“Never let a
stumble
on the
road be the end
of the
journey.”
MEDICAL SCHOOL MEMORIES - Part III
By Kumar Gunewardane
Although dispirited by
having to repeat forensic
medicine, I was determined to start
afresh.
The memory of youth, though
longer
than that
of a
goldfish,
is still short-lived; it is easy to
fall back
onto
bad habits.
The BLOEM
It is not difficult
in the naïveté
of youth to
get swayed
by one’s
companions. The Bloem was not
an oasis
for scholars and thinkers; it was
more a refuge
for the
non-conformists and the forgotten, the chronics
aka chroniyas. There were many
of these
in the
hostel and as a group
they
were
good natured and companionable. They were initially inhibited with us juniors ,
but became good friends
in time. Their
diffidence was understandable
as they
had fallen
behind their colleagues
who looked
upon
them ,
with pity and sometimes disdain. One of my favourites
was PK
alias Kandos. An
entertaining conversationalist, he
could mimic our
teachers to perfection, a flair much
in demand at parties and
concerts; also
at Christmas
carols, when a few
would
venture to the houses of
amiable consultants. An obliging man, he sometimes
made promises
he couldn’t
keep. Once he undertook to nominate someone
for high office
in the
hostel student
association, but failed to
turn up at the crucial
meeting. His enraged friend
threatened to kill him; Kandos had to
seek refuge in the rooms of friends to escape
the wrath
of his
erstwhile
mate. K remained a friend
long after
both of
us had
qualified. While he was
interning in Galle, he
hosted
me when I had
to attend the
Supreme Court to give
evidence in a case of
grievous hurt.
I was
accommodated in a vacant
room and
provided
all meals.
It gave
me the opportunity
and privacy to catch up
with old friends and
re-live
the palmy
days of
my own
internship. This hospitality was a tradition in those
still propitious days.
There was
also the
time I
was hosted
by ex-Bloemites
when stranded
in Tangalle, which was
a sleepy village then. I arrived
at the
rest house
unannounced
only
to be
told that it was
full;
the
friendly rest housekeeper directed me to the DMO’s (District Medical Officer) house,
where
I was welcomed
warmly.
We lost touch when both
of us
migrated
to the UK.
He very
likely did well there
as he
had good rapport with patients
and all
and sundry. A good
friend of his, and
a fellow
chroniya was Marcus F who was
also
a most
affable person; living in the shadow of
his elder
brother
who was
a brilliant
academic must have affected him. There were others like the
mighty
Siva who was
menacing when
drunk,
but very benign otherwise.
The story
goes that
once he
and M
got
drunk In
the company of
an undertaker. Unable to get back,
both
of them
had slept in empty coffins. They
woke up
unscathed the next morning. In
Sri Lankan folklore even
the demons
are wary
of drunks.
Siva, took a
liking
to Bora
and me
and nobody would dare
to rag
us in his presence.
Most of them did well after qualifying. A story
of Bora’s worthy
of repetition
is of the three
chroniyas who after some time in a small
New Zealand
town
decided to move to England.
The front
page
headline
of the local tabloid was “Brain Drain to UK”. ‘‘Piggy” Muldoon the then
Kiwi prime minister, speaking
of New
Zealanders migrating to Australia,
said this raised the IQ
of both countries.
LEARNING
The pace was manic. Clinical terms
(appointments), ward classes, and lectures were endless. The redeeming trait
was the excellence, especially of the ward classes. Outstanding were Drs
Wijenaike, Ernie Pieris George Ratnavel and Ranji Wickremanayake the last in
the outpatient section. Darrel Weinman stood out among the surgeons. We
attended their sessions, even if we were not scheduled into them. The show offs
and ones who wanted to impress and be remembered at the final exams were in the
front rows. I stood at the edge discreetly.
Dr Wijenaike’s therapeutic lectures were in
a class of their own. These were very useful for my post-graduate exams in the
UK too. All of them were superb mentors as well as teachers, some of the very
best I encountered anywhere. Our aspiration was to emulate them in every
way.The only drawback, in hindsight, was the lack of exposure to acute
medicine. In our time there were no intensive or coronary care units, or trauma
wards or acute medical admission wards.
Our worst
and recurring nightmare was the
professorial medical appointment. The Chief was a
martinet
and even
the
stoutest quailed at the prospect. We became ascetics
for two months abstaining from
all fun.
The
risk of
verbal assaults and repeating
the term was
ever present. By a stroke
of luck I had his
deputy Dr Oliver Peris
as Professor
R had gone on sabbatical leave. Bora was
not so
lucky
and had
to repeat
his appointment. He had been
asked what he
would do for
a patient with
meningitis
, if
he was
stationed
in a remote hospital. He
had quite rightly replied that the
patient would be transferred
to the nearest big institution. This provoked
an outburst and
repeat term , quite
unjustly.
