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

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training to defend my 'Best Tan championship. Still others were preparing for those dreaded clinical exams. There were three hurdles to cross before we would be allowed into the clinic. Most of us had no problem with the slide exam. Even the written exam was not too bad. But many of us met our match during the practical exam. Cowering like frighteded children, we were humbled by the neurological questions of Dr. Lemont or by Dr. Master's infant scaphoid pad. Nevertheless, we picked ourselves up, licked our wounds and eventually passed. Part Three 1. In the summer, in the city . . . The third year officially began in the summer of '83. Our extensive training in Clinical Podiatry was going to be put to the test at last. Armed with our black bags and white coats, we marched to the clinic with an air of naive self-confidence, assured that we could easily handle any corn or callous, or even the most grotesque fungal nail we encountered. After all, we had meticulously carved through mounds of wax with our scalpels; surely human skin would be no different. The patients soon became our innocent victims; the scalpel became a vis-cious. uncontrollable weapon For many of us, our experiences that summer enabled us to perform our first skin-to-bone procedures and also prepared us for future emergency room rotations. Honestly, Dr. Masters, I’ve been trying to stop the bleeding, but direct pressure isn't working. Should- I try a tourniquet? We all gathered together in August to take our National Board Exams, Part I. While some of us spent hours upon hours preparing for these exams, (namely those students who were stupid enough to apply to the N.V. school in the first place), the majority of us felt that as stu- dents from the Pennsylvania College, we could score above the national average without even studying. After all, PCPM was the Harvard of the Podiatry schools. As prepared as we thought we were, we had to admit that Biochemistry and General Anatomy did tax our brains, but ever so slightly. We laughed it off (Ha. Ha), assured that if they taxed our brains, they totally destroyed the brains of our fellow podiatry students from the other schools. Of course, we all passed and, once again, PCPM proved itself as the mecca of podi-atric education. 2. Is it too late to transfer?' W'e entered the fall term believing that the hardest years of our podiatiic education were over. We only had classes for half a day and these were to be graded Pass Fail. There was no way that we could ever fail a course now. no matter how hard we tried. However, our confidence was about to be shattered, ruthlessly and without any warning, by none other than Harvey. (You wouldn't think that a man with this name could do such a thing now, would you?) Yes, Harvey taught Podiatric Pathology on Fr iday afternoons (and on Monday evenings, when he felt like it or on Wednesday mornings if Friday oi Monday happened to be a Jewish holiday). His lectures were excellent, yet there appeared to be a communication gap between what was taught and what we were actually tested on. After our first exam, we learned a new word - photomicrograph. Definition: a cheap, obscure imitation of a histological specimen. Harvey was big on criteria. By the end of the term, we all knew the criteria for flunking Podiatric Pathology: a. A member of Sterling-Hartford Anatomical Honor Society b. Memorize the Primer of Rheumatology c. Know the notes cold d. Know the course, conduction velocity, and medical significance of Lemont's nerve. Some of us not meeting the above criteria were still confused as to why we failed; others knew the real reason. A I know why I failed. I never gave him a lozenger. Not even Harvey could keep us down We may have been discouraged, but we were not about to give it ail up at this point in time. We felt secure in knowing that we could always turn to Dr. Ferguson for encouragement and advice. We were grateful for her horse s . . . sense As if we hadn't been abused enough, images of Judy Rae flashed before our eyes with the mere mention of the word Neurology. What would Dr. Bhatt have in store for us? We soon learned that if we ever wished to have a nerve named after us, we had to take sides and, above all. we had to study old exams. I'm sorry I'm late Dr. Bhatt, but I was just reviewing these old exams. Oh well, so Gray's Anatomy would never feature D’Angelantonio's nerve, but hey, did we really want to memorize yet another nerve - let alone spell this one? For those of us who had had little sleep the night before. Tuesday afternoons provided ample opportunity to catch up on a few hours of nap time. Jim McKay Witkowski was the next best thing to Dalmane. Why, even Jerry was caught nodding his head a few times. It was amazing how much he could cram into two hours of lecture - and even more amazing how much we could cram into our heads the night before the test. By the time the final rolled around at the end of the second term, we had six-hundred pages of notes to contend with and rumors were rampant. 3. Is this chick for real? I know you have the Derm final, Ferg. I'm going to talk to Dr. Bates about you.' Lest we forget, it seemed that the days of skipping classes were over (for those of us who couldn t figure out a way to beat the system anyway). Our days were n

