MEDICAL SCHOOL MEMORIES - Part III- Kumar Gunewardane

 “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