Double Refined Spirits

Henry   ---   In the light of the passage of time, this little episode would no longer fly these days, but in 1948, guidelines were looser, restraints were lesser.

                                         This has to do with retribution, revenge if you prefer.  I had bided my time.   Internship was over and our residency in Pathology had begun.  The intern, Ray, who pushed my black kitten out the sixth story window of the hospital just to see if it would land on its feet was now a resident with me in Memphis.  As Pathology residents we received the aborted fetuses from the obstetrical service for study and disposal,  and there were many.    Now Ray was in the habit of bringing his latest female guest (potential conquest) to the Pathology lab at night as a quiet place for completion of his seduction.  There he would ply them with moonshine that he received from his east Tennessee  source in half gallon jars.  This was the key to my ploy.  That day I had received a fetus that would fit nicely in Ray’s murky moonshine jar.  That night when he poured his libation for hopeful success for his intended, he had not noticed in the dim light the other contents until too late.  She sipped, she then saw the source, and was violently ill all over Ray and his desk, never to return.   Retribution completed. 

        Now I realize this story is grim in today’s upright, uptight society,  but way back then I figured I owed it to my little innocent black kitten..

The Chronicles of Memphis, cont'd

We have returned from a highly successful family camping trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains wherein we hiked, kayaked, and rode our bicycles 17 miles down an old railroad bed.  What fun!  Each night we played spades, brought out the guitars and sang, and ate great camp food.  More recently I have had the pleasure of putting my youngest in high school.  He had his first day and survived.  It was a bit harder on me than I expected . . .

But the blog lives on, so please send stories from your early days in medicine.  Failing that, I will have to invent stories with unreasonable titles involving tonics for female weakness, the absence of goiters in present day Tennessee, or even a prescription for curing cachexy and grocer's itch.

Not a Hiatus

I hope to meet up with my daughters and their men this weekend.  We are camping in the Blue Ridge within the boundaries of the Mt. Rogers Recreation Area for three nights.  Caroline and Joey will drive up from Charleston; Lillian and Brian will drive down from Buffalo; we will drive across from Morristown.  While there we will bike 17 miles of the Virginia Creeper Trail:  an old railroad bed that winds along a mountain ridge and ends up in the town of Damascus.  


But let not my brief departure from cyberspace deter you from further anecdotes, memories, and characters from your past.  Let the spirit of Mrs. Turley (if not her sweat) be upon you!

A Stich in Time, or "Thanks for the Mammaries"

Henry   ---   Working the emergency room at Memphis as an intern sometimes required the use of unorthodox methods on obstreperous drunks.  When an unruly drunk with razor cuts came in, however, the problem was to hold them down  in order to sew them up.  The old Memphis policeman assigned to the emergency room would come to he aid of the needle wielder with a technique he had devised.  With the patient lying on his side, the policeman would jam his elbow into the drunk’s ear so that if the patient struggled he just bore down forcefully and they usually quit moving as any motion made for more pain.  The patient could then be sewn up.  The policeman called this ‘elbow anesthesia’.

             The sewing technique that was taught was to use interrupted stitches.  This meant that each stitch had to be individually made, then tied and cut.  This takes a bit of time.  It was not unusual for a razor fight to result in dozens of long slashes. It was also not unusual to have several victims of the fights come in at the same time.  In order to save time one had to take a short cut and use a running suture, looping the needle and suture along the cut without stopping to tie off each stitch.  The result was not always cosmetically pleasing, but it got the job done.