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bought the Triple Crown, and getting to class early in order to be assured of a seat would no longer be a concern. Part Two 1. Bugs and Drugs Our final summer of freedom a fleeting memory, we returned to PCPM stunned to learn that Hollick had become Sella Turcica and thet Ed Fallon had eloped to NYCPM with Victoria Brightman. We had heard tales of horror concerning Micro, but nothing we had encountered had prepared us for the Ax Man, Bo!, SoliDziarski, and Crazy Carl. Bo More Detail Terlickiyjij opened the festivities by thrilling us with tales of cell walls, conjugation, sex pilus, and gram negative rods of lust. Bo's dynamic lectures often whipped the class into such a frenzy that the women would scream Bo! Bo! Bo! and throw intimate articles of clothing in his direction, evoking memories of the Beatles' initial appearances on Ed Sullivan. We all liked Dr. Dziarski a lot on those rare days that we were able to tune into his frequency. Dr. Axler organized a well taught course, notable for its incredible volume of material and impossibly difficult immuno logy questions. Dr. Abramson, our savior, taught us that a worm on a stick was not a popsicle, that we should avoid wading in the Nile River or risk growing huge balls, and that creeping eruptions are not necessarily synonymous with a rocket in your pocket. We all bravely risked horrible diseases each time we set foot in the Micro Lab. It didn’t help that some of us showed up for lab barely ambulatory: Look at you, you can t even pipette. Wednesdays at 8 am we finally began to learn Physiology. Lenny the Punk, Britt, Pugie and Der would remain our nemesis for an entire year. At final count we were responsible for 563 drugs and every possible interaction among them. Lenny believed in academic Russian roulette; 11 questions covering 300 pages of notes. He constantly regaled us with tales of life-saving derring-do; reminding us that he saved SK F on countless occasions, as well as an occasional diabetic on an airplane. Everything we injected in Pharm Lab died; Dr. Pithkow would have been proud of us. Pugie used advanced cardiac life support in a futile attempt to resuscitate the little creatures. Many of us became convinced that every man, woman and child we injected would meet a similar fate. Of course, the pharmacists in the class already knew better from their extensive personal knowledge of every drug known to man: Honest guys, my eyes always look like this after I’ve been up all night studying. It was left to Der to elucidate the wonders of Ortho Novum, which we already knew was a derivative of the secretions of the pineal gland from NOVO. £ ftoacar wrc | Cut it out you guys.” 2. If a pathologist lectures and there's no one there to hear it, does he really make a sound? Pathological Zen was brought to us by the tag-team of Sid, Seo and K. We were taught scores of rare, disgusting disorders, none more frightening than that which afflicted our classmate Bernbach each afternoon Marcolepsy . The course was very thorough; vve were required to either read all of the textbook or look at old exams an houi before the test. King Harold held court semiweekly. The diminutive, bearded always stylishly attired Showinoff was feared for his random assaults on the intelligence and integrity of his students, as well as his infamous matching exams: 1. Horse shit and splinters 2. Dave Shit-tino 3. Conte's hat 4. Electro-stimulation weight loss 5. Doctor Love A. Rohadur rigids B. Wise ass C. No nookie D. Fraud E. Future Resident We were honored to be taught whatever; by the namesake of our library, Dr. Charles Krausz. He showed us an astounding collection of rare slides of proud flesh dating back to the War of 1812. Holy shit1 We almost forgot The Second Christmas Party, held at Di-Pintos. An open bar was all the excuse we needed to establish new blood alcohol records. We all got shit-faced and did things we ll regret for a long time. 3. Stuck inside the Fishbowl with the Toes U. Blues again . . . The doldrums of winter were upon us. Our calendars were filled with seemingly endless array of tests and quizzes. This depressing tedium was occasionally interrupted by Dr. Weissman, who taught us all about shadow gazing and he even taught us a few more games: Find the Fracture” and Guess the Angle. Spring was heralded in with a myriad of new courses, the names of which I doubt if anybody remembers. Nevertheless, our schedules were quite full for those dwindling few who chose to attend clsas. Most of us chose to fill our time with other diversions. 0 OW nau I'll be up on the roof. It's not easy 10

