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Page 31 text:
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1E had wailed so long for the beginning of ” our junior year that when it finally arrived we found it antic!imactic. The prospect of sitting seven hours a day in Erny Amphitheatre bore promise of middle-aged spread, of great aversion to spend the night—still at a desk— reading Babcock or Cecil or “The Green Book.” That year of chronic attachment to pen and desk began with surgery at eight o’clock, with Dr. Rosemond’s drawling exposition of the vicissitudes of the human appendix. We expected surgery to he the best course of the year. We were disappointed. We were never sure there would In a lecture at that early hour. Faculty became notorious for cutting, but the famed Surgery Club included only sleepy juniors. We sat through lectures good, lectures had. and lectures indifferent, until it was only Dr. “Mose Burnett who really held our interest in surgery. With his pungent wit, his perfect timing for comedy and clowning, and his ability to reduce a confused complex of symptoms and signs to a simple understandable entity, he taught us his subject so that it cleared in our minds to he remembered almost until exam time. The bridge teams blossomed during that year, polished up on their bidding techniques at the expense of a boring lecture, or when a professor didn’t appear in the allotted ten minutes. The class learned to dissolve as quickly from Emy as sugar does in hot coffee—and appear in the cafeteria with a deck of sticky, battered cards and the score of yesterday's rubber. The disappearing act approached perfection during those hours when Dr. Swalm made his way through sixty tortured minutes of diarrheal -tools and disjointed allusions to gastroenterology. Our lectures in obstetrics were somewhat different that year compared with the rollicking hours we had spent with Dr. Quindlen during our introduction to the subject. Dr. J. Robert Willson, eyes flashing devilishly, told us dogmatically that there is no dogma about OB. routinely that there is no routine on his maternity floor. Me informed us handsomely that he was going to teach us obstetrics, and that we would leave Temple knowing obstetrics. He was right. We soon learned to expect the best from Dr. W illson and only very rarely were we disappointed. Simply and directly, he taught us his approach (“the only approach”) to conception. pregnancy, delivery, and post-partum care. But not always seriously, for he, relaxing all over the front of Erny, could easily amuse us with his cynical wit. his sometimes frightening sarcasm. Along with the principles and practice of obstetrics, we discovered Dr. Willson's psychology of women. “You can’t trust any of 'em. not even when they’re asleep.” Wednesday mornings we went to PGH. It usually rained so we wondered if we could cut without forcibly joining The Club. However. Left: The bridge (cams blossomed. , , . , .... r. . Center: Dr. W. Emory Burnett. Professor of Surgery ... hr founded I lie Club. Right: The front row palpated herniae ... the back row worked crossword puzzles. 27
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Page 32 text:
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the uncomfortable amphitheatre filled before the first hour ended. Dr. Rosemond, assisted by l)r. Hall, showed us an amazing array of stained dressings and incisions in all stages of healing. The front row palpated hernias, tuberculous lymph nodes, and enlarged thyroids; the back row worked crossword puzzles. Here, too, surgery was not up to expectations. The cases seldom were presented with any display of interest they were droned off to us school-boy fashion so that the morning Inquirer was far more exciting. Following surgery there was a brief smokers' break, and then psychiatry. If it hadn't been for the students' presentations and discussion of case material we'd have learned nothing from Drs. Freed and Hammerman—until that day we discussed the shortcomings of psychiatry at PGH. In true Freudian fashion, Dr. Freed seemed to take every statement as a personal insult, refuting them one by one. The last six weeks he spent, didactically, on psychoses and neuroses so that that one hectic- hour was not lost. Dr. Sherman Gilpin and his patients from neurology saved those Wednesday mornings from complete oblivion. We learned more than neurology from him; we learned a kind of humanity, a sympathy for patients that was gratifying to us and to them. He taught us some of the Art of Medicine. Long after we forget the names of myriad neurological signs, we will personalize our contact with patients with something of Dr. Gilpin's warmth. From neurology we went to tuberculosis with Dr. Cohen, or to autopsy with our own pathology staff from Temple. In pairs, we were priv-iliged to disembowel a newly-acquired body, or remove the heart and lungs or the GU tract. This hand to hand combat with gross specimens was only u minor portion of our pathology for the year, for one afternoon a week we spent in oncology. Once again, we amassed voluminous notes; once again, we rushed through twenty slides in thirty minutes; and once again, we groped through a final that was stunning with surprises. Medicine was the big subject of our junior year, seven hours of it each week. Dr. Durant, during his too-brief series on heart disease, reaffirmed our faith in physicians as men. We met Dr. Lansbury again, this time for endocrinology ami arthritides, and acquired a finely-balanced respect for this tnan whose sarcasm, we knew, lay not too deeply buried to flash out witheringly at unsuspecting students. Dr. Lansbury is fun. He is amusing and scholarly, restrained yet friendly. We learned to appreciate his sense of humor and his approach to medicine and to beware his temper. Then one fine morning, “Commodore Richard A. Kern. A.B., M.D., LL.I)., Sc.D.. F.A.C.P., Left: Dr. Rosemond, assisted by Dr. Hall. Center: Dr. Sherman F. Gilpin, Clinical I'rofessor of Neurology . . . sa ed the day. Right: Drs. Freed and Hammerman . . . asked for u critique. 28
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