              Saturday nights were the busiest with sometimes rather severe injuries from the fights.  One woman came in with multiple puncture wounds all over her chest.  When I questioned her she said she had been in a fight with another woman who wielded an icepick.  “  But you just wait, doctor “, she said. “ When they bring that ice pick woman in you’ll see what I did to her.  I bit her titty off.”  And Saturday night was only getting started.    I think this type of scene would demonstrate the difference between the Memphis charity hospital from the elitist Chicago suburb hospital that your Dad interned at where each patient had a personal private physician.    But I got paid more – a dollar a day, and John got nothing.       Will Meriwether

Mrs. Turley's Boarding House

Henry,
The details may be fuzzy, but this is how I remember Mrs. Turley's boarding house:
Looking for living quarters on our first visit to UT Medical School in Memphis, Will Meriwether and I decided to be roommates.  There were no UT dormitory rooms available, but across the street from the main campus Mrs. Turley took in boarders.  She wasn't "pickey" in her roomers, and we found a good 2nd floor room, and could eat our meals in her house next door. The food was OK, but it was so hot in Memphis in July, that whenever Mrs. Turley chatted with us at dinner, she dripped sweat into all our victuals.  We did learn how to set rat traps in our closet, and caught a rat or a mouse at least 3-4 nights a week.  However, they kept getting smaller, until we ran out of the varmints.  The "cheesy" hotel next door gave us great window views on the art of love-making, if we only had the time.  After 2-3 months we settled  for a real UT college dormitory room with a study.  We missed the old "clientele".
Love,
Dad

 Henry   ---   I never eat mashed potatoes now without it bringing back memories of Mrs. Turley serving us, family style, at her dining table with her sweat dripping into the dish.    Will Meriwether

Ten Home Deliveries

Henry  --  As medical students we were required to do ten home deliveries during our senior year while taking a class in obstetrics.  In Memphis there was ample opportunity for home deliveries among the fecund colored population, so after a call from the obstetrical coordinator, a public health nurse would pick up the student who was next on the roster and drive out to the home of the intended  patient.  The nurse always called us ‘doctor’ but she was the one who really knew the ropes.  The nurse would line the patient’s bed with newspaper and I  would count the time between pains and wait for the climax.  

On one occasion when the time was near the patient began to call on her religious backers for help with each pain, then between pains ask for the slop jar, saying she had to go.   The public health nurse cautioned, “Doctor, I would not advise putting her on the pot as she has the ‘Jesus, help me pains’,  and  that is a sign of a fast-approaching baby.”  In my role of ‘Doctor’, I said, “I’ll handle this, nurse, just put her on the pot”, feeling sorry for the patient.   The next sound was a loud THUNK.  It was the baby,   delivering itself into the slop jar.    I learned my lesson  -  listen to the voice of experience.       Will Meriwether

Stories of mid-twentieth century medicine, cont'd

Gentlemen:  I have made some changes to the blog.  First, please note the "comment" section below each post.  I THINK it is now set up to allow anyone to comment, although your comment may list you as "anonymous".   Second, remember that at the bottom of the page there is an "Older Post" notice that you may click to go backwards.  Blogs show more recent posts first, so if one wants to read in order, one must start at the oldest and then read up.

Now that the subject of cats has been broached there is the potential for all manner of stories. Who lacks one regarding pets or other animals?  I once tamed a feral, tail-less cat whom I named "Bob" for obvious reasons.  After some time I felt it was my bounden duty and service to have Bob "gone over" by our local vet.  After the exam I was told that Bob was female.  She became "Roberta" from then on.  What about the pet turtles, Norm van Brocklin and Johnny Unitas, that my brother and I had?  We buried Norm van Brocklin in a metal bandaid box after his demise.  Six weeks later, Johnny Unitas died.  In an uncharacteristic display of economy, we elected to exhume van Brocklin and use the same coffin.  While preparing the body, you can imagine our horror as van Brocklin came forth from his tomb! Turns out they were hibernating.


So Dad:  what about the rabid fox patient at the Lexington Clinic?  How about an account of the maternity ward in Memphis at the height of the summer?  Don't I remember something about white women calling for their husbands, but black women calling for Jesus?  And who was it whose patient came back to the office with profuse thanks for saving her life?  As I recall, the doctor didn't remember the case.  He asked what her diagnosis was.  "Oh, doctor," she replied, "you said I was moribund, and you were right!"