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long and by the time the afternoons rolled around, the last thing on our minds was being forced to attend class. Granted, we slept through most lectures, but this wasn't the point. We had more important things to do, people to see, deals to be made, bets to be placed, money to be lost . . . Tony, Vic - you guys up for a trip to AC? 1 guess we couldn't complain too much though, since entertainment was provided for us each afternoon, a few minutes after the first hour of class began. There would be a mad rush to our seats as the ever flightly, ever flirtatious Suzy Synapse frol icked down the aisles, pen and paper in hand, fulfilling her most formidable task of the day. Guest lecturers never knew what to make of Suzy, and then again, neither did we. Honest Suzy, I was in class this afternoon - just ask Dave Schiettino. I d never skip class. 4. When conservative treatment fails, surgery prevails. Those of us who were fortunate enough to have had surgery clinic in the early Fall caught a parting glimpse of the ominous Dr. Mean Don Green. Men fell to their knees in his presence .. . and not just to get a close up view of extensor substitution. © OTttY A Dr. Green. 1 don’t feel so well. 1 Think I'm a .. . bout tooo . . . fafa . .. faint. Before he headed over the horizon to begin a new life in San Diego, he bequeathed his dueling slide projectors to his disciple. Dr. Mahan, who subsequently put them to good use. For the rest of us, our surgical exposure began in OR Protocol, under the relentless scrutiny of Nadine and Tina. They taught us the basics of sterile technique: we scrubbed with betadine until our skin turned raw -and this still wasn t good enough: we gowned and gloved, but never fast enough; we practiced passing instruments - pity the person who confused a Meyerding with a Senz; all this in preparation for our surgical debut. Recall our first case: the atmosphere in the OR was as tense as usual (You would have thought we were performing open-heart surgery!). We had begun to scrub but we forgot to put on our masks. A blood-curdling scream arose from Tina's office and sent chills up and down our spines. We finally entered the operating room and all appeared to be going along smoothly until we dropped the one pair of sterile needle holders on the floor. Nadine let out an incredibly audible sigh, and if looks could kill, we'd be dead and buried by the time she returned with the instrument. Wre were now sweating as much as Bernie on a hot summer's day. Conplications developed and what should have been a half hour arthroplasty turned into a three hour ordeal. It was now 5 p.m. on a Friday afternoon, and Nadine and Tina, anxious to hit Happy Hour in South Philly, had begun to clear off the table, leaving only two gauze pads and an ounce of betadine. Despite all he had been through, Dr. Sanner let us close the incision. Having witnessed this, Nadine and Tina storm out of the room. We felt we d be imposing if we asked for more gauze, so we dressed the toe with the drape sheet. Well, we made it through our first case - alive, but already dreading our next appearance in the OR ... if we ever got another case! Drs. Martin and Quintavalle attempted to teach us everything we didn't know about forefoot surgery. If they knew ahead of time exactly what this would entail, would they have even bothered? After all, some of us were still referring to bunions as Bunyans - thanks to Donnie. We appreciated their excellent lectures -for a guy who looked like he'd just woken up. Dr. Quintavalle surprised us with his presentations. Rearfoot surgery was taught by Dr. Dirty Harry Vogler and the Mahan from Tucker. We learned about Newtonian fluid and Blix curves, tendon transfers and triples (or was it cripples?), ankle arthroscopy and radio-dermatitis; and, of course, how to treat the inevitable complications. Dr. Mahan always managed to give excellent, extremely well-organized presentations but would we expect anything less from a Tucker man and Boston Celtics Fan? fifiiii Dr. Mahan s awesone, isn’t he? I wish I could grow up to be just like him someday. 5. The Magical, Mythical World of Orthopedics Whether we realized it or not, we were saturated with Orthopedics during the course of the year - and we still ended up knowing just as little as we did when we entered PC.PM. Dr. Big Al’ Whitney and Dr. Slo-Hand Sanner from San Francisco introduced us to the clinical world of Orthomagic. They left it up to Dr. John Orthopedic Surgeon Walter to expose us to real orthopedic medicine. His blood and guts, do more until you see more gore . Traumatology course was an inspiration to the RD's in all of us. No one dared to question his expertise (self-proclaimed, of course). 12