B was
told that
he was
typical of
the
layabouts who preferred carousing
with local public officials, to attending on
patients. Another
had been
chased out as he did not
have a
wrist watch. The chief’s grouse was that the
boy was
able
to attend a fee levying
school , but was
unable to
afford
a watch. Fortunately,
the boy’s uncle
came to
his rescue
with
an elegant and expensive
timepiece. After hearing
this, I
hastily borrowed my father’s
watch.
He was
loath to
wear anything on his
arms, although he had a pure gold
amulet and chain round
his neck.
This, he later, donated to
the gilded fence which now encloses the
sacred Bodhi tree in Anuradhapura.
I do
not remember much
about my professorial appointment, perhaps as
it was stress-free and uneventful.
OAP was an
excellent
teacher and clinician. Sadly for our
medical
school,
he migrated to Australia, not
long
after and became a consultant
in a leading
Sydney hospital.
Our other bugbear
was surgery. Some of the
brightest had floundered with the new professor
R.A.Navaratne, affectionately called
Nava. His
priorities were
very different
to his predecessor and the emphasis
was on basics and
not esoterics. Although
an accomplished surgeon himself, he was
rightly more keen for
us to
learn pre-operative
assessment and post-operative care
and clinical awareness of the
common conditions. At this
stage, Bora
who
was rooming
with me
at the Bloem
had the
brainwave to rope in a
colleague, Johnny C for
combined studies
in surgery.
A masterstroke that helped
us to negotiate this hurdle. J was
intelligent, had associated with
other study
groups
and knew the location
of likely examination
cases.
Also, he had a nursing
friend
in Nava’s
ward who informed
him of likely
exam patients.
However,
he was
like the
proverbial camel who
when allowed
to get
its nose
inside the
tent, eventually got
its whole
body in.
J, while not
domineering, dominated our lives and
studies.
We would camp
him overnight in our room and
smuggle in food. His
washroom routine, however, irritated some of
our mates who complained
that he would wash not only
himself , but
others adjacent to him.
His reading
aloud of
textbooks
and notes while sprawled on
my bunk remains
an indelible memory. My
everlasting regret is
that
I didn’t do combined
studies with him in the other
two subjects,
and that
I didn’t
spend
much time in the
medical or the obstetrics/gynaecology
wards.
Bora and
C passed at the first attempt,
but I was
referred in Medicine my
favourite and Obstetrics.
I had
a personal interview
with Professor R after
the results;
he was
surprised that after doing
so well in
the
written
papers I had
come down in
the clinicals. Gently he advised me to
spend
more time in the
wards.
J moved out of
my life and I
met him
only once,
afterwards at our 25th-anniversary reunion
in London. He
became
a very
eminent academic and ended
up as
the Vice-Chancellor of
the
Ruhuna University.
Bora was however a constant
and our friendship
now numbers nearly
the proverbial
three score
and ten
years. He
did not forget
me in
his
celebrations and came home to pick
me up
for his party.
The pained look
on my father’s face as I walked
away still
haunts
me; there were
no recriminations, but he
must have
wondered
silently where he and I had
gone wrong. A brilliant student, who
sacrificed himself for his
siblings,
he
gave us the
best
of everything, often
giving up luxuries which he
relished. I decided right then, that come hell
or high
water I would succeed at
the next
attempt.
I rejoined
the Bloem and this time roomed
with
Cyril Ernest.
This
was the
right choice by a country
mile. Despite being
an elite
sportsman, he was a
serious,steady and dedicated
student. His
influence
made
me also burn the midnight
oil.
I had also become very
religious and would visit
the
nearby
temple at least twice a
week.
After offering flowers and
paying obeisance to our
Lord Buddha I would
pray to
gods to help
me succeed, this
second time.
All these would have helped as
I sailed through
the inquisitions. One incident I
recall
is the gynaecology long case. The
young
student
nurse who
was assigned to
chaperone me must have sensed
my anxiety,
and at
the risk
of her
career , looked up the patient’s notes to
ascertain
the
diagnosis. It confirmed mine and I was able to answer
all the
examiner’s questions confidently. The
picture of her sweet face
and incongruously, a couple
of grey
hairs
on her
head still remains in
my mind’s eye.
My parents
were
ecstatic at my success
and my father, as
was his
wont,
had an overnight pirith ceremony and
an almsgiving the
following
day as
a thanksgiving.
FUN
It may not
have been
the
best of times,
but there
certainly were good times.
