Temple University School of Medicine - Skull Yearbook (Philadelphia, PA)

Page 10 text:

H. Taylor Caswell, M.D. The conference room, with its antiseptic lack of color, is quickly hushed. Several handsful of students concentrate on the droning recitation of a student discussor. Infrequently, a distant page is heard; the hospital has just begun to awaken. Somewhere near the rear of the room, cigarette smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling. Along the side of the

Page 9 text:

More than fifteen years ago, Elizabeth Lautsch went directly from an internship to a local practice in a small industrial town near Winnipeg. In time the practice grew so large she was “collecting symptoms” and giving what she hoped was “appropriate therapy only. She had little knowledge of the disease process; she had few ways of checking her methodology. She felt “inadequate,” thinking she was failing to advance her understanding. She decided to become a student again. Despite the loss of patient contact, which she treasured, she chose Pathology. Her loss became the students’ gain. Her students became her “patients” —sick in ignorance, “cured” by regular, insidious doses of knowledge. The reward is mutual. Dr. Lautsch believes in the power of the science of Pathology to show the “errors and possibilities of medicine. The autopsy, in her eyes, is a learning opportunity for all physicians and students: a chance to witness the disease process, to reveal the enemy. But the revelation comes at some cost. The “little unpleasantness” of the autopsy room, the cost of seeing the hideous.” the “tragic. is an admitted liability but is no barrier to knowledge. She has never performed an autopsy without compassion and sorrow.” This woman who can speak of the “celestial joy of childbearing, who made sure to put her daughters to bed every evening before returning to the hospital, loves teaching. Her students, like her children, are her “social life” and they too grow by learning. She always gets “spastic” while preparing a lecture, not sure of herself unless she has combed the latest sources. She is chronically dissatisfied with her lecture presentations and she gave herself three years to improve her teaching, or leave the very year the students singled her out for excellence. She is always a little bit dissatisfied.” She reveals some Prussian blood, a hard sense of duty. She must have the German Romantic in her too. enjoying the aspiring quality of her research, the anticipation. She is genuine. If we ever forget the realities of life and death. that we figure in the patient's destiny.” we shall see those grey eyes flash as if to say. “perhaps you were stupid, or careless, or did your best, but it is the patient who pays in the end. And we finally grow up. realizing that responsibility: but always we remain her students.

Page 11 text:

room, a lanky, thin, somewhat drawn man squirms uncomfortably in a chair not made for his dimensions. He tries first one position, then another. Moments later, he settles into a cross-legged, semi-reclining slouch, the lab coat in careless disarray. He straightens it. wraps it about his limbs and relaxes to the monotonous recitative. Now the signals begin. Much as the classic parody of a third-base baseball coach, “Cas” begins his routine of hand and facial movements: right hand to forehead; stroke the temple: rub the chin; join the index fingers and prop the nose with the so-formed buttress; scratch the cheek. He shifts his position in the chair and begins the routine anew. The dis-cussor must have received the signal for he begins a recital of statistical studies. Numbers are juggled, three cherries appear in the slot and the treatment, as recommended, pops out at the bottom of the machine. Having appeared lethargic throughout the entire conference. “Cas'' is now wide awake. Sitting bolt upright, he begins the destruction of the discussor's theories, hopes, and fantasies The coup de grace is administered by recounting the tale of the female patient whose symptoms, diagnosis, and treatment run counter to everything recommended by the standard authorities—the statistical dictators. The lesson to be learned is that the physician is an entity, the patient another entity, and that a treatment must be devised which is satisfactory and acceptable to both. This, to the student, is the reality of H. Taylor Caswell, surgeon. It is not a Hollywood vision of flashing steel, grandeloquent gestures, heroic deeds, and primadonna temperament. Rather, it is the image of a great teacher; patient, yet demanding, informative, but not didactic. He is a product of Temple’s educational philosophy just as he now perpetuates it: the production of a highly skilled, knowledgeable, free-thinking clinician. “Cas” wears many hats to many different people. He is president of the faculty, author of respected papers, protector to his patients, and father of four boys including a member of our own class. But to the Class of 1968. H. Taylor Caswell is a great teacher.