even while hanging on to a subway strap.
Dr. Smith taught us the practical side of medicine. One of his lectures was: “How to pack your medical bag.” He convinced us (at least most of us) that the little black bag was reserved for the tools of our trade. The pastrami on rye we had brought along for lunch did not belong alongside our ophthalmoscope and stethoscope.
He also taught us that the cough of croup starts at eight o’clock in the evening ¾you could set your watch on it. He illustrated his point with a story: “A woman called me one evening and asked me to hurry to her home because her young child had croup. I looked at my watch and I told that woman, ‘Mother, it is seven-thirty. Your child cannot have croup.’ The child’s mother said, ‘Dr. Smith, I know croup when I hear it. Besides, it’s eight o’clock, not seven-thirty.’ And she was right. My watch had stopped!”
Of course, there was nothing mystical about croup starting at eight o’clock. A child with bronchitis would be put to bed at six. It took about two hours for the mucous secretions to collect in the child’s breathing passages. By eight, the frightening, suffocating cough of croup began.
Charles Hendee Smith’s aphorisms made his lectures memorable. Some were simple. He championed breast feeding with: “The breast is best.” Even today, more than fifty years later, I remember that sugar contains “twenty calories to the teaspoon. Twenty’s plenty.” Others were more involved. One that never failed to stimulate post-lecture discussion among the students each year was: “No stool, no school.”
On the day Dr. Smith gave our class his “No stool, no school” lecture, the hall was filled. Dr. Smith stood at a podium in the center of the semicircular amphitheater where rows of seats rose steeply from floor level. When Charles Hendee Smith lectured, his chin pointed toward the sky as he addressed his remarks to the top row. Most of us believed he was lecturing directly to God.
Dr. Smith said, “Every child should be taught bowel regularity from the earliest age. Without a clean lower intestinal tract, the child is sluggish and cannot think clearly. No child should be sent off to school before he or she has had a bowel movement. Remember the axiom: ‘ No stool, no school’.”
As most of us frantically scribbled the nuggets of wisdom in our notebooks, Stuart Brooks from a seat high up in the back row, waved his hand. Brooks was one of the brighter members of our class. Eventually he would become a psychiatrist.
Dr. Smith nodded in recognition.
Brooks said, “Dr. Smith, aren’t you putting too much emphasis on bowel movements? Don’t you think this might lead to an anal fixation?”
All eyes gazed up toward Brooks. Charles Hendee Smith glared at him in silence for a few seconds. Then he raised himself to his full height and blew through his magnificent mustache―his way of showing annoyance. “Young man,” he thundered, “Did you have a bowel movement this morning before you came to class?”
Brooks flicked a glance to either side, then answered in a voice barely above a whisper. “No sir.”
“That is obvious,” said Charles Hendee Smith, jabbing the air with a bony index finger. “Because if you had, you would not be talking such utter nonsense!”
What a nice way of telling Brooks that he was full of shit!