A
Little Romance
The short
story
writer
whom I idolise is Guy de
Maupassant. I have read almost all
of his
three hundred odd tales which skilfully depict the
vagaries and foibles of human nature
in all
its
myriad forms. One of
my favourites is
Miss Harriet, the
story of
the unrequited
love of
an English spinster for
a dashing young French painter. In it the hero
says “ love is always love, come whence it may. A heart that beats
faster at your approach, an
eye that
weeps when you
go away
are
things so rare, so sweet so
precious that they must never
be despised.
In the last turbulent year of
Medical
school, I was the
unworthy recipient of such
a love; a love that blossomed in a tiny
milk bar
not
far from
our hostel.
The road that skirted
our abode opened
onto
a broad tree lined avenue, dotted
with spacious
bungalows at the back
of expansive
gardens. At the front
of one
of these,
facing the road was a
mini milk
bar. A counter separated the
three stools for
the customers and
the
well stocked repository at the back. It
was run by
three teenage
girls,
daughters
of a
medical
luminary. Bora and I
and sometimes
other
birds of
a feather
would
pass an idle hour
here. It
was a pleasant
way
to relax when worn out by the
endless
studies and exacting clinical
work. The
girls were alluring, chatty
and easily
amused. The eldest M who was
in charge,
was chubby, and
had a
sweet face
and generous nature.
The two sisters A and
F were
always hovering around. M would sometimes refuse
to take
money from
us . Bora
and I
would be embarrassed
but one
of our companions was happy to
oblige.
I have long forgotten
the playful banter but
not
their
carefree laughter
and the
bonhomie
which rejuvenated us.
M volunteered
to teach
us ballroom dancing. The carpets in the
spacious salon of the
main house
would be
rolled back, and the
French windows opened to
let in
the cooling frangipani
scented
breezes;
the
fans in full
swing would silently whir
overhead. A small gramophone played, lilting music of her
choice. Although I was
her favourite,
she gave up
on me,
gently rebuking me
for not
having an ear
for music. Bora,
she said,
was the
one with rhythm and
feel
for music.
The few times we
danced
however were
enchanting; the slow, slow quick steps
or slow
quick quick,
with
hands
entwined and bodies close
together. We did not
progress to the jive or the
waltz.
The foxtrot was our only physical contact.
That year, M made my birthday
very special. She
gave me
a boxful of
goodies and also socks,
handkerchiefs
and a
tie.
I was overwhelmed and
wondered how I could
recompense, but cannot recall
whether I
ever did.
If I had possessed
the gallantry and the money
, I
would have sent her
a dozen
red roses. The
pressure of studies and
the threat of
exams made us drift
apart slowly and in
our androgen-fueled youth perhaps it was beauty
that prevailed over goodness.
Beauty does fade however,
while the
memory of goodness lasts longer.
We never met
after
I qualified. She and
the youngest sister F had
later moved
to London.
Bora had
once telephoned her, mimicking
me. But
she was not taken
in.
A apparently still lives
in the
old mansion.
The Ball
An event which we all breathlessly awaited
was the
annual
hostel ball. It had
always been an evening of joie de vivre
to which girls had
unfettered access. In those
unenlightened
days the
hostel
was strictly out
of
bounds for females, rest of the
year.
Bala had a
steady
girlfriend and her
roommate P was to
partner me. P was
fittingly petite and pretty; there were
many
who would
have given
their eye
teeth to escort
her.
Bora was
left to
take potluck, but he did
have the
luck
of the
Irish. Bala also commandeered
a limousine,
a Humber
Hawk no
less, from
a friend
of his.
Sanath, my cousin, was
the designated chauffeur.
We
picked the girls up at their home.
They looked glamorous
in dazzling sarees and
low cut blouses. My heart
did skip many
a beat as
the girls, Bala and
I were
huddled in
the
back seat.
Bloem was festooned with
coloured lights and gaily
coloured streamers. We arrived
in style
as the
disco music was playing “ Hard Day’s
Night”,
the forerunner
of many
Beatles
hits.
The girls were given
soft
drinks, while we
sipped, surreptitiously smuggled alcohol.
I was
not adept at treading the light fantastic, then
and P had
to yield
to the
entreaties of other eager young
bucks. However, she would
sit by me
and chat
animatedly between dances and willingly
agreed
to go
up to my room ostensibly
to enjoy
the view. Maddeningly, when we
got up there, Sanath was
fast asleep
on my
bunk.
I silently cursed him and
his forebears and went
back to
the ground for P to
dance away
and for
me to
watch.
A while later a cabaret artist, arranged by
Bala started
her act. A bright
or more
aptly a malevolent spark switched
off the mains
triggering
bedlam. P rushed to my
side and
Bala rescued
the hapless artist who
was still adequately, if barely clothed. After
midnight we had to drop
off our
guests
and on the way
stopped at the Lighthouse
in the
breakwater. P and I
went down to the rocks
only
to discover
a great
many Lotharios had preceded us.
Once again my Great Expectations
had been dashed
